Chapter 1 - The Toast That Never Was
The crystal chandeliers of the Ivankov mansion spilled light over red velvet curtains, white roses, and men with hidden weapons beneath tailored jackets. Every guest smiled like royalty and watched like a predator. At the center of it all stood Alexi Ivankov, wearing black like it had been invented for him. His hair was slicked back from a face too sharp, too controlled, too dangerous to be called merely handsome. He did not smile. He watched his own engagement party with the cold patience of a man counting how many people in the room wanted him dead.
For three weeks, I had played the part of a clumsy Irish event planner hired to manage the engagement celebration of Alexi Ivankov and Akatarina Petrov. I smiled too much, apologized constantly, dropped pens, and asked harmless questions. No one suspects the woman who apologizes every time she enters a room. That was the trick, and I had been trained well. Growing up as Giovanni Marchetti’s daughter, I learned to shoot before I learned to dance. My mission in Moscow was simple: infiltrate the Ivankov circle, observe Alexi’s operations, and report back to my father. Saving Alexi was not part of the mission. Neither was wanting him.
Akatarina Petrov drifted through the ballroom like a porcelain doll with a knife behind her smile. Ten minutes before the official toast, she crossed to the champagne table, lifted one crystal glass, turned it slightly, and switched it with the glass beside it. Almost nothing. No one noticed. Except me.
The glass she moved was meant for Alexi. A faint metallic gleam caught the chandelier light inside the rim. Poison.
Alexi stepped toward the table. Akatarina’s smile widened.
I moved. I crossed the marble floor quickly, heels cracking against stone. Alexi lifted the glass. I had three seconds. As he began to raise the champagne to his lips, I grabbed his face with both hands, pulled him down, and kissed him.
The ballroom froze. His mouth went still beneath mine. Somewhere beside us, Akatarina made a sound sharp enough to cut glass. Alexi’s fingers tightened around the stem of the champagne flute. Then the glass slipped, shattering against the floor. Gold liquid spread across the marble like evidence.
When I pulled back, Alexi stared at me with dark, unreadable eyes. Anger. Shock. Confusion. And something else.
May you like
Akatarina reached us first. "Who do you think you are?" she hissed.
Before I could answer, Alexi caught my wrist, his grip firm and possessive. "Do not come near her," he said.
