Rafa
"A little to the left,Mr. Rosso. And perhaps you could place your hand on Ms. Petrov's waist?"
The photographer—some renowned artist Vito hired at an obscene rate—gestures impatiently as I adjust my position. Kira stands beside me, perfectly composed in a midnight blue dress that makes her skin glow like moonlight. We're positioned against the Manhattan skyline, the city lights creating a bokeh effect that makes everything seem softer than the reality.
Nothing about this moment is real.
"Perfect," the photographer purrs, snapping rapidly. "Now look at each other—like you're sharing a secret."
I turn toward Kira, who meets my gaze with remarkable precision. Her gray eyes reveal nothing, but there's a slight tension in her jaw that tells me she's as uncomfortable with this performance as I am.
"Smile like you mean it, Kyrilla Minela," I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her eyes flash. "Don't call me that."
"Your full name? Would you prefer a pet name? Darling? Sweetheart? Future Mrs. Rosso?"
"I'd prefer professional courtesy," she responds, her smile never faltering for the camera. "My name is Kira."
"Professional courtesy," I repeat, sliding my hand from her waist to her lower back, feeling her stiffen slightly at the contact. "Is that what we're calling this arrangement?"
"We're not calling it anything. We're enduring it."
The photographer circles us, capturing every angle of our fraudulent intimacy. "Beautiful chemistry," he comments, completely misreading the tension between us. "You can feel the heat."
If only he knew what kind of heat it was. The type that precedes an explosion, not passion.
"One more set," he announces, "and then we'll move to the family groupings."
Kira exhales slowly. "Two more hours of this charade," she mutters.
"Counting the minutes?"
"Counting the seconds."
Despite everything, I find myself fighting a smile. Her sharp edges and refusal to play nice are refreshing after years of people telling me what they think I want to hear.
"You know," I say conversationally as the photographer adjusts his equipment, "for someone who sent me a cooperation protocol, you're treating me more like an adversary than a potential ally."
Her eyes snap to mine, suddenly alert. "Not here," she whispers, her gaze darting to the various staff members buzzing around us.
"Here is exactly where no one would suspect us of having a real conversation," I counter. "Everyone sees what they expect to see—the reluctant fiancés performing their roles."
She considers this, then inclines her head slightly in acknowledgment. "Smart."
"I have my moments."
The photoshoot finally concludes, and we're ushered toward the main event—a formal dinner at Eleven Madison Park, which has been closed to the public for the evening. The restaurant has been transformed into a neutral territory where the Petrov and Rosso families can display their alliance without either side feeling at a disadvantage.
As we enter, I catalog the key players. Vito stands near the bar with his consigliere, Marco, a veteran whose calm demeanor masks a calculating mind. Dante, Vito’s enforcer, is sweeping the room with his eyes, ready for anything. A few of the capos are spread throughout, keeping close eyes on the women of our family. Particularly Rina, our Donna. Nearby, Luca sips champagne while charming a group of legitimate business associates, his easy smile never revealing the fact that he's armed with at least two concealed weapons.
On the Petrov side, Vadim holds court near the windows, flanked by Alexei, his right hand, and Kira’s older brother, whose massive frame makes even the custom suit look constrained. Her second-oldest brother, Nicolai, stands slightly apart, observing everything with analytical detachment.
"Your brothers are quite the contrast," I comment to Kira as we accept flutes of champagne from a passing server.
"You have no idea," she replies. "Alexei solves problems with his fists. Nicolai solves them with his mind. Both are equally lethal in their own way."
"And where do you fall on that spectrum?"
