The room had gone so quiet Dmitry could hear Viktor's labored breathing. Could hear the nervous tap of a shoe against marble. Could hear his own heartbeat, steady and slow.
Aleksandr circled Viktor like a wolf circling wounded prey. "You were like a son to me," he said softly. Then his voice turned to ice. "And this is how you repay me?"
Viktor's knees hit the floor with a crack that made several guests flinch. "I swear on my children's lives—"
"Your children," Aleksandr mused. He turned to the crowd. "Should we ask them where the money went?"
Nervous laughter rippled through the room.
From the bar, a voice cut through the tension: "You know, for a party, the snack selection is really lacking."
Every head turned.
Leo Markov lounged against the mahogany bar, swirling a glass of whiskey. He looked completely at ease, as if watching a man being tortured was just another Tuesday night. "I mean, where's the caviar? The blini? The little smoked fish with the eyes still in?"
Aleksandr's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Markov. I don't recall inviting you."
Leo raised his glass. "You didn't. The open bar did." He took a sip. "Though I must say, for a bunch of billionaires, your whiskey selection is disappointingly pedestrian."
Someone in the crowd choked back a laugh. Aleksandr's glare silenced them instantly.
Viktor chose that moment to moan in pain. Aleksandr looked down at him with the dispassionate interest of a scientist observing a lab rat. "Take him to the basement," he told his men. "Make sure he lasts until morning."
As they dragged Viktor away, his shoes left twin streaks of blood on the polished floor. The quartet started playing again, a lively folk tune that clashed horribly with the scene. The guests pretended not to see the red marks.
Leo sidled up to Dmitry. "Your dad really knows how to throw a party, huh?"
Dmitry didn't answer. He was watching his father shake hands with the deputy mayor near the ice sculpture.
"Seriously," Leo continued, stealing an olive from Dmitry's drink, "I've been to prison weddings with better atmosphere." He chewed thoughtfully. "You ever think about running away? Joining the circus? Becoming a florist?"
Dmitry's fingers tightened around his glass. "Leave."
Leo held up his hands. "Message received." He drained his whiskey and set the glass on a passing waiter's tray. "But between us? This family could use a few more jokes and a few less midnight executions."
He wandered off, humming a folk tune that clashed horribly with the quartet.
Dmitry stood perfectly still as the party swirled around him. The laughter sounded forced. The smiles looked painted on. Even the champagne bubbles seemed to rise slower, as if weighted down by the collective unease.
In the corner, a young associate vomited into a potted fern. No one acknowledged it.
Aleksandr reappeared at Dmitry's side, smelling of expensive cologne and gunpowder. "You're quiet tonight," he observed.
Dmitry watched a drop of condensation slide down his glass. "I'm always quiet."
His father chuckled and clapped him on the back hard enough to bruise. "That's my boy." He leaned in close, his breath hot against Dmitry's ear. "Never forget. Mercy is the luxury of weak men."
The quartet reached a crescendo. Somewhere below their feet, Viktor Zaitsev screamed.
Dmitry finished his drink in one swallow. The vodka burned all the way down, but he barely felt it. He hadn't felt much of anything in years.
Outside, snow continued to fall on Moscow. Inside, the ice never melted.
The party continued for three more hours. At exactly midnight, Aleksandr called for silence. He stood at the top of the grand staircase, a fresh glass of vodka in hand.
"My friends," he announced. "Tonight we celebrate our strength. Our unity. Our unwavering loyalty." His gaze swept the room. "Let this night serve as a reminder. The Kuznetsov family stands together. Always."
The guests raised their glasses. "Za zdorovye!"
Dmitry stood apart from the crowd, his empty glass dangling from his fingers. He watched as his father descended the stairs, accepting handshakes and kisses on the cheek. Watched as men who would slit each other's throats for an extra ruble pretended to be brothers.
Leo reappeared at his elbow. "You ever notice how your dad's speeches always sound like Bond villain monologues?"
Dmitry didn't smile. "You're still here."
"Free booze," Leo said with a shrug. Then his expression turned serious. "They found another body tonight. Down by the river. Throat cut. Just like the others."
Dmitry's hand stilled. "Who?"
"Some small-time smuggler. Petrov, I think his name was." Leo studied Dmitry's face. "Funny thing. Rumor says he was last seen talking to you."
The glass in Dmitry's hand cracked.
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Touchy subject?"
Dmitry turned to face him fully. "Leave. Now."
Leo held up his hands. "Alright, alright. But you might want to know there's a detective asking questions. Pretty thing. Brown hair. Looks like she could bench press you." He grinned. "She's got your picture on her desk."
Dmitry's expression didn't change. "Goodnight, Markov."
Leo sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if you change your mind about that florist idea, I know a guy." He sauntered away, whistling that same off-key tune.
Dmitry stood alone in the crowded room, the broken glass still in his hand. Outside, the snow continued to fall. Inside, the ice grew thicker.
Somewhere beneath his feet, Viktor Zaitsev took his last breath.
The party went on.
The apartment smelled of boiled cabbage and fear. Sofia Ivanova stood in the narrow hallway, her fingers brushing against the grip of her service weapon. The floorboards creaked under her boots as she approached the door marked 4B. She could hear breathing on the other side. Fast. Shallow. The kind of breathing people did when they knew death was coming.
She knocked three times. The sound echoed down the empty hallway.
A chain rattled. A lock turned. The door opened just enough to show one bloodshot eye.
"Go away," a voice whispered.
Sofia held up her badge. "Police. We need to talk."
The eye blinked. The door closed. Then opened fully.