Dance of Deception: Chapter 30

I watch my prey eat.

He looks like a man who has all the time in the world. He cuts his steak with unhurried precision, the knife slicing easily through the meat before the fork lifts the bite to his lips.

The dim glow of the restaurant catches the deep red of his wine as he picks up the glass, swirling it slightly before taking a sip.

He’s alone. No men at his table.

Anyone else would see this and assume stupidity or carelessness.

But as angry as I am with him right now, I’m aware that neither of those words remotely applies to Kir Nikolayev.

Eating alone isn’t carelessness on his part. It’s a power move. A dare.

…One that I’ve just accepted.

I stalk toward him, moving through the crowded restaurant like a shadow, silent and lethal. My steps are slow, deliberate.

Kir lifts his fork, takes another bite. Chews. Swallows. I close the distance, my hand drifting to the blade in my coat pocket.

Just as I reach him, his voice cuts through the hum of conversation. Kir doesn’t turn around at all. Doesn’t react beyond the faint smirk curving his lips. He just lifts his wine glass and takes a slow sip.

‘Ah, waiter—good, you’re here. The steak is closer to medium than I ordered. Also, would you be so kind as to tell me this evening’s dessert list.’

I freeze for a moment, then move past him, stepping into view on the other side of the table. He sets his glass down, finally meeting my gaze. His brows lift slightly. Then he clears his throat.

Instantly, the entire restaurant shifts.

The music stops. Conversations die.

Every patron turns toward us, some getting up, some simply watching with quiet attentiveness.

They’re all Kir’s people.

Even the staff begin to pull back their jackets, revealing glimpses of holstered guns. The waiters, the bartenders—every single one of them, armed.

I lift a brow as I turn back to Kir. “The famous Russian flair for dramatics,” I growl.

Kir’s smirk widens but remains cold. “Please. You’re the one looming over my dinner like an impatient assassin.”

I ignore the jab, my hand still resting lightly on my pocket. “I’m confident I could cut your throat before any of them got to me.”

Kir leans back in his chair, adjusting his cuffs.

“Maybe,” he muses, “but I’m confident you’re not the first man to threaten me or my jugular. Almost as confident as I am that if you take one more step right now it will be your last.”

Kir cocks a brow, his smirk sharpening like a blade.

“Why don’t we stop pretending we’re still down-in-the-trenches brawlers and accept that we’re both kings now.”

His gaze flicks to my pocket, then back to me.

“And kings never fight each other hand to hand. That’s what they have armies for.”

Kir tilts his head, indicating the seat opposite him.

“Sit, Carmine.”

I bristle.

Kir clears his throat again. “Please,” he adds with a dramatic sigh, almost as an afterthought.

My jaw tight, I pull out the chair and lower myself into it.

Kir raises a hand. Instantly, one of his men appears, bringing over another glass.

Kir pours wine from the bottle of 1999 Petrus Pomerol on his table—the kind of nine-thousand-dollar bottle you drink when you want to remind the world that you can.

He slides the glass across the table toward me. “I assume you’re not here for the steak,” he says dryly. “Although it’s quite excellent. I was joking before about the temperature being off.”

I lean forward, voice low. “I’m not here for the Yelp reviews,” I growl. “I’m here about my fucking wife.”

Kir exhales slowly, swirling the wine in his glass, watching me over the rim. ‘You’ll have to be more specific, Carmine. What exactly about your lovely bride has you so wound up?’

“You pushed her onto the witness stand against Arkadi,” I say thinly.

Kir lifts a brow, mild amusement flickering across his face. “Tell me—do you always get this possessive about the past, or just when it involves her?”

Something violent and dangerous coils in my chest.

Kir leans back, finally taking a sip of his wine. “Relax, Carmine.” His voice is unfazed, smooth. “I didn’t push her. I simply informed her—and her mother—that if she testified, the Bratva wouldn’t stop her. Nor would there be any…repercussions…from my end.” He swirls the wine again, watching the way the deep red coats the glass before setting it down. “Ultimately, the choice was hers.”

I grit my teeth. “She was a fucking child.”

