February 10th, 1984
The silk sheets still smelled faintly of champagne and perfume. The dawn that filtered through the high windows was soft and gold, gilding the edges of the room with a deceptive calm.
Natalia lay tangled in the sheets, her bare shoulders catching the morning light as she laughed at something Caesar had murmured— a lazy, half-sincere promise about never letting her go.
"You always say that," she teased, brushing a hand through his dark hair. "Then the world calls, and off you go."
Caesar's lips curved, the faintest ghost of amusement. "The world doesn't move without me."
"That's what you think," she murmured, pressing her lips to his collarbone. "One day, you'll see the world moves just fine."
He turned toward her, the sheets shifting with the motion. His gaze— sharp and dark— softened for once. "Not without you," he said quietly.
Natalia stilled, her smile fading into something almost shy. She wanted to believe him— wanted the man beside her to be more than the shadow of the empire he carried.
"You mean that?" she asked softly.
"I do," he said, tracing the edge of her jaw with his thumb. "I want a future with you. But—"
Her expression faltered. "But what?"
He exhaled slowly, the shift in the air almost visible— affection cooling into calculation. "My father won't approve."
"Because I'm not—" she started, sitting up slightly, the sheet clutched to her chest. "—one of your kind?"
Caesar didn't answer. He didn't have to. His silence said it all.
"You're unbelievable," she whispered, anger edging into her voice. "You talk about the future, and then you go ahead and bring your father into the bedroom."
"Natalia," he said quietly, "Yuri Andropov is dead. You may not know what that means but you know how this world works."
"No, Caesar," she bit back, "I know how you work. You think power makes love replaceable. That's what you learned, no?"
Her words cut, but Caesar didn't flinch. He simply looked away— toward the wide window and the slow rising sun.
He reached for her hand once, but she pulled it back. The space between them felt colder than it should have.
He sighed deeply now halfway sat up in bed one arm holding him up, "He'll never understand you. He'll never see what I see."
"Then maybe you should stop trying to please him," she said, rising from the bed. Her voice was low, wounded, but steady. "Or maybe you already chose whose approval you need."
Caesar watched her slip into her robe and walk away, her perfume lingering in the silence she left behind.
He lay back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the words 'my father won't approve' echoing like a curse he'd been born with.
Outside, the city stirred awake— unaware that love, in his world, was already dying before the day had begun.
By the time Caesar dressed and left Natalia's apartment to his estate, the morning calm had vanished.
The estate hummed with movement— guards posted near the doors, the low murmur of men who carried news too heavy for early hours.
He adjusted the cuffs of the shirt from last night as he walked toward his study, where the smell of cigar smoke bled through the air like memory.
His father was waiting.
The study was silent except for the soft rustling of paper. Sunlight slanted across the polished oak desk with a marbled top, catching the edges of ledgers and maps as if highlighting the empire that rested on Caesar's decisions alone. Every line, every number mattered. Every misstep could be costly.
Vladimir Sokolov sat at the large desk that rested before the floor-to-ceiling windows, a newspaper spread before him, untouched tea cooling beside his hand. His silver hair caught the light, sharp as the cut of the man himself.
He didn't look up when Caesar entered. "You're late."
"I wasn't aware I was expected," Caesar replied coolly, taking the seat across from him at his own desk.
Vladimir folded the paper slowly— deliberate, precise. "When have you ever not been expected, сын?"
Caesar leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing over the latest intelligence report that sat on his desk abandoned since last night. Rival factions were stirring, cargo had been lost, alliances shifting like sand. He made a note, precise and deliberate, and sent instructions to his men without hesitation. Every action, every word, meticulously calculated.
He did not dwell. Not yet. There was work to be done. The empire did not pause for small talk, for desire, or for chaos in human form. And yet… he wondered how long he could have maintained the order he had built before it was tested again.
His father leaned back in his seat as well, every movement carrying the weight of age and authority. The older man had ruled before Caesar, and though he'd handed the empire to his son, he'd never truly released the reins. Not yet.
"Do you have any idea," Vladimir began, his voice calm but brimming with restrained fury, "what it costs our name to lose a shipment twice in one quarter?"
Caesar said nothing. His jaw flexed as he removed his gloves, setting them down with deliberate slowness.
"They were luxury imports," Vladimir continued. "Do you know how this looks? The Sokolovs— made fools of, while every two-bit smuggler in Leningrad whispers that we've gone soft. You were supposed to oversee this personally."
"I did," Caesar said finally. His tone was measured, but his eyes betrayed the faint exhaustion that hadn't quite left him. "The routes were secured, the paperwork forged clean. Someone inside leaked the details."
"Someone inside?" Vladimir's mouth curled. "Or someone distracted?"
Finally, Vladimir stood his eyes, pale and cold, assessed his son the way a general might assess a soldier after battle. "You were with her again."
