The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, releasing Seva into a haze of perfume, laughter, and champagne bubbles.
Kuznetsova's casino — The Velvet Mirage — was the kind of place where power came to play. Golden lights dripped from the chandeliers like honey, every surface gleaming, every sound muffled by luxury. The air pulsed with jazz and money — low piano notes, clinking glasses, and the subtle desperation of men who'd bet away too much already.
The guards at the door bowed as Seva passed, his presence cutting through the indulgent chaos like a blade through silk. His long black coat trailed behind him, fur-lined and sharp at the collar — the kind of coat that said he wasn't there to gamble.
He didn't need to.
The executive room was at the very top, sealed away from the noise of the casino floor. When he stepped inside, the smell shifted — smoke, roses, and something faintly metallic.
Zhenya Kuznetsova was lounging on a velvet chaise, her legs crossed, her laughter spilling like champagne. A woman was feeding her grapes, one at a time. Another man massaged her shoulders, his shirt half undone. A girl knelt at her feet, tracing circles on her palm. The rest lingered around like well-trained pets, waiting for her next gesture.
Seva paused at the doorway, expression unreadable.
"Sevaaaa!" Zhenya squealed, springing up as though she'd just seen her favorite toy. "So nice of you to finally visit your dear cousin!"
He offered a polite hand for a shake, but she ignored it — instead pulling him close and pressing her lips to his in a slow, mocking kiss before her fingers slid shamelessly down, cupping him through his trousers with a grin.
Seva's reaction was immediate and precise. He caught her wrist and pushed her face back with two fingers, eyes dark with warning.
"That's enough," he said coolly.
Zhenya pouted, retreating with a roll of her eyes. "Ughhh. Why so mean? You used to let me do this when we were young."
"That was when we were young, Zhenya," Seva replied, voice dry, pouring himself a drink from her bar. "Back then, I didn't know better."
"Better?" she scoffed, reclining again with a lazy smile. "Please. It wouldn't kill you to be a little gentler with me. Right, my sweets?"
Her playthings giggled on cue, a chorus of obedient laughter.
Seva sighed, swirling his drink. "You've turned your vices into art. I'll give you that."
"Oh, flattery? From you? I must be dreaming," Zhenya said, sipping her wine before snapping her fingers. The laughter died instantly. "Now… let's talk business."
The playthings vanished through a side door, leaving only the two of them — the air heavier now, the noise of the casino muffled behind thick walls.
She leaned back, the flirtation gone from her face. "So. How's the deal coming along?"
"Smoothly," Seva said without hesitation.
"Smoothly," she repeated, mocking his tone. "You make it sound like a children's game."
He didn't answer, just took another slow sip of his whiskey.
Her eyes narrowed. "Did you read the files on Boris?"
"Of course I did."
"And you're still going through with it?" she pressed, her tone sharp now.
Seva's silence was his answer.
Zhenya let out a dry chuckle. "Seva, darling… I'm a person who obtains information even when I don't want to. You might be holding on for now, but if the investigation team finds a trump card against you, it's over."
He leaned back in his chair, lazy grin curving his lips. "Are you suggesting I should be scared of Boris?"
Zhenya flicked her wrist, her diamond bracelet flashing. "Of course not. I'm suggesting that you're being reckless. There's nothing for you to gain from this. Wouldn't it be wiser to back out?"
Seva looked at her over the rim of his glass — his gaze steady, cold, unamused. Then he let out a low chuckle. "You always underestimate my taste in prey."
"Prey?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow.
He smirked. "I need food to tame a pantera."
"A panther?" she asked, confused, but intrigued.
Seva didn't elaborate. He just finished his drink, rose from his seat, and adjusted the fur collar of his coat.
Zhenya watched him, her amusement returning. "You've changed, cousin. You used to tell me everything."
"That's why I'm still alive," he said, heading for the door.
"Oh, before you go," she called out, swirling her wine, "did you hear? Konstantin Morozov passed."
He paused, one hand on the doorframe. "So soon?"