Kir shrugs. “And Arkadi was a fucking monster.” He clears his throat. “To get to the point, yes, Lyra’s father worked for me. A mid-level enforcer. He did some muscle work for me…ran a few shipping operations…collections.” Kir’s eyes turn icy. “When his crimes came to light, he was instantly excommunicated from my organization.”

Kir leans forward slightly. His voice drops.

“I might run a criminal organization, Carmine. But we all have a line we don’t cross.” He taps the stem of his glass. “Mine happens to be kidnapping and locking teenage girls in a basement to rape, torture and kill them.” His tone is detached. Almost bored. But there’s danger behind it.

I watch him, cataloging every shift in his expression. For the first time since sitting down, I’m wondering if we have more in common than I care to admit.

“You should know something else about him, though,” Kir adds, looking into his wine, his brow furrowing like he’s dredging deep for something.

“Which is?” I ask, leaning forward.

“I’ve read all about his crimes: interviews he gave in prison, psych analysis, all of it. The Bratva world, me included, knew Arkadi as bruiser and enforcer—a tough guy who could get things done.” He shakes his head. “But it’s clear now that he was much more than that.”

His eyes lift to mine, dark and steady.

“His intelligence scores were off the charts. It’s all in his psych evaluation from prison. Genius-level IQ, highly adept at solving complex problems, and if you read between the lines, you can tell the psychiatrist speaking with him was more than slightly afraid of him.”

Kir frowns, shaking his head again. Then he exhales sharply.

“People like to tell themselves that Arkadi was just another violent man, a foot soldier who cracked one day, decided he enjoyed hurting people, and then made a hobby out of it.” His lips press to a thin line. “That’s comforting, isn’t it? To think that monsters are made, not born?”

He pauses and takes a sip of wine.

“But Arkadi wasn’t some dumb enforcer who lost his way.” Kir’s voice is flat now, his words stripped of their amusement. “That was just his cover. That’s what he wanted us to think.”

My fingers tighten around my glass. “What are you saying?”

Kir looks straight into my eyes. “I’m saying that everything Arkadi did—the tough guy act, the reckless brutality, the brawler reputation—was all an elaborate fucking mask. The real Arkadi was the man beneath it that no one ever saw. The cold, calculating monster who was always two steps ahead of everyone else.”

Something heavy settles in my chest, a weight I can’t shift.

“Arkadi never made mistakes,” Kir continues. “Every move he made was deliberate. Every crime, every kill—all perfectly orchestrated.” He leans back in his chair, swirling his glass again. “Except for one slipup.”

My jaw clenches. “The open basement door.”

Kir nods slowly. “Just a crack. Just enough for a curious girl to wander inside.”

I stare at him, something cold crawling down my spine.

“You’re suggesting that wasn’t an accident.”

After a moment, Kir tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Arkadi was meticulously careful. He never gave the wrong people the wrong information. Never left a single trace. Until that one time.”

The silence hangs heavy between us. I can feel the weight of what he isn’t saying pressing on my ribs, almost suffocating me.

Kir exhales slowly, swirling his glass again, the deep red wine catching the dim light. “His mistake wasn’t leaving the door open.” His voice is lower now, almost grim. “His mistake was thinking she’d see what was inside and choose to walk the same path as him.”

I don’t move, don’t blink.

Kir leans forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “Maybe, in some twisted part of his mind, Arkadi hoped Lyra would see what he was and accept it. Maybe he thought she was just like him.” He tilts his head. “Maybe he thought she’d stay.”

The words hit like a slow-moving bullet. A father expecting his daughter to follow him willingly into the darkness of the abyss.

“But she didn’t.” Kir’s lips curl slightly, bitterness in his expression. “She ran.”

I flex my fingers against the table, my jaw tightening.

“At the trial,” Kir goes on, “he never looked at her. Never spoke to her. Never tried to explain himself or apologize. Nothing.” His eyes darken. “Because he knew.” He sets his glass down carefully, deliberately. “For the first time in his life, Arkadi wasn’t the one holding the power. She was. And I don’t think for a minute he ever, ever let that go.”

