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The lights of the gala cast a dangerous halo around Roman, illuminating the confident smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He exudes a charm that’s unmistakably infectious, a charisma that lures you in, blinds you to the menace behind the mask. But I'm no moth drawn to a flame –I'mthe flame.
Roman Nicolaevich, physically, at least, is nothing short of a modern-day Cary Grant. He stands tall at well over six feet, exuding an air of easy confidence. His ink black hair is styled with a touch of careless ease that only makes him look more handsome. His green eyes hold a devilish twinkle that makes my stomach churn – both with the bitterness of my past and the undeniable pull of his charm.
As we dance, I am hyper aware of his presence. His hand is warm on my back, his touch firm yet gentle. His old Hollywood smile is disarming, the kind of smile that has surely won over many women. But to me, that smile is a grim reminder of the man he represents, the family he's part of.
His attire is the epitome of dapper – a tailored, black, three-piece tuxedo that fits him perfectly, enhancing his broad shoulders and trim waist. The bow tie is a classic touch, adding to his overall charismatic persona.
Despite my resentment, I must admit, Roman Nicolaevich is a sight to behold, a dangerous mix of charm and power. He's an enigma, both fascinating and infuriating. But beneath his charming demeanor, I know he's a wolf in sheep's clothing, one who took the man I loved.
His hand slips lower on my waist, pulling me closer. There's a teasing glint in his eyes, a predator toying with its prey – or so he thinks.
"I must say, Galina, you dance like a dream," Roman murmurs, his voice barely rising over the elegant strains of Tchaikovsky.
"I've been told so," I respond coolly, maintaining a calculated distance.
"And you look breathtakingly beautiful tonight," he continues, his eyes drinking in my figure-hugging gown. "A sight that could make the stars jealous."
A hollow laugh escapes my lips. "That's a new one. Do you always spout such poetry to your dance partners?"
His grin widens. "Only to those who inspire it," he replies smoothly, not missing a beat.
Despite myself, I have to admire his silken charm. It's no wonder he's known as his bratva's Closer. He has a way with words that could make even a seasoned negotiator falter.
"And what if I told you," I say, changing the topic, "I'm more than meets the eye?"
A shadow of intrigue passes over his face. "I'd say I look forward to discovering what lies beneath."
The weight of his words hangs between us. If only he knew he was playing with fire.
"Careful, Roman," I warn, a coy smile playing on my lips. "Some puzzles are better left unsolved."
He chuckles, his grip tightening around my waist. "Where's the fun in that, Galina? After all, the thrill of the chase makes the victory so sweet."
As we glide across the marble floor, his hand firm on my waist, the world around us blurs. The swirl of colors, the laughter, the clinking glasses—everything dims compared to the harsh reality etched in my mind. It's been five years since my world was torn apart, five years since the Antonov-Nicolaevich Bratva robbed me of my happiness. And here I am, dancing with the devil himself.
However, in our dance,I’mthe one to be feared.
I'm known as the Ghost, not for any ethereal presence, but for my ability to dissolve into the shadows, to clean up the messes of our operation without leaving a trace. My kills are a thing of beauty, swift and silent, their precision speaking volumes of my unwavering commitment to our cause. Every life taken, every crime scene wiped clean, is a step toward avenging the man I loved, the man the Nicolaeviches took from me.
"Enjoying the dance, Ms. Ivanova?" Roman's question pulls me back from my bitter reverie. His eyes, vibrant in the gleaming chandeliers' light, hold an intensity difficult to ignore.
"Immensely, Mr. Nicolaevich," I lie through my teeth. His grin broadens, oblivious of the storm his presence has stirred. Oh, how I'd love to wipe that smirk off his face.
The dance ends, but my mission doesn't. Roman Nicolaevich has made a grand entry into my city, thinking he can pull the strings, control the players. Little does he know the real game has just begun. He’s dancing with the Ghost, and by the time he realizes it, it'll be too late.
I'm no stranger to the dance of death. Each step measured; each breath calculated. In my line of work, precision is paramount, and mistakes are fatal. Tonight, I've choreographed a new dance, not with Roman Nicolaevich, but with death itself. A dance far more intimate and lethal, performed not on the floor of a museum but in the confines of a champagne flute.
As we twirl, my attention shifts. Across the room, Mayor Yeltsin takes the podium, his glass of champagne already half-drunk, gleaming under the museum lights. The sight of the glass fills me with a dark satisfaction, knowing my plan is already underway.
I'd slipped a special ingredient into the mayor's drink earlier in the night, a poison, silent and swift, leaving no trace but a cold, lifeless body. The mayor had been inching closer to passing an anti-crime policy, a move that could severely hinder our operations. He painted a bullseye on his back, and tonight, I was the marksman.
My brother, Vladimir, had given the order. The mayor is a hurdle on our path to control St. Petersburg, and we need to remove him, just as we have removed countless others. A cold reality, but a necessary one in our world. The Chechen gang has always played a high-stakes game, and tonight was no exception.
The sound of applause pulls me out of my thoughts. Roman's grip on my waist tightens, his focus now on the mayor as well, oblivious to the ticking time bomb I'd placed in our midst. The room quiets, the music fading into a soft murmur as Mayor Yeltsin begins his address.
"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests," he begins, "Thank you for joining me on this auspicious night, a celebration of art, culture, and most importantly, our beloved city. We stand here today, united against the forces seeking to pull us apart, to mar the famous beauty of St. Petersburg."
My eyes flick to Roman, who wears a thoughtful expression, his gaze locked on the mayor. "He talks a good talk," I remark, looking back at the mayor.
