Vito raises his glass. "To family, to future, to strength through unity."
"Unity," Vadim echoes, his voice dropping an octave as he adds, "Like the ancient oak and the steel blade. Separate, they are strong. Together, as sword and shield—" his eyes harden as they move between Kira and me, "—they are unstoppable."
Everyone drinks. I raise my glass to my lips but don't swallow. Kira, I notice, does the same.
Then it starts—a rhythmic tapping of cutlery against crystal. Soft at first, then growing. Someone calls out: "Kiss!"
Others join in. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
The chant builds until it's inescapable. Vito's hand clamps onto my shoulder, his fingers digging in with warning pressure.
I turn to Kira. Her expression reveals nothing, but there's a storm brewing behind those gray eyes. I step closer, sliding my arm around her waist with deliberate slowness. The silk of her dress is cool beneath my palm, but the skin of her exposed back burns hot.
I lean in, aiming for her lips, playing my part in this charade.
But Kira turns her face at the last moment, offering her cheek instead. Her lips brush against my ear as she whispers, "Not until you prove you're worth it, BitVenom."
The challenge in her voice sends electricity down my spine. Before I can respond, she pulls back, offering the crowd a perfect, practiced smile that reveals nothing of what just passed between us.
The audience seems satisfied with our chaste display. Vito looks less pleased but masks it quickly as he raises his glass again.
"And now," he announces, "let us dance."
The string quartet begins a waltz. Kira's hand slides into mine with incredible efficiency as I lead her to the center of the dance floor. Her other hand rests lightly on my shoulder, maintaining the maximum possible distance while still technically dancing.
"That was quite a statement," I murmur as we move through the practiced steps.
"Which part?" she asks, her face a mask of pleasant indifference for any watching eyes.
"The cheek instead of the lips. Your father looked ready to snap your neck."
"My father's expectations are his problem," she replies smoothly. "Just as Vito's are yours."
I pull her slightly closer, feeling her body tense in response. "And what are your expectations, Petrov?"
Her eyes meet mine, direct and unflinching. "That you'll disappoint me, like most men do."
"Is that a challenge?"
"It's an observation based on extensive data."
The music continues, and we move in perfect synchronization despite the tension crackling between us. Her scent—that intoxicating blend of blackberry, vanilla, and something darker—clouds my judgment more than I care to admit.
"You're very good at this," I say.
"Dancing?"
"Pretending."
A flash of genuine surprise crosses her face before she controls it. "We all pretend, Rosso. Some of us are just honest about the fact that we're lying."
The dance ends, mercifully. I step back and bow slightly, playing my role. Kira curtsies with practiced grace, then moves smoothly away, immediately engaged by a circle of admirers.
For the next two hours, I circulate through the crowd, saying all the right words to all the right people. I catch glimpses of Kira doing the same on the opposite side of the room, our orbits carefully calculated never to intersect again.
When I finally manage to extract myself from the gala, the night air hits my face like a shock of cold water. I loosen my bow tie, sucking in deep breaths as I wait for the valet to bring my car.
The drive to my safehouse takes twenty-three minutes. I park three blocks away and approach on foot, checking for surveillance out of habit. The building appears unremarkable—a converted industrial space in a neighborhood transitioning from manufacturing to overpriced lofts. My particular unit has no name on the buzzer; instead, it has a blank button that triggers a facial recognition scan, which is hidden in the lobby camera.