I exhale slowly, forcing the tension from my shoulders. “Well, he’s in the ground now, where he belongs.”

Kir doesn’t respond immediately. He just watches me, tapping one long finger against the stem of his glass. Finally he puffs out a breath, clearly considering whether or not to say what’s on the tip of his tongue.

I don’t like that look.

I peer at him. “What?”

Kir shrugs, inclining his head slightly. “It’s just, men like Arkadi have a way of…” His eyes shift side to side. “Lingering.”

A chill slowly ripples through me. “The fuck does that mean?”

Kir takes another sip, his eyes flicking to mine. “Some men cast long shadows,” he murmurs. “Even from the grave.”

Something dark slithers between us, snaking up my spine.

I watch him carefully, waiting for him to say more. Instead, he sits back in his chair, fingers tapping absently against his glass, letting the words sink in.

He’s not talking about ghosts.

He’s implying Arkadi Ostrov might not be one.

I exhale, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “You sound like a fucking conspiracy nut.”

Kir smirks, lifting a brow. “The type to listen to Marcus Chen’s podcast?”

My head snaps up. Kir watches me, his smirk deepening.

I lean closer, voice lowering. “If you have something to say, Kir, I would suggest just saying it.”

He takes his time finishing his wine, then sets the glass down, tapping one finger against the rim.

“We have our differences, Carmine,” he says, his voice even. “But I think we can find common ground in that we both want Lyra safe.”

No. Kir doesn’t get to want her safe.

That’s my fucking job.

I shift in my seat, resting my forearms on the table, but there’s nothing casual about my posture. The space between us crackles with unspoken violence.

I don’t like how he’s steering this conversation, leading me around like he holds all the fucking cards.

“If you think Arkadi is somehow not dead,” I say, voice dropping to a low, lethal snarl, “I would suggest expanding on that theory, now. Or we’ll see just how worthwhile it was for you to book out a whole restaurant for your guards.”

Kir’s smirk fades—just a fraction, but I catch it. Good.

“That is not what I’m saying,” he fires back, his voice sharper now. His eyes glint coldly. “I’m saying I, of all people, understand that the past doesn’t always stay there.”

“If you have any information,” I snarl, “and you don’t share it with me right now, and if any harm whatsoever comes to Lyra because of that omission, you will never take another shower, lay your head on another pillow, or walk into a room without the lights already on without wondering if I’m lurking. Waiting for you.”

Kir’s eyes narrow. The tension between us pulls razor-thin, close to snapping.

He exhales slowly, setting his glass down carefully, deliberately. “Don’t threaten me at dinner, Carmine.”

“I don’t like how involved you were in her life.” My voice is low, lethal. “I don’t like that you’re still involved.”

Kir tilts his head slightly and smiles, dangerously amused.

“Well, I don’t like that you put on animal masks and play vigilante court at night, but here we are.”

The room goes pin-drop silent.

The words hang in the air like a knife at a throat, poised to sink in.

“But since you obviously care for her,” he finally says, “I’m going to pretend for now that I don’t know that.”

Tension coils tight in my shoulders, but I stay silent.

“Instead,” Kir continues, his voice dropping lower, sharper, “I’m going to give you some advice.”

My gaze is steely. “I don’t need your fucking advice.”

His smile doesn’t waver. “Mind your own house, Carmine.”

I exhale through my nose, rolling my shoulders, forcing myself to stay in control. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Kir takes his time, flicking a glance to his men, then back to me. “Your mother-in-law met with someone the other day. She sold him something.”

I glare at him. “Yeah, she met with your man. She sold him something.”

Kir laughs coldly. “Not my man, believe me.” His smile fades.

“Well, he went to you later,” I growl, voice like iron.

Kir nods. “Indeed.”

“And?” I press.

Instead of giving a response Kir just straightens.

“And I believe I’m done with my meal, Carmine. Which means it’s time to leave.”

Suddenly, four of his men are at my back, surrounding me.

I push back from the table, standing slowly, even though my body is screaming to move. To act.

This isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.