Page 24 of His Hold

There was nothing worth stealing in my shitty apartment. Nothing valuable except for the files and notes I’d been gathering on Nikolai and some other Bratva member I first had my eyes on. But those were untouched. No, this wasn’t about theft. It was about intimidation. Someone wanted me scared. But they hadn’t found what they were looking for. That only made me more determined to find out why.

The fact that Nikolai wasn’t behind it only made the suspicion burn hotter. Because if it wasn’t him, then who? And why?

The news of the high-society party gone terribly wrong over the weekend only makes me more curious.

I heard about Alina Petrov’s death from an exclusive tip given to the magazine house I work for. Kirill Petrov, a high socialite and businessman, hosted it, and his daughter, Alina, was poisoned in front of the city’s most influential people. Her picture was taken with her body sprawled on the marble floor of a penthouse suite with froth clinging to her lips. They said she choked on her own blood before her heart gave out.

Alina died the same night. According to the autopsy report, someone slipped cyanide into something she consumed. This is something I have come to know about their world. It was a quick, brutal death, and meant to send a message.

Meredith was practically foaming at the mouth over the scoop this morning. ‘Find me an angle, Katya,’ she barked. ‘Something with teeth.’ Whatever the hell that means. For a renowned editor of a prestigious magazine house, she used the weirdest phrases.

But I knew the angle before she even opened her mouth. Nikolai was there that night. He wasn’t one for being in the public eye, but he had made it once or twice in the headlines as a rising star in his business of private security.

But why was he there? I need to know why. What is his connection to Kirill?

From the pictures I’ve dug up on him in the past, he has never been in the same frame as Kirill has. So why now? Or was it just a coincidence for him to be caught in-frame this time? I know from his other pictures that he doesn’t make it a habit to take snapshots of his clients or business partners. The man hardly takes pictures.

But I can’t stop thinking about the way his name keeps surfacing wherever there’s violence. Like he’s the thread connecting everything. And I’m unraveling right along with it.

I’m going over it at my desk while caffeine is pumping through my veins like an IV drip, when a voice pulls me out of my reverie. My work bestie, Sasha is at her desk, her fingers flying over the keyboard, typing up her latest piece on some socialite’s messy divorce.

“Earth calling Katya,” she calls over without looking up.

“Huh?”

“I said - why do you look like shit?”

“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping further into my chair. “Boss is on my neck with this piece, and I’m just thinking up an angle for better delivery.”

“Of course, you are. Heard you were working on the Alina Petrov piece. Lucky bitch.” She tosses a staple pin at me, playfully. “How’d you land that one?”

“Right place, right time,” I lie. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah, well, the whole city’s buzzing about it. Alina’s death was brutal. You hear how they did it? Cyanide. That’s so old-school too, like something out of a spy novel.” She shudders, her fingers pausing mid-type. “I heard her face turned purple before she died. And some other people at the party said she dropped like a stone.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Sasha.”

“It’s true. I even know how she was poisoned.”

That catches my attention, and I look at her. “And how was she poisoned?” I ask, voice tighter than I want it to be.

“The poison was in the dessert. Someone slipped it into her crème brûlée.” Sasha shakes her head, her expression turning somber. “Can you imagine? One minute she’s laughing, the next she’s clawing at her throat. The worst thing I heard is that she was standing beside Nikolai Ramensky when it happened. They were probably hitting it off before things went south. What a shame she never got to see how their night would have ended. I know for a fact, I’d kill myself again in the afterlife if I find out I missed a chance to fuck Nikolai.”

I don’t know why that whole statement rubs me the wrong way, but I suddenly feel like smashing something. But I ignore it. Because I have to prove to myself that this man’s name being mentioned in a sentence with another woman doesn’t affect me. Absolutely does not.

“Last year’s city’s most eligible bachelor, Nikolai?” I press, forcing my voice to stay casual. “He was there?” I’m trying to make it seem like I haven’t seen the photos or gotten the inside scoop of the event already. Sasha likes to talk, and I like to indulge her.

She knows I am working on the story already, and chances are, I already know all of this. But she still feels the need to tell me. And it’s a way for her to actually just gossip with someone about it.

“Rumor has it he was. I haven’t seen the pictures, but I’m sure you will when the photographer sends them in.” Sasha's lips curve up. “That guy’s like a fucking phantom. He owns a security company. So, I am positive he is not the kind of man you want to mess with.” She leans in, eyes glinting with curiosity. “You’ve been asking me about him before, now you’re acting clueless or like his name somehow annoys you. Something you wanna share?”

“Just trying to get the story,” I say, but the lie tastes bitter. “The story with Alina’s death… it feels too deliberate.”

“You think Nikolai had something to do with it?” she asks, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I think he knows more than he lets on,” I say. “He’s roped into their world. Mafia, politics. His company has probably made him see much more than the average man. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Sasha shrugs. “Well, good luck with that. The man’s like smoke. Impossible to catch. He doesn’t even grant interviews.”

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