The Fire and The Ice

He didn't stand. Didn't smile. Just steepled his fingers and waited.

Sofia stopped in front of his desk. "We need to talk."

Dmitry glanced at the two men who had followed her in. "Leave us."

The door clicked shut behind them.

For a long moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Then Dmitry leaned back in his chair. "Detective Ivanova," he said. His voice was smoother than it had any right to be. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sofia pulled the photograph from her coat and slapped it down on the desk. It showed Dmitry leaving a warehouse three nights ago. The same warehouse where they'd found Petrov's body.

"You were here," she said.

Dmitry didn't look at the photo. "I'm many places."

"Petrov was murdered that night."

"How tragic."

Sofia's hands curled into fists. "He was scared of you. Said you were worse than your father."

For the first time, something flickered in Dmitry's eyes. It was gone before Sofia could name it. "People say many things about me," he said. "Most of them are true."

The fire popped. A log shifted, sending up a shower of sparks.

Sofia leaned forward, planting her hands on his desk. "Did you kill him?"

Dmitry looked up at her. Really looked. His eyes were the color of ice under moonlight. "Do you really think," he said slowly, "if I wanted someone dead, they'd be found in an alley with their throat cut?"

Sofia didn't blink. "I think you like sending messages."

Dmitry stood suddenly. He was taller than she expected. Close enough now that she could smell his cologne. Something dark and expensive. "What do you want, detective?"

"The truth."

He laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "You can't handle the truth."

"Try me."

They stood there, inches apart, the firelight painting them both in gold and shadow. Sofia could see the pulse in his throat. Could see the way his jaw tightened when she didn't back down.

Then Dmitry reached out. Slowly. Deliberately. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek.

Sofia slapped his hand away. "Don't."

Dmitry smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "You came to my club. My city. My world." He stepped closer. "Don't pretend you don't know the rules."

The air between them crackled. Sofia could feel the heat from his body. Could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

Then the door burst open.

Leo Markov strolled in like he owned the place. "Hey boss, the strippers are here and—" He stopped. Looked between them. "Oh. Am I interrupting something?"

Dmitry didn't take his eyes off Sofia. "Get out."

Leo held up his hands. "Right. Yeah. Of course." He started backing toward the door. "Just FYI, one of them is actually a cop, but like, a bad one? Like, his badge is literally taped to his underwear."

Dmitry's eye twitched. "Out."

Leo saluted. "Gone." He looked at Sofia. "Nice meeting you, detective. Try not to arrest anyone fun."

The door closed behind him.

The moment was broken. Sofia stepped back, suddenly aware of how close they'd been. How easy it would have been to close that last inch.

Dmitry adjusted his cuffs. "You should leave."

Sofia straightened her coat. "This isn't over."

"It never is."

She turned to go. Stopped at the door. Looked back. Dmitry was watching her, his face unreadable in the firelight.

"I'll see you soon, Kuznetsov," she said.

He smiled that empty smile again. "Counting on it."

The music hit her like a wall when she stepped back into the club. The lights were brighter. The air hotter. The world louder.

Sofia pushed through the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest. She could still feel where his fingers had brushed her skin. Still see the way his eyes had darkened when she challenged him.

Outside, the cold night air slapped her awake. The snow had stopped. The streets were quiet.

Somewhere behind her, in that tower of glass and money and power, Dmitry Kuznetsov was watching.

She could feel it.

And it terrified her more than any gun ever had.

The black car idled outside the nightclub, its windows tinted against prying eyes. Dmitry Kuznetsov slid into the backseat without a word. The leather was cold against his skin. The smell of gun oil and expensive cologne filled the space. His father sat across from him, a shadow among shadows.

"You met with the detective." Aleksandr Kuznetsov did not ask. He never asked.

Dmitry stared out the window at the neon lights reflecting in puddles. "She came to me."

The car pulled away from the curb. The city blurred past.

Aleksandr poured two glasses of vodka from a crystal decanter. The liquid caught the streetlights as it splashed into the glasses. He handed one to Dmitry. "And what did our little detective want?"

Dmitry took the glass but did not drink. "Answers."

"About?"

"Petrov."

Aleksandr smiled. It was the smile of a man who had buried more bodies than most had seen in their lifetime. "Ah. The unfortunate Mr. Petrov." He sipped his vodka. "And what did you tell her?"

"Nothing."

The car turned down a narrow alley. Rats scattered from the headlights.

Aleksandr set his glass down carefully. "She is becoming a problem."

Dmitry watched his own reflection in the window. Saw the way his father's shadow swallowed him whole. "She's just doing her job."

"Her job," Aleksandr repeated softly. Then he moved faster than a man his age should. His hand shot out, grabbing Dmitry's chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "Her job is to destroy us. To put bullets in our heads and dance on our graves." His fingers dug into Dmitry's jaw. "And you let her walk out of your club alive."

Dmitry did not flinch. "She's police."

"So were the last three men I fed to my dogs." Aleksandr released him with a shove. "Handle it."

The car slowed to a stop outside the Kuznetsov estate. The gates loomed like prison bars.

Dmitry finally took a sip of vodka. It burned all the way down. "How?"