Pale Moscow morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Viktor's fortress, striping the minimalist vanity where he sat. Misha perched on his knee, a small, warm counterweight to the cold dread coiling in his gut. He was already armored: a bespoke black suit, the fabric a void that absorbed light, hugging the lean power of his frame. The crisp white shirt beneath was buttoned to the throat, a stark barrier. Armor plating for the soul.
Misha, his tiny, fierce reflection, wore miniature defiance: a black velvet dress with a whisper of lace at the collar, the hem brushing plump knees. Tiny black patent leather shoes shone like obsidian beetles. The pièce de résistance, chosen with solemn ceremony that morning, was the iridescent jellyfish hair clip nestled in her dark curls, catching the light with every turn of her head.
Viktor's pale fingers, usually so precise with pens or piano keys, worked gently through the silken chaos of her hair. He held up three miniature hairspray cans – unscented, lavender, blueberry – presenting them like offerings.
Misha studied them, her storm-grey eyes serious, the slight squint so like his own assessing gaze. Her tiny finger stabbed decisively towards the blueberry.
A flicker, almost imperceptible, touched Viktor's lips. Smart girl. He spritzed the sweet-scented mist. She giggled, the sound impossibly bright and fragile in the sterile room, like glass wind chimes stirred by a forbidden breeze.
Then, she reached for the spare jellyfish clip on the vanity. She patted his cheek with it, her gaze expectant, imperious.
Viktor sighed, a soft exhalation devoid of true protest. He took the clip. With meticulous care, he fastened the absurd, shimmering jellyfish into his own carefully arranged dark waves, just above his temple. A silent surrender to her whimsy.
"Happy?" he murmured, the word flat, yet somehow softened by the sheer incongruity of the glittering sea creature in his hair.
Misha clapped, delighted. Pure, uncomplicated joy. Viktor wished, with a sudden, fierce ache, he could crystallize this moment – the scent of blueberries, the weight of her trust, the ridiculous jellyfish – and hold it safe from the encroaching night. But time was a relentless thief.
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Turandot wasn't a restaurant; it was a fever dream of Tsarist ambition crossed with oligarch excess. Gilded ceilings dripped crystal teardrops from chandeliers the size of small cars. Renaissance tapestries depicting mythological hunts worth more than entire city blocks lined walls paneled in rare woods. The air hummed with the low thrum of power and the clink of crystal holding wines that cost more than most annual salaries. It was a stage where fortunes were made and lives ruined, all accompanied by the delicate scrape of silver on Limoges.
Viktor stepped from the armored Maybach onto the red carpet, the biting Moscow air a shock after the car's warmth. Misha was a compact, velvet-clad weight against his chest, shielded by his bulk and the fierce angle of his jaw. Her Gucci diaper bag looked like avant-garde luggage slung over Yuri's broad shoulder. Viktor's expression was a study in detached indifference, a mask carved from ice. Only the fractional tightening of his arms around Misha betrayed the storm beneath.
He feared Dmitri. Not for the physical threat, not anymore. He feared the cold calculation, the venomous words, the subtle poison aimed at the tiny, perfect creature he shielded. He feared the legacy that might try to claim her.
The maître d' bowed so low his nose nearly brushed his knees, ushering them towards the inner sanctum – the private dining room reserved for gods and monsters. As Viktor moved through the opulent labyrinth, he felt the weight of stares. Envious. Calculating. Ravenously curious. The whispers were almost audible: The prodigal. The ice prince. And the bastard child.
Misha, attuned to the subtle shift in Viktor's stillness, fisted her tiny hands in the silk of his tie. Her own steel-grey eyes, unnervingly alert, scanned the gilded cage with a focus that mirrored her father's cold assessment.
Yuri leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly murmur near Viktor's ear. "Remember. If Anastasia tries to pinch those cheeks, I break her fingers. Politely, of course."
Viktor didn't acknowledge him. His pulse was a steady, heavy drumbeat against his ribs. Dread, cold and familiar.
The heavy, gilded doors swung open silently.
The tableau within was suffocating. At the head of a table large enough to dock a yacht sat Dmitri Mikhailov. He wasn't old; he was ageless, carved from Siberian frost, his iron-grey hair swept back, his eyes – chips of glacial flint – capable of stripping flesh from bone. To his right, Anastasia, the First Wife. Her beauty was preserved like a venomous insect in amber, her smile a razor blade dipped in rouge. Flanking them, a constellation of Mikhailov stars and black holes: siblings radiating wary tension, half-siblings simmering with resentment, uncles and cousins wearing masks of deference over naked ambition. The air crackled with unspoken alliances and ancient grudges.
Dmitri's voice cut through the thick silence, cold, precise, devoid of greeting. "You're late."
Viktor met his father's gaze, his own expression unchanging granite. "I brought what you asked." His voice was flat, neutral. He didn't move further into the room.
A beat stretched, taut as a wire. Then—
Anastasia's voice, saccharine sweet, sliced through the tension. "Darling Viktor! Let me see the child. Come, bring her closer."
Viktor's arms didn't just tighten; they became steel bands. A silent, unequivocal no.
Misha, sensing the predatory focus shift onto her, turned her head slowly. Her storm-grey gaze lifted, bypassing Anastasia entirely, and locked directly onto Dmitri's icy stare.
The room seemed to stop breathing. The clink of a glass sounded like a gunshot in the sudden void of sound.
Dmitri's flint-chip eyes held the tiny girl's for a long, unnerving moment. His expression didn't soften, but something flickered deep within – recognition? Assessment? It vanished, replaced by impenetrable cold. His gaze shifted back to Viktor.
"U neyo tvoi glaza." She has your eyes. It wasn't an observation. It was an indictment. A marking of territory already claimed by blood.
Viktor didn't look away from his father. His voice, when it came, was low, soft, yet carried the weight of a falling mountain in the silent room. "She has my *everything*."
The words hung there, a gauntlet thrown down. A vow etched in steel.
Misha, oblivious to the tectonic plates shifting around her, reached up a chubby hand. Her tiny fingers found the ridiculous, glittering jellyfish clip nestled in Viktor's dark hair. She patted it, babbling a stream of happy, unintelligible sounds.
Anastasia's painted lips curled into a sneer of pure contempt. "You've made her soft," she hissed, the sweetness gone, replaced by venom. "Weak. Like you."
Viktor turned his head slowly, finally meeting Anastasia's gaze. And then, he smiled. It wasn't warm. It wasn't friendly. It was the slow, dangerous baring of teeth by a wolf who has found something infinitely precious to defend. Cold fire burned in his storm-grey eyes.
"No, Anastasia," he corrected, his voice lethally calm. "I've made her mine, she's a beauty that you can't attain.."