The Paleys (1925-1926) - An Alternate Romanov Story

Petrograd, January 1926

Dmitri Zimin checked the revolver again, methodically, with the precision of a man who had nothing left to lose. He thumbed open the chamber, watching as the brass casings caught the light of the dressing room. He slid the bullets into place one by one, feeling deep in his bones how each click put him a step closer to rewriting History. His hands were steady. His mind was clear. The Tsars had ruled long enough.

The revolution, which had been so close during the war, had lay dormant for far too many years, and now it was time to bring it back. The Romanovs had survived when they shouldn't have, and the path to change that Russia should be on had stagnated, chained to its past and the glittering opulence of a monarchy that had outlived its usefulness. Tonight, that changed. All it would take was one clean shot to the back of the Tsar's head. One moment of deafening chaos. One more step toward the inevitable fall of the monarchy.

Through the thin walls, the music from the music from the spectacle swelled, and amid its beauty, it was impossible to imagine the abominable act that was about to be committed. The Tsar was sitting in his imperial box, surrounded by luxury, believing himself untouchable, but Dmitri knew better. Thanks to Princess Natalia, they had access to every piece of information they needed to carry out this act. They knew exactly who was with him in the box, even the names of the guards posted outside.

She had even smuggled the revolver into Serge's dressing room the day before, though she had no idea she had done it. Her devotion to Lifar was so blind and absolute that when Anna asked her to deliver him the small wooden box, she accepted without hesitation. To her, it had likely seemed no different from any of the other favours she had done for him, little acts of service performed without question because that was the kind of woman she was—naïve, sheltered, eager to please.

Dmitri had seen her often enough at the theatre, always lingering near Serge, always surrounded by the scent of expensive perfume and the rustle of fine silk. He had never spoken to her, never wanted to. But he had looked. She was beautiful, he supposed, in the delicate, untouchable way women like her always were. The kind of beauty that had never known fear, that the world had never dirtied beyond gilded palaces and candlelit ballrooms. The kind of beauty that, in his eyes, made her repulsive.

She would also be the final piece of the plan. She had a note delivered to her house that morning, which she thought came from Serge, asking her to meet him at his dressing-room during tonight's performance. She would come, of course; she always did. But, once she opened the door, she wouldn't find the dancer inside; rather, she would come face-to-face with Dmitri. He would then act surprised and starstruck and ask her if she could introduce him to the Tsar or at least take him somewhere where he could see him. It was risky, but she knew who he was, and both he and Anna trusted that would be enough for her to cooperate. It was the best chance they had.

Dmitri stood in the half-darkness as his fingers brushed absently over the revolver hidden beneath his coat. He had rehearsed this moment a thousand times, calculated every possibility, and anticipated every outcome. And yet, as he waited for the sound of her footsteps outside the door, he found himself wondering.

The original plan was flawed. There was no guarantee that Natalia would trust him, that she wouldn't shrink back in fear the moment she saw him standing there instead of Lifar. It would be much more difficult if she started screaming or tried to run. It was irritating, really. He hated unpredictability. He had no patience for it.

His gaze shifted to the door, his mind working through an alternative. He was already inside the theatre. He was already armed. The exit routes had been memorized, the guards mapped out in his head. If he took care of things himself—if he carried out his plan the way he believed it should be done—it would be far more efficient. At most, he might have to kill a few more guards than anticipated, but that was of little consequence. They were just more bodies, more obstacles in his way.

But then, why stop there?

A slow, creeping satisfaction settled over him at the thought. Why should Lifar be the one to have all the fun? Why should the Princess be allowed to simply walk away from this, painlessly, without suffering, while the rest of them would likely die tonight? What had she done to deserve such mercy?

Nothing.

For all her supposed elegance, for all the grace she carried herself with, Natalia Paley was no better than the rest of them. She was a product of the same diseased world that had stolen everything from him, that had reduced his family to nothing. He thought of his parents, of their unmarked graves in a Parisian cemetery. He thought of the years spent in hunger, the humiliation, the relentless, festering rage that had clawed its way inside him, never letting go.

And she—this pampered, delicate thing—had lived through it all without a care. Surrounded by luxury, untouched by true suffering.

He felt his breath deepen, and the heat of anger coil tight in his chest. She deserved to know what it felt like to suffer.

His fingers curled into fists as a dark, savage pleasure twisted through him. Oh, there was something poetic about it, wasn't there? If her beauty was what set her apart, what made people adore her, then there was nothing more fitting than to take it away from her. To leave a mark—something ugly, something permanent. To make her understand what it meant to be powerless, even for a few short moments.

It was only justice.

A faint sound in the hallway made him straighten. He steadied his pulse steady and controlled his breathing. She would be here soon.