The lobby is quiet. When the elevator opens with a soft chime, I step in, the tension building with each floor. As I ascend, I remind myself this is not enemy territory. But it isn’t exactly safe, either.
On the twenty-third floor, the doors slide open, and I walk into the silence of a long hallway with large windows on either end. The view of glowing skyscrapers emerges in the growing darkness, the waters of the lake deep blue below.
A single man in a tailored suit, his face expressionless, guards the door to Samson’s penthouse. I offer a single nod, and hesteps aside. I let myself in, his domain all angles and glass. The city sprawls below, the last of a late summer’s golden sunset making its descent.
My half-brother sits behind his desk in his office, a slab of oak that gives off an air of strength, elegance, and old-world sensibility. His gaze is fixed on the view, his arms folded across his chest. He looks up as I enter, the air thickening with palpable hostility.
I stand in the doorway for a moment, letting him have his silence before closing the door with a click that echoes too loudly.
“Matvei,” he finally speaks. His gaze is narrow, cold, as if he’s trying to decide why I’ve come. “What dishonor brings you here?”
“Samson,” I say, my voice flat. I take the seat across from him, every movement deliberate. He watches me like a predator sizing up its competition. I return the favor. He’s no match for me, no matter how much he wishes it were otherwise.
We begin with fake pleasantries. He asks about my trip, the weather, business. I answer in clipped sentences, watching his hands as his fingers drum against the wood. He offers me a drink. I decline. There’s no warmth in this exchange, just the careful weighing of power.
“What have you been up to lately?” I ask, feigning casual interest. His reaction is immediate, a flash of annoyance buried beneath calm. I notice how his jaw clenches, how his eyes—the same blue as mine—flicker away from me.
He covers his immediate reaction with a sharp, edgy smirk. “You mean you haven’t received the invitation? Genevieve keeps me occupied.” The way he says her name is like a challenge, anassertion. His marriage to Genevieve Mancini is a coup, or so he wants everyone to believe.
I grin. “Actually, I came to deliver my RSVP in person.” I take the envelope out of the inside pocket of my jacket and slide it across the top of the desk. “I will be bringing a plus one.”
“Evgeny in a ball gown?”
I let the silence stretch, watching him. “Genevieve Mancini,” I finally say, slow and deliberate, ignoring his quip. “Quite an achievement.”
Samson leans back, a glint of triumph in his eyes. “Some people spend their lives chasing the Mancinis only to get nowhere. I’m marrying into them.” He laughs a hollow laugh, but there’s something desperate underneath, a need to convince both of us he’s won, that he somehow deserves the power this marriage will give him.
I stare at my brother, taking in the man he’s become. This manchild who tries too hard to be someone he’s not, with his expensive rings, watches, and suits that are gaudy, even if he doesn’t realize it. This kid, who was born when I was sixteen, who unceremoniously dumped Sonya and broke her heart. This bastard of my father’s, who feels like he’s owed something because of the circumstances of his birth, sits with a smirk on his face as though he knows something I don’t.
“Your mother tried, didn’t she?” The words come out too sharp, almost as if by accident. Almost. “She wanted in, but the door stayed closed.”
The temperature in the room drops. Samson sits up, his smile vanishing, eyes narrowing to slits. “Did you come here just toinsult me? You’re in my territory right now—I would watch what you say,” he snarls, his voice like a blade.
I don’t flinch. “History tends to repeat itself. Sometimes the doors open for the next generation, and sometimes they don’t.”
He stands abruptly, fists planted on the desk, the veins in his forearms standing out. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll leap across at me. Instead, he reaches into his jacket, slow and deliberate. The animosity is raw, electric. My hand instinctively slips closer to my own side.
Samson stops just shy of drawing the gun I know is there. Our eyes lock, and the room suddenly feels too small to contain us both. I can see the calculation in his gaze, the weighing of risk and reward, hatred simmering just beneath the surface.
“Think very carefully about what you want to start here, little brother,” I warn.
For a heartbeat, we stare at one another. He’s trembling, just enough to show he’s human, not invincible. The fantasy of control slips, and I see the resentment for what it is—a mask, a wound, and cold fury.
He lets his hand drop, face twisting into something ugly. “Things will change, Matvei. Sooner than you think.” The words are a threat, a promise, an invocation.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” My voice is calm, but my heart pounds, adrenaline humming in my veins. I rise and move toward the door, not turning my back until I’m safely in the hallway.
Outside, the city glimmers, indifferent to our war. I don’t really know why I came. I could have had my assistant mail my RSVP.Maybe I’m enjoying this game and the new player I’ve brought to the board a little too much.
As I step into the elevator, I catch my reflection in the polished metal—eyes hard, mouth set. The battle lines have been drawn, but neither of us knows how the next move will unfold. I think of Sonya, the Mancinis, the doors of history opening and closing. I think of power, of the cost of winning, of what Samson has promised.
The city falls away as the elevator descends, and I steel myself for what comes next.
In the quiet hum of descent, I realize in this game, trust is a myth and history is a weapon. And tonight, nothing has changed—except the certainty that it soon will.
9
SONYA
