The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Aleksandr's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Misha betrayed us."
"Or," Dmitry said softly, "he disagreed with you about the heroin trade moving through schools." He stood, forcing his father to step back. "Funny how betrayal always looks like conscience to you."
The silence was absolute.
Then Aleksandr backhanded Dmitry hard enough to split his lip anew. "You disrespectful little shit."
Dmitry licked the blood from his mouth. Tasted copper and salt. And beneath it, still, the ghost of Sofia.
Aleksandr turned to the room. "Leave us."
The men filed out quickly, dragging the weeping Volkov girl with them. Only Igor hesitated at the door.
"Out," Aleksandr snarled.
The door clicked shut.
Aleksandr waited until the footsteps faded before speaking again. "This ends now." He pulled a knife from his belt, flipping it in his hand. "You want to play the moral man? The righteous son?" He tossed the knife at Dmitry's feet. "Then prove it. Cut your own throat. Spare me the disappointment."
Dmitry looked at the knife. Then at his father. "You first."
Aleksandr laughed, the sound echoing off the metal walls. "There he is. There's my boy." He stepped closer, cupping Dmitry's face with mock tenderness. "I was starting to think that detective had fucked the fight out of you."
Dmitry didn't flinch. "She's better at it than Ksenia."
The joke landed like a grenade. Aleksandr's face darkened. "Careful."
"Or what?" Dmitry pressed forward until they were nose to nose. "You'll kill me? Go ahead. But we both know you don't have another heir."
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Aleksandr stepped back, adjusting his cuffs. "The girl dies tonight. You'll do it. And when you're done, you'll bring me the detective's head on a platter." He walked to the door. "Or I'll take yours instead."
The door slammed behind him.
Dmitry stood alone in the empty warehouse, the knife at his feet, the taste of two different women on his tongue, and the crushing weight of his name pressing down like a tombstone.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
And somewhere in the city, Sofia Ivanova slept, unaware of the knife hovering over her throat.
Dmitry picked up the blade.
The choice was simple, really.
Kill her.
Or kill them all.
The penthouse smelled of roses and poison. Ksenia Romanova lounged on the white leather sofa, her silk robe slipping just enough to reveal the curve of one breast. She held a glass of champagne in one hand and a pearl-handled pistol in the other, balancing both with practiced ease.
Across from her, Viktor Petrovich—Aleksandr's newest lieutenant—shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was young for the job, barely twenty-five, with the broad shoulders of a boxer and the nervous eyes of a man who knew he was out of his depth.
Ksenia studied him over the rim of her glass. "You're sweating, Vitya."
Viktor wiped his brow. "It's hot."
Ksenia smiled, slow and dangerous. "No, darling. You're scared." She set the pistol on the glass coffee table with a deliberate click. "Smart boy."
The television played news footage of the latest murder—another body found in the river, another case Sofia Ivanova would never solve. Ksenia muted it with a flick of her manicured thumb.
"Let's talk about our little detective problem," she purred.
Viktor swallowed. "I don't think Aleksandr would—"
"Oh, Aleksandr." Ksenia waved a dismissive hand. "He's busy playing chess with his son. And Dmitry..." Her lips curled. "Dmitry is busy playing other games with our dear detective."
She stood abruptly, letting the robe fall open as she crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Moscow glittered below them, beautiful and rotten.
"Tell me, Vitya," she said, tracing a fingernail down the glass. "Have you ever killed a woman?"
Viktor's knee bounced. "Not directly."
Ksenia turned, her robe gaping further. "How delightfully vague." She retrieved the pistol, spinning it around her finger like a toy. "Would you like to?"
The champagne flute slipped from Viktor's grip, shattering on the marble floor.
Ksenia sighed. "That was Baccarat, you oaf." She stepped over the shards, her bare feet somehow avoiding every sharp edge. "Here's what's going to happen." She pressed the pistol into Viktor's damp palm. "You're going to find Sofia Ivanova. You're going to put a bullet in her pretty little head." She leaned close, her breath warm against his ear. "And you're going to make it look like Dmitry did it."
Viktor's hand trembled around the gun. "Why?"
Ksenia straightened, adjusting her robe. "Because I'm bored. Because Aleksandr is getting soft. Because Dmitry needs to remember where his loyalties lie." She plucked an invisible piece of lint from Viktor's shoulder. "And because if you don't, I'll tell Aleksandr it was you who leaked those shipping manifests last month."
Viktor's face went pale.
Ksenia patted his cheek. "There's my clever boy."
The door opened without warning. Dmitry stood in the threshold, his black coat dusted with snow, his knuckles raw and bleeding.
Ksenia didn't flinch. "Darling! You're just in time for drinks."
Dmitry's gaze flicked from Ksenia to Viktor to the gun still clutched in the younger man's hand. "Am I interrupting?"
Viktor scrambled to hide the weapon. Ksenia laughed, the sound like breaking glass.
"Vitya was just leaving," she said, plucking the pistol from his grip. "Weren't you, Vitya?"
Viktor stood so fast he nearly tripped. "Yes. Right. Leaving."
Dmitry stepped aside just enough to let him pass. Their shoulders brushed—a silent exchange Viktor wouldn't forget.
When the door closed, Ksenia poured two fresh glasses of champagne. "You look like hell."
Dmitry ignored the offered drink. "What are you planning?"
Ksenia sipped from both glasses before answering. "Me? Nothing." She set one glass down, keeping the other. "But I hear your detective is getting close to uncovering those orphanage fires last summer."
Dmitry's expression didn't change. "She's not my anything."
Ksenia traced the rim of her glass. "No? Then you won't mind when she turns up dead."
The silence stretched.
Dmitry finally took the untouched champagne, draining it in one swallow. "You touch her," he said softly, "and I'll feed you your own fingers."
Ksenia's smile widened. "Promises, promises." She stepped closer, until they were nearly touching. "Tell me, Dima. Does she taste as good as I do?"