"Apparently only a few know. The old bastard didn't even have an heir," she said with a faint smirk.
Seva's eyes flicked back to her. The corner of his mouth curled. "Then Russia will be mine."
Zhenya's laughter followed him as he walked away — rich, sultry, dangerous.
"Sure," she said, raising her glass toward his retreating back. "A toast to Knyaz."
The door shut softly behind him, leaving Zhenya alone with her empty glass and that glint in her eye — the kind that said she'd just seen something worth betting on.
When the door closed behind Seva, Zhenya lingered in silence — the only sound in the room the soft purr of the air conditioner and the faint rustle of silk sheets as her "playthings" slowly drifted back in.
The world outside her suite continued in a blur of laughter, dice rolls, and clinking glasses — but in here, in this velvet cocoon at the top of the casino, everything slowed.
Zhenya was reclining again, sprawled across the chaise in her satin robe, a vision of lazy wickedness. The dim gold light painted her bare shoulders in honey tones. A woman refilled her glass with champagne. Another traced her fingers through Zhenya's hair, humming softly.
The butler appeared in the doorway — an older man in a black suit, eyes trained carefully downward.
"Madam Kuznetsova," he began in his calm, practiced tone.
Zhenya tilted her head slightly, her smile feline. "Has Seva gone to his room?" she asked, echoing his formality with a teasing note.
"Yes, madam," the butler said. "And I have sent him the ten companions you requested."
"Mhm." She exhaled in satisfaction, swirling her glass. "Good. You'll need a significant amount of alcohol to go with that—he'll get bored quickly if you don't keep the wine flowing. Send bottles up every twenty minutes. I don't want that room quiet for a single moment tonight."
"Yes, madam."
She reached up, absently stroking the cheek of the woman kneeling beside her — her manicured nails grazing soft skin. "Now, let's see if he still lives up to his reputation," she murmured, voice like smoke.
"Zhenya…" one of the women, the youngest of her playthings, whispered shyly. "If I may ask something…"
Zhenya turned her head lazily, one eyebrow raised. "Yes, my dear?"
The girl hesitated. "Can Seva really handle ten people in one night?"
That earned her a laugh — not the cruel kind, but a deep, genuine one that came from the chest. Zhenya sat up slightly, her hair falling like dark silk around her face. "Oh, my dear… you really don't know him, do you?"
Her eyes gleamed, catlike and amused. "He may not look like it now — so calm, so polite — but Seva Rurikovich is a beast. Always has been. When we were younger, I once saw him drink two men under the table, break a man's nose for sport, and still walk home with a smile like nothing happened. He doesn't indulge because he can't. He doesn't indulge because he's controlling himself."
The girl blinked, nervous and fascinated.
Zhenya leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "That man you saw today—the quiet one, with his little fur coat and his careful smirk? That's not a businessman. That's a predator in disguise. He could tear this whole casino apart if he wanted to. That's why I sent ten."
She reclined again, lifting her glass for another sip. "If he makes it through the night without breaking something—or someone—I'll be impressed."
The butler, still standing by the door, cleared his throat lightly. "Shall I assign guards near his quarters, madam?"
Zhenya smirked. "No. Let him have his fun. If he needs anything, they'll hear the screams."
The women giggled, half-nervous, half-excited.
Zhenya smiled faintly at their reaction — then her gaze darkened, turning inward. The laughter around her faded into the hum of the casino below. She set her glass down gently and whispered, almost to herself:
"Let's see if Russia's golden prince still has the hunger I remember."
Then, leaning back, she added, with a touch of amusement and malice both—
"After all, a beast that can't be fed… eventually bites."
The cold air of Vyatskoye still clung to Calista's coat when she stepped off the bus. The snow under her boots crunched, her breath blooming white in the air. The countryside was quiet—too quiet. Every pair of eyes that followed her seemed to ask the same question: What is she doing here?
She adjusted her scarf higher over her neck.
