The city lightsblur past the tinted windows of the Bentley as I process the events of the evening. Rafa Rosso. BitVenom. My future husband.
His touch still burns against my skin—the way his hand rested on my lower back during our dance, his palm warm against my exposed spine. Five precise fingers splayed with just enough pressure to communicate possession without force—a hacker's hands, capable of both destruction and creation.
I close my eyes, willing the memory away, but it only intensifies. The scent of him—cedar and bergamot with something electric underneath, like ozone after lightning—had enveloped me during our dance, oddly intoxicating for someone who spent most of his time in front of computer screens.
The car slows to a stop outside a sleek high-rise in Tribeca. "We've arrived, Ms. Petrov," the driver announces, already moving to open my door.
"Wait here," I instruct him. "I'm not expecting company tonight."
His face remains impassive, but I catch the slight shift in his posture—the Bratva soldier beneath the chauffeur's uniform. "Mr. Petrov instructed me to remain with you."
"Which Mr. Petrov?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Your father, miss."
Of course. My father doesn't trust me on my own, especially after tonight's display. The cheek instead of the lips. A small rebellion, but one he wouldn't miss.
"Then you can wait in the car," I say, my tone making it clear this isn't a suggestion. I'll have security call you down if I need you.
I don't wait for his response, sliding out of the car and striding into the building with practiced confidence. The doorman recognizes me instantly—no doubt thoroughly briefed by Nicolai—and escorts me to a private elevator that requires both a key card and fingerprint scan.
"Your brother has arranged everything according to your specifications, Ms. Petrov," he says as the elevator doors close.
The penthouse opens before me, and something tight in my chest loosens slightly. Nicolai has outdone himself. The space is minimal, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Everything is in cool blues and grays—colors that soothe my mind when it's racing too fast: no family photos, no sentimental objects, no traces of the Petrov legacy.
Just clean lines, open space, and technology.
The primary workstation dominates one corner—three curved monitors still in their protective plastic, a custom keyboard with Cyrillic and English characters, and a chair ergonomically designed for long coding sessions. On the desk sits a matte black laptop, still sealed in its box, with a note in Nicolai's precise handwriting:
Secured. Untraceable. Uncompromised.
In three words, my brother has given me what our father never could: trust in my capabilities.
I kick off my heels, letting them fall where they may, and move through the apartment. Everything is exactly as I prefer—the kitchen stocked with my specific brand of vodka and the dark chocolate I favor, the bathroom filled with unscented products, the bedroom featuring blackout curtains and the particular firm mattress that supports my back after marathon coding sessions.
Nicolai knows me better than anyone. Understands that my mind requires in order to function at its highest capacity.
I peel off the red silk dress, hanging it carefully in the closet filled with clothes in my exact size. The relief of being free from its constriction is immediate. I pull on a soft black T-shirt and leggings, scrub the makeup from my face, and release my hair from its tight chignon.
The transformation is complete. Kira Petrov, the Bratva princess, disappears. In her place stands just Kira. Just me.
I pour myself two fingers of vodka and carry it to the workstation, powering up the system. The monitors glow to life, displaying a clean desktop with only the essential applications installed. Nicolai has thought of everything.
As I begin the process of establishing my secure connections, my mind drifts back to Rafa. To the way his eyes had assessed me across the ballroom—not just as a woman, but as a puzzle to be solved. The way he'd recognized me immediately as NyxBinary, his digital adversary.
The way his arm had felt around my waist during our dance—solid, strong, unexpectedly grounding.
I shake my head, irritated by my own distraction. No man has ever occupied this much space in my thoughts, especially not after a single meeting. There's something about Rafa that disrupts my careful compartmentalization. Something that pulls at me in ways I've never experienced.
In twenty-seven years, I've never found a man worthy of genuine interest, let alone intimacy. Men are either intimidated by my intelligence or fixated on my appearance. They want to conquer or control, to possess or protect. None have ever seen me as an equal.
Until tonight, when Rafa looked at me with recognition rather than desire or fear.
My phone buzzes with an alert, breaking my reverie. I glance at the screen and smile despite myself.
Someone is probing my primary security systems. Someone good. Someone is using precise patterns that I recognize instantly.
BitVenom.
