"I was busy."
"Clearly." Now she turns, those ice-gray eyes assessing me with clinical precision. "Coding for forty-eight hours straight will do that to your appearance."
My interest sharpens. "That's a specific guess."
"Not a guess." She accepts her vodka from the bartender. "You have indent marks on your right wrist from where it rested on the edge of your keyboard. Your eyes are strainedin the specific way that comes from staring at monitors in low light. And you have the distinct tension in your shoulders that I recognize from my own marathon coding sessions."
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "Observant."
"Professional necessity." She sips her vodka. "BitVenom."
The name—my digital alias—slides from her lips like a bullet being chambered. My muscles tense involuntarily. How the fuck did she know?
"NyxBinary," I counter, watching for her reaction.
Nothing. Not even a blink. Just the slightest curving of her perfect mouth.
"So," she says, "shall we discuss why you're using your own encryption signature to siphon money from our joint accounts, or would you prefer to wait until after we cut the engagement cake?"
My blood runs cold, but I keep my expression neutral. "Bold accusation for someone I just met."
"Is it an accusation if it's demonstrably true?" She turns entirely toward me now, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. "The encryption markers are yours. Quite distinctive, actually. Almost like you wanted to be caught."
"Or," I lean closer, lowering my voice, "like someone wanted me to appear guilty."
A flicker of genuine interest crosses her face. "Are you suggesting someone is framing you?"
"I'm suggesting we shouldn't have this conversation in a room full of people who would kill us both if they knew what we were really talking about."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods almost imperceptibly. "Follow me. Five minutes."
Without waiting for my response, she glides away, stopping to chat with a silver-haired man I recognize as a prominent hedge fund manager. I watch her work—the precise tilt of herhead, the calculated touch on the man's arm, the smile that never quite reaches her eyes.
Kira Petrov is a masterful performer. Every gesture, every word, every expression is choreographed for maximum effect. Just like her code—elegant, efficient, deadly.
I'm more intrigued than I want to be.
After finishing my second Scotch, I make my way through the crowd, exchanging brief pleasantries with people Vito would want me to acknowledge. All the while, I track Kira's movements from the corner of my eye.
She disappears through a side door, and five minutes later, I follow.
The corridor is dimly lit and quiet after the bright chatter of the ballroom. Kira stands at the far end, her red dress a slash of color against the cream walls.
"You're playing a dangerous game," she says as I approach, her voice echoing slightly in the empty space.
"Says the woman who hacked the Nexus Tech mainframe for fun."
"Not for fun," she corrects. "For profit. Which I then donated." She says as if she were telling me the weather.
"Noble thief."
"Pragmatic allocator of resources." She steps closer, and that scent envelops me again—blackberry and vanilla and danger. "Now, about our current situation.”
“Hold on.” She orders. I’m confused until she holds her cell phone and turns on white noise that fills the room around us as if ensuring that no one can hear our conversation. “Someone is using your encryption signatures to steal from both our families. If it's not you, who is it?"
"I have theories," I say carefully. "None of which I'm sharing until I know whose side you're on."
"I'm on my side. As I suspect you are on yours." She says simply.