"Yh, I know," she muttered under her breath. "A Black woman wandering through the middle of rural Russia—it's not every day you see that. But keep staring, it's fine."
The wind bit through her coat, the sky pale with winter light. She stopped in front of a small, slanted-roof house, double-checking the crumpled note in her hand.
"This address should be right… I guess," she whispered, rubbing her thumb over the faded ink.
Her mother's handwriting.
The thought of it made her throat tighten.
"Mother… you said if I ever wanted to understand you, I'd have to find her."
Her mother's words echoed in her mind — weak, trembling, from that final night in the hospital:
"Go to Vyatskoye… find Mrs. Petrova… she knows the truth."
Now here she was, years later, chasing the last ghost of a woman she barely understood.
Calista clenched the paper in her fist, exhaling a shaky breath.
Please let this be worthwhile.
She knocked on the old wooden door.
A pause. Then, a voice — thin and wary:
"Who is it?"
"It's me, madam. Attorney Calista Okailey Benson," she said, trying to sound polite through the shivering cold.
The door creaked open. An elderly woman, wrapped in a wool shawl, peeked out. Her eyes squinted in confusion before softening slightly.
"Attorney? Is there… a matter?"
"No, nothing like that," Calista said quickly, smiling. "I just wanted to ask a few questions. Are you, by any chance, Mrs. Petrova?"
"Yes," the old woman nodded slowly. "That's me."
Calista hesitated, then unfolded the crumpled note once more. "Around thirty years ago, do you remember a Ghanaian lady who used to live here? In this very house. Her name was Ashanti—Ashanti Benson."
For a moment, the woman's gaze drifted somewhere far away — as though she were flipping through old memories.
"Hm… Ashanti…" she murmured. "Yes, yes… maybe it's her. A good girl. Very quiet, very polite. I remember her kindness. But… it's been so long."
Calista's heart leapt. "So you do remember?"
The woman nodded faintly, then reached out and took Calista's hand with trembling fingers.
"She was a lovely girl. Always looked like she carried a secret, though. I wish I could tell you more, but that's all I can remember."
Calista forced a smile. "That's… that's already a lot. Thank you."
When she stepped out of the house, the wind felt colder somehow.
Back at her apartment that night, Calista dropped her coat on the couch and let out a long sigh.
"I still got nothing in the end," she muttered, loosening her scarf. "She said she'd try to find someone else who knew my mother, but…" She trailed off, rubbing her temples. "(Sigh) I better wash up and hit the sack."
She was halfway to her bedroom when something caught her eye — a slip of cream-colored paper poking out from under her door.
"Huh?" She crouched down, pulling it free. The envelope was elegant, expensive — embossed with gold.
Her name written in clean Cyrillic letters.
"Who the hell…" she whispered, tearing it open.
Inside, a ticket.
Royal Ballet & Opera House — Bolshoi Theatre. Box Section.
Calista blinked. "You've got to be kidding me."
It had no sender, no note. Just her name.
"Could this be…" Her mind raced. Was this from him?
She didn't even bother to change. No gown, no heels — just jeans, boots, and a turtleneck. The theatre was crowded with Moscow's elite: fur coats, glittering diamonds, champagne smiles. And her — the only woman of color in the room, standing out like a misplaced chess piece on a pristine board.
She felt eyes on her the moment she stepped into the marble lobby.
And then — she saw him.
Vsevolod Rurikovich Svyatopolsky.
Seva was sitting alone in one of the private lounges, a single glove off as he read something under the golden light. His blond hair gleamed like ice, his posture perfectly relaxed. Like a man who owned the room and didn't need to prove it.
When he looked up, the corner of his mouth curved into a smirk.
"Ah," he said smoothly, voice deep enough to crawl under her skin. "You're here."
Calista crossed her arms, jaw tight. "Mr. Svyatopolsky."
"I'm curious," she said evenly, holding up the crumpled invitation, "why you called me here. I assume you don't intend to discuss business in a theatre lobby."
Her tone was firm, all professional edge — but her pulse betrayed her. His presence was too much.
