Sasha

The champagne bubbles rise like tiny prayers in the crystal flute, catching the warm light from the chandelier above. *Shampanskoye.* Sasha Belov watches them with the kind of focused attention other men might reserve for reading contracts or counting money. Around him, the party flows like a river of expensive suits, glittering dresses, and laughter that echoes too loudly off the marble floors of the Metropol Hotel's grand ballroom. *1995. Noviy god.* The numbers feel strange in his mind, like...