Page 17 of Reign of Four

I’d recognize the handwriting anywhere as my grandmother’s. Even though she pretends to be the silent observer hiding in the corner of every room in the house, I know she’s still pulling invisible strings. I can practically see them floating through the air every time Liam moves.

She’s trained him well on what to say. I’ll give her that much.

Outside of the meetings, however, Liam takes the time to show me our new home a little more each day. It gives me unprecedented access to his schedule, so I know exactly what he’s up to and where he is at all hours of the day. It’s rare that we’re not together, and the staff and house guests start to expect my presence as much as their pakhan’s.

It makes planning for an escape that much more difficult.

There are a few moments I have to myself, though, whenever Liam leaves the grounds. He takes a handful of guards with him and disappears for hours. I don’t know what he’s doing or where he’s going—all I know is that I suddenly find myself with time.

I use every second of it to carefully roam the house for its best-kept secrets. The easiest ones to find aren’t those written on paper, much to my surprise.

It’s the ones embedded into the estate itself—from its well-kept staff to the very foundation it’s built upon—that spills the most information.

I was right when I noticed it before; the entire grounds are a replica of the ones I grew up in, from the shade of paint on its walls to the type of decor cluttering the halls. But one thing is glaringly clear—it’s all fake.

When my father was alive, he prided himself on many things. Authenticity was at the top of the list. In everything he did and with every trophy he collected, he made sure it had the official Baranova seal of approval. That seal holds more weight than gold, so I’ve been led to believe. It’s why our reputation precedes us. We’re an old name in an old city with a penchant for tradition.

I’ve been staring at priceless objects my entire life, so I know a fake when I see one. Most of the paintings and decor around this house are well-made, still pretty and distinguished, but fake.

My grandmother should have been able to spot the difference when furnishing the place, so I know she didn’t have a hand in this, much to my surprise. I’d have expected her to be running the house until the duty was passed on to me.

The truth is far more alarming.

I stare at a framed portrait of a balding man, his whitened smile broad, thick mustache curled, huge forehead shiny, as he stands in front of the very house I’m currently occupying. In the picture, he shakes hands with no one other than my father, former pakhan of our Bratva, Tolkotsky Baranova.

My father wouldn’t have funded and furnished a place like this, nor would my grandmother, my mother, or anyone in the long line of Baranovas who have claimed this city. They wouldn’t make a cheap replica of our own home. My father even looks bored in the picture, like he’s wasting his time being there.

But appearances matter, and it’s the reason my father took time out of his day to congratulate the owner on this once-new manor. It’s the same reason why Andrei dragged me to that party last week. Line the pockets of influential people, show your support, and you’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand, ready to do your bidding at a moment’s notice.

Like a well-fed dog looking after its master.

This place has the appearance of finery, but it’s fraudulent and cheap.

Much like the man who owns it.

“Miss Baranova!”

My head snaps up at my name being called. I curse at myself for getting sidetracked, then I throw in an extra one at Riot for failing to inform me we had a visitor.

“Mr. Mayor,” I greet, putting on my best smile. “How lovely to see you again.”

He twirls his mustache between his fingers as he enters the room—his office—a curious gleam in his eye as he catches me standing behind his desk, clearly rifling through its drawers.

I clench my jaw to keep from glaring at my personal bodyguard.

“I’m afraid you’ll find those documents quite boring,” the mayor continues, meandering closer at a snail’s pace. “Contracts and the like. A bunch of legal jargon I can’t even read properly without the help of my lawyer.” He comes up beside me and closes the bottom drawer with a hard snap. “I’m sure that’s not what you’re looking for, anyhow.”

In truth, I was looking for more dirt on Liam’s operations, or anything mentioning my grandmother’s name or my father’s. But the mayor is right—I didn’t find anything the least bit useful in his desk.

Those types of documents must be locked up somewhere else.

Henry Mastiff, affectionately known throughout the city as Mr. Mayor, smiles at me. But much like everything else in this room, it reeks of inauthenticity. “Tell me, do you still go by Miss Baranova, or should I be referring to you as Mrs. Dolohov now?” He shakes his head. “A bit strange to marry backward, don’t you think? Tying yourself to your grandmother’s lineage? But I suppose I can’t fault you if it’s for love. He does seem to dote on you, although I said the same about Mr. Leonov when I saw you two together.” His eyes bore into mine. “Moving rather quickly from one man to the next, aren’t you?”

My face flames as embarrassment latches onto anger, both flashing hotly through my veins. I’ve yet to face any scrutiny for my situation aside from my own, and the mayor’s thinly veiled censure is a reminder of what awaits me outside these doors. Once the public catches on that I’ve switched partners from Andrei to Liam, it’ll spread like wildfire, and the rumors of how I spread my legs for multiple men will be the juiciest gossip in the city.

I’m used to blending in with the wallpaper, not being thrust into the center of a crowded room for all to witness and pass judgement. The difference is jarring, but expected by now. Onlookers want to watch me stumble so they can gossip about each wrong move I make as the new wife to the pakhan. It means that I can’t let them see any flaws—least of all that I’m being forced into a spotlight I don’t want—so I’ll walk straight into the damned thing myself. I’ll control the narrative before it spins.

It’s best that observers like Henry Mastiff understand that now.

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