Seva set aside his glass and rose to his full height. The air between them shifted instantly — the crowd noise fading like the world had gone on mute.
Her reflection barely reached his shoulder. He towered over her — not just in height, but in gravity.
"What's the rush, кролик?" he murmured, his accent wrapping around the Russian word like smoke.
Calista blinked. "Kro… what?"
He tilted his head, studying her like a scientist studies a rare specimen. "Rabbit." The smirk widened. "You rush into wolves' dens and still pretend to be unafraid. Interesting."
Before she could step back, his hand brushed her arm — not roughly, but deliberately. His fingers cool against the warmth of her sleeve.
"First," he said quietly, his voice lowering to something intimate. "Why don't we enjoy the show?"
Calista's brows shot up. "What—?"
He gestured to the grand hall behind him, where the orchestra was tuning. "It would be rude to waste a perfectly good performance."
She stared at him, incredulous. "WHAT!?"
His smile deepened, wolfish.
"Relax, attorney. It's just a ballet."
But the way his eyes lingered told her this was no casual outing. This was a move — another piece on his board.
He caught her wrist again, this time more firmly. His grip wasn't bruising, but it commanded.
"Wait, I'm just here for your answer. I don't have time to watch a show—" Calista's voice was sharp, clipped, the same tone she used in court when a witness tried her patience.
"I'll give you my answer if you watch the show," Seva said, his tone smooth as dark wine. "The answer's due today, and I still have five hours left." He leaned slightly closer, his breath brushing against her ear. "Or do you not have the patience for it?"
Calista jerked her hand out of his grasp, glaring up at him. "Listen, young man, I don't like wasting my time."
Seva's smirk curved, slow and wicked. "Oh my. Are you saying La Bayadère is a waste of time?" he asked, feigning offense as he adjusted the cuffs of his black suit. The gold of his cufflinks caught the light — just like his eyes. "That's quite an insult to Russian art, Attorney Benson."
She crossed her arms, unimpressed, but inside her stomach tightened. What game is he playing now?
Every move he made felt deliberate — from the lazy shrug of his shoulders to the way his gaze lingered on her face, dissecting her reactions like a predator watching a cornered prey.
"BUT IF I BACK OUT NOW…" she thought, jaw tightening. I'm the one who's going to suffer in the end. If I walk away, he'll twist it into weakness. He'll think he's won.
"I hope this is worth my time," she said at last, forcing her voice into something cool and composed, though she could feel the edge of his smirk burning at the side of her face.
"Trust me," he murmured, offering his arm, "it will be."
She stared at it for a long second — that gloved hand extended toward her like an invitation and a dare all at once. She hesitated, then exhaled sharply and slid her arm through his. His body radiated warmth even through the fabric of his coat, and the quiet confidence in his posture made her teeth grit.
Together they ascended the red-carpeted stairs, his pace unhurried, hers stiff with irritation. The grand lobby of the Bolshoi glimmered around them — chandeliers like constellations, the soft hum of an orchestra tuning in the distance, the faint perfume of expensive cologne and silk. Heads turned to glance their way — the tall, regal Russian man with the panther's walk, and the Black woman beside him in jeans and a turtleneck, her chin lifted defiantly against every whisper.
Seva guided her to their seats on the upper balcony — the best view in the house, of course. When they sat, he leaned slightly toward her, his voice low, intimate.
"You should relax, Attorney Benson. You're too tense. The show hasn't even begun."
She ignored him, pretending to focus on the stage below, though her mind was racing. He's not here to talk business, she thought. He's measuring me. Testing how far he can push before I push back.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him glance at her — not casually, but with the precision of someone calculating a move. The orchestra swelled, the lights dimmed, and the curtain began to rise.
But even as the ballerinas floated across the stage, Calista couldn't hear the music. She could only hear the echo of his earlier words — the taunt in his tone, the hidden meaning behind "five hours left."
Five hours until what, exactly?
