Artyom
Sleep never lasts long on planes. The sound is constant—engines, air pressure, men pretending to work when they’re really watching me from the corners of their eyes. Still, I half-drift. Head back, one hand over my chest, the other on the armrest between me and her.
Kira sits beside me, too still to be comfortable. She’s holding a glass of water with both hands like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored. The jet is quiet, my men talking low near the cockpit, Calina scrolling through her photos, Milana asleep with headphones on.
Kira’s reflection flickers in the dark window. I don’t think she realizes I’m awake. There’s a crease between her brows that hasn’t left since takeoff. She keeps staring out as if she can bargain with gravity. I can almost feel the tension in her body—rigid spine, fingers tapping the glass, breath measured like she’s fighting panic.
I shouldn’t care. Fear makes people manageable. But something about the way she hides it irritates me. She doesn’t want anyone to see her weakness, not even me. That makes me curious.
“Boss.”
Lev’s voice cuts through the hum. I open my eyes fully and turn my head. He’s standing at the edge of the aisle with a phone in hand, face tight.
“What?”
“Message from the Russians.”
He doesn’t say more until I hold out my hand. The screen glows with encrypted text—updates from our people in Sicily. The Italians confirmed the meeting arrangements. Then the second line makes my jaw tighten.
Irina Petrova and Boris Petrov will attend.
Of course they will. My father couldn’t resist stirring the pot. He knows Boris won’t forgive me for humiliating him, and Irina will take every opportunity to remind me of what I turned down.
“Fuck.” I rub a hand over my face.
Lev lowers his voice. “You want me to adjust the hotel booking? Separate floors?”
“No. We’ll stay where we are.” I glance toward the window. “If Boris wants to make a scene, I’ll give him one in front of everyone.”
Lev nods but lingers. “And Irina?”
“She won’t be a problem.”
He hesitates, then slips the phone into his pocket. “Copy that.”
I lean back again, eyes closing for a moment, letting the low vibration of the plane fill the silence. But the peace is gone. My mind’s already in Sicily—calculations, alliances, the way Boris will use that room to test my control.
When I open my eyes, Kira’s watching me. She must’ve caught my reaction to the message. Her eyes flick away quickly, pretending to study the clouds.
“Something wrong?” she asks, too polite.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
She mutters something under her breath. I catch only the wordtypical.
I tilt my head. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says, still looking at the window.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “You really should work on lying. It’s painful to watch.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“You always are,” I say quietly. “You think if you say less, I’ll stop noticing. You forget what I do for a living.”
That earns me a glare. “You analyze people, you don’t understand them.”
“And you think you do?”