Caesar leaned back in his chair. "If you mean Natalia—"
"Of course I mean Natalia." Vladimir's voice was measured, but it carried an undercurrent of disdain. "The teacher who grew too attached to you. The daughter of a factory worker. Lovely, yes. But love does not sustain a good lineage."
"She has nothing to do with lineage." Caesar said sharply.
"Then she has nothing to do with you."
The silence that followed was thick. The tension between them had always been like that— a web of unspoken challenges and unfinished wars.
"You've been distant," his father said, voice smooth but sharp at the edges. "Too much focus on rivals, not enough on legacy."
Caesar's jaw tightened. "My legacy is secure through power, not pageantry."
A faint smile touched his father's lips— the kind that never reached his eyes. "Power fades. Blood endures. It's time you consider marriage."
"If it's not to Natalia then you should know I am not interested." Caesar began moving through the ledgers and intelligence notes with exact precision, a mind trained to see every threat, every opportunity, every misstep before it could take shape. Nothing in the city stirred without his notice, nothing… except the plans his father had quietly set in motion.
Vladimir looked down at his hands that held his cane, and with slow and deliberate movements, he walked to the window that overlooked the frozen gardens.
"Yuri Andropov is dead."
Caesar looked at his father, his expression unreadable. "I am aware."
Vladimir's tone was cool, pragmatic— not mourning, but calculating. "The Party announced they will name Chernenko his successor by week's end. A dying empire cannot afford more instability." Vladimir paused looking at his aged hands holding his cane. "This is not a time to sever alliances. If anything, it is time to strengthen them."
Caesar's jaw tightened. "You mean secure them. Through marriage."
"I've arranged an introduction," he said finally, his back turned. "You'll meet her at the engagement celebration next week."
Caesar stilled. "Engagement?"
Vladimir turned slightly, a cruel sort of calm in his expression. "Aika Moretti Bellanova. Her father is one of our oldest allies. Strategic, intelligent, he is well known for his creations in new age weaponry. The union will strengthen our reach in the west. It's been discussed."
"Without my consent?"
Vladimir faced him fully now. "You think your consent matters in the affairs of the country?"
Caesar's hands clenched. "And Natalia?"
"She'll find comfort elsewhere," Vladimir said simply. "She was never meant to last."
The words hit Caesar harder than he expected— not because of their cruelty, but because of their truth.
For a moment, he saw Natalia's face again— soft, earnest, human. The kind of love that had no place in their world.
Marriage. The word lingered unspoken on the edges of his mind. His father had chosen a bride for him— someone with the rank, the bloodline, the social standing required to secure alliances. He did not know her. He had not met her. And yet, in the quiet corners of the estate, whispers already carried her name like a shadow he could not ignore.
Caesar leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at a map detailing rival territories. The empire required vigilance, and he had little patience for distractions. Still, the faintest trace of curiosity gnawed at him. Who was she? What could she want? And, he admitted silently, if his father believed he could be swayed by beauty, he had misjudged the man entirely.
His father turned toward the door, pausing only once. "It's temporary, Caesar," he said quietly. "A means to an end."
When the door shut, the echo lingered. Temporary. The word sank deep into Caesar's thoughts like a prophecy. He didn't yet know whose end his father meant— his own, or the stranger's.
—
In a much smaller country west to the Soviets, peach blushed curtains were drawn, but morning still found its way through the creamy folds— thin ribbons of gold crawling across the parquet floor and over the chaos of Aika's room. Half-drunk glasses of wine stood among perfume bottles, cigarette ends, and books turned spine-down as though suffocating under their own words. A record spun somewhere near the vanity, the crackling static merging with the faint sound of her discipline.
On the phonograph, Debussy's Clair de Lune floated through the room like light underwater. Each note fell heavy, deliberate, and unbearably honest. She had played it herself hundreds of times— once with precision, now only from memory, her fingers too unsteady to trust. The melody made her ache with something worse than withdrawal. Memories. It reminded her of every lesson, every recital, every time her father's polite applause replaced affection.
Aika sat on the floor in her silk robe, the world outside humming with life she didn't want to join. Her veins itched for something she didn't have the will to find. The servants knew her patterns well enough not to ask questions anymore— by now, they'd learned that silence was the only kindness left to offer her. Her hands shook as she reached for another cigarette, but it slipped from her trembling fingers and rolled beneath the bed.
"Everything decays," she whispered to no one. "Everything beautiful, everything loved."
Her voice was hoarse— soft and ragged, as if she'd been speaking to ghosts all night. She pressed a trembling hand to her temple, muttering lines she half-remembered from a book of poems.
"I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple… garlands from window to window… golden chains from star to star…"
She laughed bitterly. "And I danced," she finished, voice breaking.
The record skipped. Once, twice. Then it caught again.
Next to the vanity, a tall mirror caught her reflection— pale, hollow-eyed, beautiful in ruin. The kind of beauty that frightened her now. She stared for too long, studying the quiver in her jaw, the bruise-colored shadows beneath her eyes.