Seva didn't look at the stage at all. He looked at her — at the way her hands clenched together in her lap, at the tiny flicker of discomfort she tried to hide. And when she finally turned to meet his gaze, he smiled like a man who'd already won.
The applause rolled over the hall like surf, thunderous and sincere. For a heartbeat Calista let herself be honest — the dancers were breathtaking, every precise, impossible movement folding into the next like a language she didn't know but understood in her chest. She clapped, genuinely moved, the sound of her hands lost in the crowd.
This is so beautiful, she thought, feeling something unguarded inside her loosen. The stage glittered below; the orchestra's last note hung, fragile, then fell away and the auditorium rose as one, a river of standing feet and floral bouquets.
She hadn't expected to be swayed. She had not come here to be softened. She had come for an answer, for a line in the sand. Yet as the performance bled into memory, some small part of her felt strange and almost ashamed at the way warmth had crept in — and at the even stranger fact that she was sitting beside him for it.
I didn't want to be swayed by this man. I can't believe I'm watching this with someone like him, she thought, scolding herself even as she clapped.
Then he leaned forward. Close enough that the heat from his body reached her shoulder. His voice, when it brushed the shell of her ear, was a velvet purr that did not belong to a man who frequented opera boxes.
"I'm going to give an answer to your proposal."
The words were small, casual, but the room narrowed around them. Calista's throat tightened. She jolted, the suddenness of his tone making her aware of every muscle in her body.
Seva bent lower until the tip of his nose nearly touched the curl at her temple. His hand found the stray hair and tucked it back behind her ear with a movement that was absurdly domestic and deliberately intimate.
"You can't negotiate or compromise with me," he said softly, like someone stating a fact about gravity.
Calista felt the heat rise to her face. "W-what are you doing?" she whispered, half-bewildered, half-angered at how her voice betrayed her.
He smiled — not wide, just a slow tightening that suggested amusement and ownership in the same breath. "So what do you say… dinner?"
The question hung between them as if it had weight. It was ridiculous, infuriating, and entirely on his terms.
"W-WHAT?!" She sprang up before she even consciously decided to. The movement was raw, bristling with indignation. She bolted from her seat, heels clattering on the aisle, the ornate pillars and gilt trim whirring past in a blur.
People turned. A murmur rose behind her. Seva didn't move from his chair. He watched her with the mild, casual interest of a man watching a bird fly into a window and then shake itself off.
"Do you honestly think I would accept that, Mr. Svyatopolsky?" she said, the words out of her as soon as she reached the lobby—anger shaking them. Her palms were hot, breath ragged.
He lifted his hand in a slow, gentlemanly gesture — as if to indicate she'd made a point, and a valid one. "I don't know why not," he said simply, watching her like a scientist watching a live experiment unfold. "You ran into me twice. You barged into my life. You handed me your files and then walked away like you'd won. It would be… rude not to reward such bravado."
Her jaw worked. This bastard, she thought. I want to slap that stupid smirk off his — The thought flickered, hot and sudden, then she forced it down. Anger steadied into that familiar clarity she used in court: righteous, tactical.
She kept walking, not because she'd capitulated but because she refused to give him the satisfaction of watching her unravel. Yet she could feel his gaze following the line of her back, lingering like a wound pressing at the skin.
Seva remained smiling—an unreadable curve that suggested amusement, calculation, and the faintest hint of desire all braided together. He folded his hands, watching her silhouette retreat from the gilded light of the Bolshoi into the cold air beyond.
"Fiery," he murmured, his lips curving again. "Good."
The next morning hit her like a hammer.
"Ughhhh—" Calista groaned, half-buried in her couch cushions. Her apartment reeked faintly of whiskey and regret. Her hair, still tangled from sleep, framed her face like a warning label.
She squinted toward the clock. 10:47 a.m.
"Perfect," she muttered. "Drunk, late, and humiliated."
Her head throbbed so hard it made her vision pulse. "My head's killing me… this is why I shouldn't drink when I have a bad day."
She groaned again, rolling onto the floor. "I should've stopped at the third drink," she muttered into the carpet.
