Page 111 of Desperate Crimes
Fingers laced. Tight. Sure. Possessive in the way that says I dare anyone to question this.
The ring he surprised me with this morning glitters in the light—a custom-cut blue diamond, the same shade as his eyes, set in gold and platinum shaped like an unbroken infinity band.
Our initials are carved on the inside. L + N. My breath catches every time it catches the light.
And tonight? It catches everything.
He’s not wearing one, and that bothers me. But I haven’t mentioned it yet.
We step up the stairs, two shadows made of silk and fire.
Inside, I know exactly what we’ll find.
Our entire family. Friends. Associates.
The old guard and the new.
The world we grew up in, polished and sharp-edged, smiling for power and clinking glasses like secrets aren’t crawling under the skin of every single person in the room.
They’re all here to celebrate my father’s birthday.
And we’re about to steal the spotlight with one whispered truth.
We walk through the open doors, the hum of conversation breaking like a wave.
The music doesn’t stop.
Not exactly.
The orchestra keeps playing—a tasteful ensemble tucked behind a velvet curtain near the grand staircase—but the tempo falters.
Just a beat.
Like even the cello knows something’s about to go down.
I feel it before I see it. That hush. That ripple of awareness.
They see us.
Time hiccups.
No—it fractures.
Splits wide open and spills heat and nerves down my spine.
I clutch Nico’s hand tighter, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even slow his step.
All around us, heads turn.
A chair scrapes loud and sharp against the polished marble. Someone coughs.
Another guest slaps a hand too hard on someone’s shoulder in an attempt to play normal.
But I see him.
My father.
Adrik Volkov.
