I knew all of that already. It would take us much longer to establish a presence here.
I stepped through the entrance without waiting to be announced, walking as if the room belonged to me. To dominate a room such as this, one had to act as if they already did. My self-assured, powerful strides were enough to convey exactly that. Masks were handed out at the door, but I’d brought my own, my face already covered. It was a simple matte black with clean lines and had no embellishments. I wasn’t interested in theatrics or performances, and I wasn’t here to impress. I was here to observe and blend in.
I was interested in nothing but control tonight.
The ballroom unfolded before me in layers of gold and shadow while grand chandeliers cast fractured light over polished marble floors. The music was an intentional contradiction to the setting, as violins laced through a deep, modern bassline that vibrated subtly in my chest.
People moved like living art installations. Feathers. Lace. Silk. Sequins. It was evident how much effort most of them had put into their appearance. To me, it was nothing but power disguised as excess. I headed straight for the bar. It was notbecause I needed a drink but because it offered the best vantage point. I motioned to the woman behind the counter, and she immediately brought me a neat glass of scotch as if everything about me screamed that I knew how to respect alcohol. I stood there, glass in hand, my gaze running over everyone before me.
I saw everything.
A man in navy velvet speaking too closely to a Vasiliev associate, desperation disguised as charm. A Dubow cousin pretending to laugh while scanning exits. A pair of Miami businessmen whose wealth didn’t quite hide their fear. Even with the masks on, most of these people were easily recognizable, making the masks seem like nothing more than a dress-code formality. Although I did have a talent for memorizing faces. I memorized them the way other men memorize poetry, so it was easier for me.
Despite them, none of them knew me.
The Romanov name carried weight in Miami, but not the same weight as the Morozovs. Not the Chernykhs. Not yet. We were still the outsiders. The ones who hadn’t yet been welcomed.
That was what bothered Kliment. It didn’t bother me. For me, power had never been measured in volume. It was measured in patience. The cool weight of the glass in my hand grounded me, and I scanned the room again. Everything was the same. The more such gatherings I visited, the more I was convinced that these were a rather boring bunch of people.
That is when I saw her.
At first, it wasn’t her face. It was the way she moved. It seemed as if every step was taken with effortless fluidity yet controlled measurements. She was intentional about every small move of her hand without being overtly rigid. It felt as if she knew just the right thing to say and just the right numberof steps to turn. She stepped through the ballroom like she belonged there without even taking up space like a man does. Like the space had been exclusively designed around her rather than the other way around.
She was dressed in gold silk, the folds of her gown shimmering slightly in the candlelight.
My attention was drawn to the sharp lines that softened at her hips before cascading into layered panels that shifted like molten lava when she moved. One of her shoulders was bare while the other was framed by sheer fabric embroidered so subtly it only caught the light when she turned.
Nothing about it was flashy, yet all of it was deliberate. That was what caught me. I had noticed how most women here were trying to be seen, but she was clearly trying for the opposite. She simply was. Her blonde hair was sleek and straight, falling down her back like liquid gold brushed with shadow. Her mask was porcelain, edged with metallic detail that traced her cheekbones without overwhelming them.
She wasn’t smiling for anyone. In fact, from what I could see, she seemed to be studying the people present.
Like me.
As I stared at her, something in my chest tightened. It was not a desire. Not yet. But more like recognition, even though I knew I had never seen her before. If I had, I would have known. A person like her was impossible to forget.
I continued watching while she danced with two other women, laughing freely. But even in laughter, she remained aware. Her gaze moved across the room in quiet assessment as if she were analyzing every single detail about everyone present. It was almost impressive to watch someone being as observant as I was. I was intrigued beyond measure.
I told myself to look away, but I didn’t.
Instead, I adjusted my stance slightly, leaning back against the bar as if my stillness was accidental.
It wasn’t. I continued to watch her the way I watched negotiations. Patiently.
When she drifted toward the edge of the dance floor, champagne glass in hand, her eyes swept the room again and landed on me. She must have felt my gaze on her back. The moment stretched as we continued looking at one another, neither of us looking away for even a second. Despite the distance between us, the moment felt vividly intimate.
Most women reacted in predictable ways when they realized they were being watched. They preened or bristled or simply pretended not to notice. She didn’t do any of that, but instead she held my gaze. It was neither flirtatious nor offended but slightly assessing instead. I noticed the faint tilt of her chin as if she was trying to understand me.
The music swelled while people moved between us, breaking the direct line of sight for a second. But when the space cleared again, she was still looking. And something inside me, something that had been coiled tight for months beneath Kliment’s expectations and Romanov ambition, shifted.
I wasn’t here for distraction or indulgence. But for the first time that night, I wasn’t thinking about alliances or rivalries. I was simply thinking about her and who she belonged to, or if she belonged to anyone at all.
The thought irritated me. Ownership was a disease in our world.
I straightened from the bar, lifting the scotch to my lips. The burn was sharp, grounding. It would be smarter towalk away. Especially since I didn’t know who she was, and underneath that mask, she could be anyone. Any name. Any family. An enemy even.
But staying safe had never been particularly compelling for me. She laughed at something one of her friends said, tilting her head back slightly. The chandeliers caught in her hair, igniting strands of gold against the gold silk of her gown.
She didn’t just glow, she absorbed light, and somehow that was far worse. I kept staring when a man approached her all of a sudden, forcing her to break eye contact. He was tall, overly confident in a mask edged with gold filigree. I watched as he leaned in too close and said something that made her smile politely but not genuinely.
