Chapter 9

For a few heartbeats, neither of them said anything.

The glitter of the gala seemed distant now. A different world. One they weren't really part of—even if they were both dressed for it.

Anton looked down at her, head slightly tilted in that still, predatory way. Not threatening. Just always… calculating.

"You don't belong here," he said, not unkindly.

Nastya's lips curled into the ghost of a smile.

Not defensive. Just tired.

"I know."

"Then why come?"

"For the money." She said it plainly. No shame. "They said there'd be extra pay. I've learned not to ask too many questions."

Anton watched her for a long moment, and then—something shifted.

"That's honest."

"Should I have lied?"

"Most people do."

"Then maybe I'm not most people."

She hadn't meant it to sound like a challenge, but it hung in the air like one. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze wandered—past her shoulder, to the reassembling crowd, the servers sweeping broken glass from marble.

"When I was a boy," he said slowly, "my mother brought me to places like this. Galleries. Concert halls. She said art reminds us we're not just animals."

Nastya blinked. She hadn't expected that.

"Did it work?" she asked.

Anton looked back at her, and something flickered in his eyes—too quick to name.

"She died when I was twelve," he said. "After that, I stopped trying to be anything else."

That silenced her. Not because she didn't know what to say—but because for the first time all night, he'd stopped watching her and looked inward.

"I'm sorry," she said, softly. "Twelve is a terrible age to lose your mother."

Anton gave a slight nod. Not a thank you—more like acknowledgment. As if he wasn't used to anyone saying it out loud.

"And your family?" he asked. "What do you do when you're not… pretending to be a patron of the arts?"

Nastya hesitated.

He's opening the door. Just a little. Are you going to do the same?

"I study literature," she said at last. "I bartend at night. My mother's sick. My sister's young. Life is… complicated."

Anton's expression didn't change—but something in him softened. Almost imperceptibly.

"So," he said, voice low, "we both pretend for the people we've lost."

She looked at him for a long time. Then nodded.

"Seems that way."

Anton stepped slightly closer. Not enough to break her space—just enough that his voice dropped lower, more intimate.

"You're the first person here tonight who's told me the truth."

Nastya raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

"Because I said I needed money?"

"Because you didn't try to dress it up in poetry."

She gave a small shrug.

"You don't strike me as the type who likes poetry."

He surprised her then, just a little—his mouth curved into the smallest ghost of a smile.

"My mother did. She used to read Anna Akhmatova out loud at night."

Nastya blinked, her heart catching in her chest at the name.

"I like Akhmatova," she said quietly. "Her work… hurts in the right places."

Anton looked at her, and for the first time, the cold in his eyes cracked—not melted, just cracked. Enough for her to see something underneath.

"Yes," he said, almost to himself. "It does."

The moment stretched—delicate, uncertain. A strange, fragile understanding passed between them, weightless but real.

Then Anton looked around, as if remembering the world around them, and his jaw set again.

"This place is poison," he said softly. "Gold on the outside. Rot underneath."

"Then why come?" she echoed, turning his own question back on him.

He hesitated—just for a second.

"Because power lives here. And sometimes you need to remind it who you are."

She studied him, her voice quieter now.

"And who are you, Anton Reznikov?"

He looked at her with something unreadable.

"The son of a man I never asked to be."

The answer settled like smoke between them.

Nastya didn't press. She just nodded—slowly, like someone who understood more than she let on.

"You don't have to carry it forever," she said, almost to herself.

Anton looked at her, really looked. And for a moment, he wasn't the heir to a mafia throne. He was just a man, worn at the edges, caught in something he couldn't name

"Neither do you."

Their eyes locked.

No more games. No performance.

Just two broken truths quietly recognizing each other.