"Rimbaud knew paradise rots if you stay too long," she murmured, her lips curving faintly. "And yet I stayed."
The door opened without warning.
Her father's footsteps entered before his voice did— measured, heavy, deliberate. Dante Moretti never raised his voice, he never needed to.
"Aika."
She didn't turn. She simply eyed her cigarette case, "You could have knocked," she said flatly.
"I could have," Dante replied, stepping further in. "But I've learned that when I knock, you don't answer."
She smiled faintly at her reflection. "Maybe you should take the hint."
He stopped beside the phonograph and silenced the music, lifting the needle. The room felt instantly naked.
"There's something we need to discuss."
"That sounds ominous." She turned slightly, just enough for him to see the faint smile tugging at her mouth— the one she wore whenever she wanted to provoke him. "If it's about last night, I already told the driver to be discreet."
"It's not about last night," Dante said. "It's about your future."
Aika laughed under her breath, reaching for her cigarette case and finding it empty. "That's an amusing choice of words."
He moved closer, and she could smell his cologne— sandalwood and restraint. "You're to be married," he said. "The arrangement is settled."
The cigarette case slipped from her hand and clattered onto the marble. For a moment, neither of them moved.
"To whom?" she asked finally, the words dry, hollow.
"Caesar Sokolov. His family is powerful. Respected. The alliance will—"
"The Sokolovs?" She cut him off with a sharp laugh. "The Soviets? You're sending me to a communist country?"
"It's no longer as rigid as it once was. Trade is opening, opportunity exists where it never did before."
"Opportunity for whom?" she shot back. "For you, or for me?"
He exhaled slowly, unwilling to rise to her tone. "This family needs to restore its reputation. Moscow offers that."
Aika stood, the silk of her robe whispering as she moved. "You would trade my name for your alliances. My life for your respectability." She turned fully to face him, her eyes dark and sharp. "Do you even know what kind of place you're sending me to? They don't even pretend to love their own."
Dante's gaze flicked briefly toward her trembling hand. "Enough dramatics, Aika."
"I'm not dramatizing," she hissed. "I'm remembering. They sent a dog into space, Father. Laika. She trusted them. She wagged her tail and looked up at her handlers, and they strapped her into a capsule knowing she'd never come home. That's the country you're sending me to."
He stared at her— the smallest twitch at the corner of his jaw the only betrayal of his patience. "It was an experiment," he said.
"It was murder." she whispered.
Silence hung between them. She could hear the clock ticking faintly on the wall.
"You always think with your heart," Dante said at last. "It's your weakness."
"And you," she said, stepping closer, "never think with yours. That's yours."
He turned toward the door. "Pack your things. We leave for Moscow in two days."
Aika let out a low, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. "You're sending me to the land that kills what it can't control. Perfect fit, isn't it?"
"Aika, the Sokolovs are elite. Powerful. You will—"
"I will what?" she interrupted, calm as ever, a lazy smirk playing at her lips. "Shield me from queues, ration cards, endless committees, and… political fear? Because I can barely keep up with Italy's nonsense, let alone… Soviet bureaucracy."
He leaned forward, voice firmer now, the steel in it softened only slightly by affection. "The Sokolovs are different. You will marry into privilege. Your comfort… your lifestyle… it will continue. Goods, luxuries— you will not lack. You will be in good hands until you snort the rest of your life away."
Aika laughed softly, a sound that was more bemused than amused. "Ah yes. Comfort and style, still dripping like honey even behind the Iron Curtain. Do you imagine that makes it easier for me to care, Father? That the wine and silks will cushion the thought of constant surveillance and Moscow winters that can freeze your bones before your heart?"
Her father's eyes softened at her tone, though his resolve remained. "You have become damaged goods under my name. That is why you must understand marrying into an elite family— even a Soviet one— is different. You will have access to what ordinary citizens cannot dream of. The household will maintain your standards."
Aika swirled some wine she found on the vanity, letting it settle in the glass like molten thought. "So, I am to be shipped east, adorned like a prize, wrapped in silks and privilege, while the people outside my window line up for bread and smiles are rationed." She paused, her smirk returning. "And I am to be grateful because the wine flows, even if the vodka is rationed." A scoff that was barely half a laugh left her lips. "Tell me father, do the Sokolov's know of my peculiar needs?"
"Vladimir is aware."
"But the son is not?" Her tone came out playful, teasing him for not disclosing much but still giving away the answer. "I'm a temporary answer to a problem that…" Aika didn't finish her thought, "He's okay with the estranged addict because you've assured him I won't survive for long in my state. But I'll be around long enough to secure ties with you and your empire most likely for goods." Aika hummed sucking her teeth, her fingers twitching.
Her fathers silence was enough to make her smile lopsidedly as she read not just the room but the entire situation.
"Alright, I'll play your game of Chess, father."