Have you ever wondered why the Earth is round instead of square? Why is the sun yellow instead of red? Why is water blue and not green?

No?

Yeah, me neither.

Because what the fuck?

I have better things to think about—like why my brother is currently gripping Massimo Bianchi by the collar in the middle of a goddamn ballroom.

I don't move.

I don't breathe.

My brain barely catches up to the moment as I stare, rooted in place. The golden glow of the chandelier casts long, jagged shadows across Judas's sharp features, his pale eyes colder than ever. Massimo, on the other hand, looks—bored. And that's the first because my brother doesn't appreciate being ignored.

The corner of his mouth is quirked, his posture relaxed, as if he doesn't have the six-foot-five inches menace of a man threatening to crush his throat. 

Classic. 

Even with a hand around his collar, Massimo looks like violence is an old friend rather than an enemy.

I don't know what he's doing here. Why he's here, or why fate plays with me?

He shouldn't be here. Period.

Looking like a goddamn brute in the crisp suit and not his usual leather jacket.

Like he belongs here more than I do.

It's not even twelve hours since he last made a show out of me—twelve hours since he humiliated me in front of the entire campus.

God, please. Kill me.

Or better yet, kill him—because I can't keep living like this. 

On a second note, I shouldn't be surprised, though.

The Bianchis are our sole investors. Papa's close friends. Of course, he'd invite Lorenzo Bianchi. That much makes sense. But why his nuisance of a son?

Massimo Bianchi doesn't belong at these parties.

He's never been at one before. Not once. I've never had to suffer the misfortune of running into him outside of campus—outside of his cruel little world where he holds all the power. So why now?

A murmur ripples through the crowd, but no one dares to step in. No one would want to mess with either of them.

Judas tightens his grip. "You must have a fucking death wish."

Also, I don't know what happened between them. Judas is not supposed to know him, or do they?

Massimo tilts his head, and my heart drops. "Haven't we established that already?"

Something flickers in my brother's expression. Murderous glint? Annoyance? Whatever it is, it fuels the fire in his gaze. And that's not a good sign. Nu-huh.

I should move. I should do something. But I'm stuck—trapped between my instincts screaming at me to run and my memories pulling me into a past I swore I'd forget.

Massimo Bianchi.

The name alone is enough to make my stomach twist.

And judging by the way his gaze lazily drifts over the crowd before landing on me—like he was waiting for me to show up—he knows I am here.

The moment our eyes meet, my lungs lock.

There's no recognition on his face. No surprise. Just a slow smirk that makes my blood run cold.

As if he was expecting me.

As if he knew I would be here.

Judas doesn't notice. His patience is wearing thin, his jaw clenching, his knuckles turning white. "Give me one reason not to rip you apart."

Massimo shrugs. "Because it wouldn't be a fair fight?"

Judas exhales sharply through his nose. He's two seconds away from losing it. I can feel it in the air, in the way his muscles coil like a predator ready to pounce. And knowing my brother—he never fights for nothing.

What the hell did Massimo do?

Before Judas can land a punch, a firm hand claps onto his shoulder. "That's enough."

The deep, authoritative voice sends a chill down my spine.

I turn to see him. 

Papa.

His dark eyes flick between the two men. There's no anger in his expression, no urgency—just sheer, effortless control. The kind that makes people listen. That's his Russian blood I guess.

Slowly, Judas lets go. His fingers unfurl from Massimo's collar, and I let out a breath I don't know I am holding.

Massimo straightens his suit, smoothens out the non-existent wrinkles, and throws Judas a lazy grin. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Judas looks like he's reconsidering murder. Or maybe his funeral.

Papa doesn't acknowledge Massimo. Instead, his gaze flickers to me. "Krystina. Come."

A command, not a request.

I hesitate.

Massimo's smirk deepens like he's amused by my hesitancy. I slowly walk to where Papa is standing. Just as I pass, he leans in slightly, just enough for only me to hear.

"Miss me?"

My breath catches.

I turn away before he can see my reaction.

I follow Papa. Not caring to see if Anya is still with us? Or where's Mama, the only thing I know is, that I need to breathe.

❁

The car is too small.

Too dark. Too silent. Too suffocating.

It doesn't come as a surprise that I can hear my own heartbeat. Like it's trying to break free from my chest. My fingers dig into the hem of my dress, twisting the fabric between my hands as I stare straight ahead.

Judas is beside me, his phone pressed to his ear, muttering low, sharp Russian into the receiver. His fingers flex against his knee, his jaw so tight I think he might break a tooth.

He's pissed.

Like, seriously pissed.

And I don't know why.

That's the problem. That's always the problem.

I don't know what Massimo said.

I don't know what he did to make my brother react like that.

Did he—did he say something about me?

My stomach twists violently.

If that's the case, I'm in serious, life-threatening, pray-to-every-God-I've-ever-heard-of trouble.

Judas ends his call, shoving his phone into his pocket. I feel like I'm trapped inside a pressure cooker. So much pressure.

I should keep my mouth shut. I should.

But my nerves never let me do the smart thing.

"You should think about Papa's reputation."

Judas turns his head slowly, and I swear to God I almost pass out.

His pale eyes flicker under the dim streetlights.

I should not have spoken.

"Papa's reputation?" His voice is eerily calm. Too calm.

I lick my lips, pressing my hands against my lap to keep them from trembling. "You almost caused a scene."

Judas scoffs, shaking his head. "A scene?" He lets out a dry, humourless laugh. "If Papa wasn't there, I would've put that bastard in the ground."

Oh. Oh, no.

My stomach does a horrible little flip.

This is bad. Judas doesn't lose control. He doesn't make reckless decisions. He doesn't start fights for no reason.

So if he almost killed Massimo in the middle of a very important party, that means—

Oh my God.

I swallow hard. "Why?"

Judas exhales sharply, rubbing his temple like I'm personally giving him a migraine. "Stay away from him."

I feel my heart drop.

There it is. The warning.

But I already know that. I know Massimo is dangerous. I know he's cruel, ruthless, and merciless.

But my brother never cared before.

So why now?

The thought won't leave my head. It claws at my brain.

I hesitantly glance at him. I should've asked how you know him, but instead, I mutter. "What...what did he say?"

Judas's fingers drum against his knee. Thing he does to reign himself.

My heart thrums so fast it hurts.

He finally exhales through his nose, pinching the bridge as if debating something. Then, finally, he speaks, and his voice is so quiet I'm afraid if I hear him.

"Just listen to me, Kotyonok." His tone is softer now, almost pleading. "I know you go to the same college with him, so it's better if you keep your distance." 

I stare at him.

And for the first time, I realize—

This isn't just about me.

Or is it?

Cause there are two things I believe in. One, fate and second, fate's humour. 

******

So just to make it clear, this book starts from few years ago. Like Krystina is nineteen, so is Anya. But Judas is twenty-two, and Massimo is Twenty-one. Judas hasn't met his ptichka yet.