Fragments of the night before kept flashing like broken film: Seva's smirk under the dim lights of the theatre, his whisper against her ear, that infuriating calm in his eyes.
"He's insane," she hissed. "Refuses my offer, then asks for dinner? Psychopath."
She stared up at the ceiling, letting out a tired laugh that almost sounded like a sob. "Did I fail?" she whispered. "Did I just screw up everything I've built because of one arrogant bastard?"
Her self-pity shattered with the sudden sound—
CRASH!
The floor trembled. Glass exploded somewhere down the hall. Then came the shouting — harsh Russian curses, the thud of boots, her grandmother's terrified voice.
Calista's hangover disappeared instantly. She bolted upright, adrenaline roaring through her system.
"Grandma!"
She sprinted toward the noise, bare feet pounding the hallway floor. Her heart stopped at the sight — her living room, torn apart. The china her grandmother had owned for thirty years lay shattered across the rug. The table was overturned. Her grandmother, small and trembling, stood between two massive men in leather jackets, trying to shield the few unbroken things left.
"GRANDMA!"
Calista lunged forward just as one of the thugs raised his hand to strike the old woman. She moved without thinking, stepping between them — and the slap meant for her grandmother cracked across her face instead.
Her vision flashed white. Pain exploded down her jaw.
The man sneered. "Huh? Ah… so you're that little attorney." His breath reeked of cigarettes and cheap vodka. "You should've done as you were told, sweetheart. Why'd you have to be such a pain in the ass?"
Another man kicked over a chair, laughing. "We told you to drop the case. You didn't listen."
She looked past them — saw Alexei slumped against the wall, bruised and barely conscious. Her stomach dropped.
The first man smirked, stepping closer. "We'll show you what happens when little girls don't listen."
"Stop it," she said, voice shaking.
"Stop it," he mimicked in a mock falsetto, snickering. Then his face hardened. "What are you gonna do, huh? Just a little black slave who doesn't know her place in a man's world?"
The room went silent.
Something in her snapped.
It wasn't rage — it was colder. Sharper. A soundless, lethal clarity.
Before the man could blink, she drove her knee straight into his groin. He let out a strangled noise and dropped, and she followed with a punch that cracked across his jaw so hard her knuckles split open. He hit the floor, unconscious.
The others froze, shocked — then rushed her all at once.
Calista moved like someone who'd fought before. Every hit was fueled by something buried deep: years of biting her tongue, of proving herself, of men like this thinking she was decoration instead of danger.
One thug reached for her arm — she twisted, elbowed him in the throat, then slammed her head forward, hearing the crunch of bone. Another swung a pipe — she ducked, kicked his knee out, and sent him crashing into the table.
When it was over, the room was silent except for her ragged breathing.
Blood smeared across her knuckles. Her nose was bleeding. Her head throbbed. One of the thugs groaned, trying to crawl away, but she didn't even look at him.
Her only focus was her grandmother, who stood frozen in shock. Calista rushed over, gently taking her by the shoulders.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
Her grandmother shook her head, eyes glistening. "I'm fine, my child… but you—your face—"
"It's nothing," Calista muttered, even as blood trickled down her lip. She turned to Alexei, who was stirring weakly. "Alexei, can you hear me?"
He groaned, coughing. "Y-yeah… they came out of nowhere…"
Calista clenched her fists. Her whole body trembled — not from fear, but fury.
Her gaze drifted to the broken door, to the men she'd just taken down. Every instinct screamed that this wasn't random. It was a message.
Her jaw tightened.
The only person who would dare do this is…
Seva.
Her teeth clenched until her jaw ached. This is revenge for yesterday's refusal.
Her pulse hammered, the anger so thick it blurred her thoughts. I won't forgive him for this.
She straightened slowly, breathing hard, staring at the wreckage of her home. Her knuckles dripped crimson, her reflection fractured in the shards of a broken mirror.
"If he wants a war," she whispered, her voice shaking but steady, "he'll get one."