Today, 01:18 AM
Noemi slipped away from the boy with the grace of someone trained to be polite to wolves.
Nikolai didn’t react. Not with his body. Not with his face. But behind the veil of his stillness, something sharpened. She had smiled, yes, but not the kind that reached the eyes. And the boy, Dmitri, one of Konstantin’s he later learned, was the kind that always acted like charm was owed and consent was a matter of momentum.
He saw the moment the boy placed his hand at the small of her back. The contact was too familiar. Possessive in a way that betrayed entitlement, not intimacy. Noemi had turned gently, avoided it with a dancer’s ease, but Nikolai caught the flicker in her eyes.
That was enough.
He turned to Mishelov and spoke quietly. No commands, just intentions laid out in the architecture of subtlety. Mishelov listened, nodded once, then moved with that stern purpose Nikolai expected him to embody. Arrangements, as always, would be made with elegance.
Nikolai remained where he was for several minutes more, performing stillness while watching the room shift and churn, speaking with those in his immediate circle. Then, with precise timing, he stepped out of the ballroom and into one of the smaller salons: ornate, intimate, curated to suggest power in repose.
Mishelov arrived separately. He entered, approached, and received a single nod of acknowledgment before Nikolai thanked him aloud. The room was still again. Then footsteps, measured and a beat too confident, approached. The door opened. Dmitri Vasilev stepped inside. And saw that the Patron was not alone.
The Ascendancy stood by the tall window, hands clasped behind his back, eyes focused not on the boy but on the view. It was theatrical, a reminder that power didn’t always have to look at you to own the room. He spoke aloud to Myshelov, not in gratitude, but in dismissal. Myshelov gave Dmitri a stern look before nodding and departing.
Nikolai turned just enough to acknowledge Myshelov's exit who sealed them inside the room together as he left. The Ascendancy's smile was the kind that might have graced a painting: elegant, detached, possibly ironic.
“Dmitri,” he said, his voice cool and generally pleasant. “It’s good to see young men representing their families so... thoroughly.”
Nikolai gestured toward a nearby chair, but did not wait for him to sit.
“I’ve heard,” he continued, “that you’ve been enjoying the evening. In good company, no less. Certain women in my employ: bright, capable. Extremely striking.”
The moment hung dead on the air as his smile faded, not into a frown, but into something quieter.
“Your father,” Nikolai said, eyes meeting the boy’s fully now, “has always impressed me with his discretion. It’s part of why the Vasilev name endures, isn’t it? That loyalty. That... quiet dignity. It's a sign of respect.”
Another pause.
“And knowing when to stop.”
He let that hang between them like a veil of smoke. Not quite a threat. Not quite a warning. But heavy enough to pull the air down a degree.
Then Nikolai stepped forward, neither quick nor threatening not quickly, and placed a hand on Dmitri’s shoulder. Light. Almost paternal.
“Ambition is good,” he murmured, his tone low and deliberate. “When directed in the right ways.”
The contact lingered for a second more than it should have. Then Nikolai released him, turned, and walked out without another word.
And Dmitri was left alone, standing in the quiet, surrounded by old portraits and silence that surely felt like judgment.
Nikolai didn’t react. Not with his body. Not with his face. But behind the veil of his stillness, something sharpened. She had smiled, yes, but not the kind that reached the eyes. And the boy, Dmitri, one of Konstantin’s he later learned, was the kind that always acted like charm was owed and consent was a matter of momentum.
He saw the moment the boy placed his hand at the small of her back. The contact was too familiar. Possessive in a way that betrayed entitlement, not intimacy. Noemi had turned gently, avoided it with a dancer’s ease, but Nikolai caught the flicker in her eyes.
That was enough.
He turned to Mishelov and spoke quietly. No commands, just intentions laid out in the architecture of subtlety. Mishelov listened, nodded once, then moved with that stern purpose Nikolai expected him to embody. Arrangements, as always, would be made with elegance.
Nikolai remained where he was for several minutes more, performing stillness while watching the room shift and churn, speaking with those in his immediate circle. Then, with precise timing, he stepped out of the ballroom and into one of the smaller salons: ornate, intimate, curated to suggest power in repose.
Mishelov arrived separately. He entered, approached, and received a single nod of acknowledgment before Nikolai thanked him aloud. The room was still again. Then footsteps, measured and a beat too confident, approached. The door opened. Dmitri Vasilev stepped inside. And saw that the Patron was not alone.
The Ascendancy stood by the tall window, hands clasped behind his back, eyes focused not on the boy but on the view. It was theatrical, a reminder that power didn’t always have to look at you to own the room. He spoke aloud to Myshelov, not in gratitude, but in dismissal. Myshelov gave Dmitri a stern look before nodding and departing.
Nikolai turned just enough to acknowledge Myshelov's exit who sealed them inside the room together as he left. The Ascendancy's smile was the kind that might have graced a painting: elegant, detached, possibly ironic.
“Dmitri,” he said, his voice cool and generally pleasant. “It’s good to see young men representing their families so... thoroughly.”
Nikolai gestured toward a nearby chair, but did not wait for him to sit.
“I’ve heard,” he continued, “that you’ve been enjoying the evening. In good company, no less. Certain women in my employ: bright, capable. Extremely striking.”
The moment hung dead on the air as his smile faded, not into a frown, but into something quieter.
“Your father,” Nikolai said, eyes meeting the boy’s fully now, “has always impressed me with his discretion. It’s part of why the Vasilev name endures, isn’t it? That loyalty. That... quiet dignity. It's a sign of respect.”
Another pause.
“And knowing when to stop.”
He let that hang between them like a veil of smoke. Not quite a threat. Not quite a warning. But heavy enough to pull the air down a degree.
Then Nikolai stepped forward, neither quick nor threatening not quickly, and placed a hand on Dmitri’s shoulder. Light. Almost paternal.
“Ambition is good,” he murmured, his tone low and deliberate. “When directed in the right ways.”
The contact lingered for a second more than it should have. Then Nikolai released him, turned, and walked out without another word.
And Dmitri was left alone, standing in the quiet, surrounded by old portraits and silence that surely felt like judgment.