Page 129 of Dangerous King
Before I can reach the new jewelry, Enrico takes my hand and kisses it, "You look stunning. You'll be the belle of the ball."
Sabine nervously clutches her small, gem-studded purse. Izzy leans in toward her with her warm, Izzy smile. "Your first?"
Sabine nods and mutters, "Yes." Her voice is hoarse, and I'm glad Izzy is taking her under her wing. A job I should be doing, but honestly, I'm so overwhelmed, I'm not sure I could do half as good a job as Izzy is doing. "I've got you."
Sabine smiles gratefully up at her, and my chest warms at the thought of the two of them becoming friends too.
We arrive at the Arsenyev estate, Grigori Arsenyev's—the Russian Pakhan of the Bratva in New York—mansion. But mansion isn't the right word. The place is a palace.
A towering monument of white stone and gilded arches, lit by hundreds of torches lining the curved drive and walkways that cut through the park-like grounds. A massive fountain gurgles in the center, surrounded by roses, and its marble basin glows gold in the firelight. Men in black tuxedos, armed to the teeth, line the steps, a show of force dressed in elegance.
At the base of the red carpet, Enrico helps me out of the car. He takes my hand, and I swear I can't feel the ground under my feet.
"Are you ready?" he murmurs.
"To be led to the slaughter?" I laugh nervously.
He chuckles, "Not on my watch."
The doors open, and we step into a fairytale.
The foyer is enormous, with two spiraling staircases that frame the grand hall like a scene from a royal ball. Crystal chandeliers drip light from the vaulted ceiling, reflecting off polished gold and white columns. Waiters glide by in black coats, balancing trays of champagne and canapés. Tuxedos and silk gowns sparkle with every turn. We move through the grand foyer, up one staircase, where a man at the top stops us to announce our names. "Enrico Sartori and his fiancée, Catalina Costa."
Heads turn across the ballroom, the kind of place ripped from an old movie, where queens once danced over marble floors. My breath catches, and for a split second, I feel the old fear creep in. A squeeze of Enrico's hand is all it takes. I look up and instantly remember: I'm his.
And now? That's exactly what I feel like I am.
The hush doesn't last long. Applause breaks out, soft and admiring, as we descend the staircase. Izzy beams beside me, and even Eliza looks impressed. Sabine trails behind, her smile frozen in place, but I refuse to let the shadow dim my light.
"Thank you," I whisper to Enrico.
He leans in, brushing his lips against my temple. "You belong here, Cat. You always did. They just didn't see it."
At the base of the stairs, beneath the glittering chandeliers and centuries-old frescoes, a man waits. "Grigori Arsenyev, our host," Enrico whispers in my ear.
If the palace is a fairytale, he's the dragon guarding the gate. He stands still as marble, dressed in a flawlessly tailored midnight tuxedo with a black silk tie, no embellishment, no flair, just the clean precision of a man who needs no introduction. His eyes are pale, glacial, and so unreadable they might as well be carved from quartz. Handsome in that devastating, old-world way, with sharp cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, and a cold, cruel mouth. And yet no one in the room could mistake his stillness for gentleness.
Grigori radiates power—controlled, deliberate, and coiled like a serpent just beneath the surface. Every movement he makes is calculated, every silence heavier than most men's threats. There's nothing wild about him, nothing reckless. His danger is precise. Measured and very lethal.
"Grigori," Enrico says with easy confidence, clasping the Russian's hand. "Good to see you."
Grigori inclines his head. "Sartori."
Enrico turns slightly. "This is my fiancée, Catalina Costa."
Grigori's eyes land on me, sharp and assessing. I fight the instinct to lower my gaze. Instead, I meet him straight on. His expression doesn't change. But the tiniest flicker of something—approval? amusement?—moves behind his arctic gaze.
"Miss Costa," he says, his voice a rich Russian bass, low and composed. "Welcome."
He gestures to the woman at his side. "This is my wife." He offers no first name—justwife.
She is tall. Regal. Her hair is pulled back in a braided twist, revealing a long neck and bare shoulders. Her dress clings in all the right places—cinched waist, wide hips, impossible elegance. She doesn't speak, doesn't smile, but her presence is a thunderclap of femininity and royalty.
When Grigori looks at her, the edges of his face soften, not much, but enough to be noticeable. The chill of him melts just enough to show that beneath the killer is a man who would destroy worlds for the woman beside him. Suddenly, I understand him more than I expected to.
"Mrs. Arsenyev," Enrico nods with polite deference.
She offers a single nod in return, her eyes lingering on Enrico with interest before sliding to me. Another nod. Measured. Like a verdict quietly delivered. Then she steps back, allowing Grigori to resume control of the moment.
