Nicolai doesn't flinch. "Did he at least show you the portfolio on Rafa Rosso?"
“Yes. But there wasn’t much there.”
He sits beside me, his movements precise and economical. "Rafa Antonio Rosso. Thirty years old. IQ estimated over 155.Graduated summa cum laude from MIT at twenty with dual degrees in computer science and physics."
The tablet displays photos, documents, data points—a life reduced to intelligence briefings. The file my father gave me didn’t have any of what Nicolai is sharing with me.
"He's also BitVenom," I say, watching Nicolai's face for reaction.
His eyebrow lifts a fraction of a millimeter—the Petrov equivalent of a gasp. "You're certain?"
“I am now. Everything makes sense. I've traced similar markers in our joint financial systems. Only someone high up the food chain would be so precise. The Italians would use him to handle anything digital, just like Father uses me.”
Nicolai's eyes narrow behind his glasses. "You think he's the one stealing from the accounts?"
I hesitate. My instincts tell me Rafa isn't behind the thefts—the pattern doesn't match what I know of BitVenom's work. But voicing this to Nicolai might reveal too much about my own plans. Even if he wants to help me he would never betray the Petrov name.
"I'm still gathering evidence," I say carefully. "If the Italians are behind the theft this arranged marriage could be useful. I'll have direct access to his systems, his work, his life to determine if they are."
"And if he isn't?"
I shrug. "Then he's another asset. Either way, the Rossos are powerful allies or dangerous enemies. Better to keep them close."
Nicolai studies me with the same intensity he applies to market fluctuations or enemy movements. Of all my siblings, he's the only one who can see through my mask .
"You're planning something," he says finally.
I take a slow sip of water. "I'm always planning something."
"Something specific. Something dangerous."
I set down my glass and meet his gaze directly. "What if I told you I want out? Not just from this marriage. From all of it."
The silence that follows is thick with implication. Leaving the Bratva isn't like quitting a job. It's a matter of life and death. It's more akin to trying to remove your own organs while they're still functioning. I am the Bratva Heiress. I don’t just get to walk away.
"I would say that such thoughts should never be spoken aloud in any location that hasn't been swept for surveillance within the last hour, even mine." Nicolai responds carefully.
He stands and walks to a panel on the wall, activating what I recognize as a signal jammer. Then he moves to the bar, pouring himself two fingers of Scotch —the only time Nicolai ever drinks is when we're discussing family mutiny.
"Now," he continues, returning to sit across from me, "I would ask if you've calculated the probability of success for such a hypothetical endeavor."
"Thirty-seven percent," I answer without hesitation.
He almost smiles. "That low?"
"It's improved from twenty-three percent last year."
Now he does smile, a rare sight that transforms his face. "Ever the optimist."
This is why I can talk to Nicolai when I’m unable to speak to anyone else. He understands probability, risk assessment, and the mathematics of survival. Unlike Alexei with his blind loyalty, or Misha with his wild impulsiveness, or Zoya with her chaotic rebellion, Nicolai sees the world as I do: a system of patterns that can be analyzed, predicted, and manipulated.
"The Rosso alliance complicates things," I admit.
"Or simplifies them." Nicolai leans forward. "Rafa Rosso isn't like his brother. Vito embraces their legacy while Rafa tolerates it. According to my sources, he's been establishing independentrevenue streams and identities for the past three years. He might be planning an exit strategy himself."
My pulse quickens. "He's planning his own exit? "
"It appears so."
