Page 56 of Kingmakers, Year Four

It was her idea to throw the party, though baby showers aren’t common in Russia. She said it wasn’t a shower, only an opportunity for our friends to offer their congratulations.

It’s an elegant affair, held on the rooftop of the SO Sofitel, with strings of golden lights drowning out the stars, a stunning view of Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, and the famous cellist Leonid Gorokhov playing a suite in the old style.

Every Bratva family in St. Petersburg is here to pay homage to the new scion of the Petrovs. Even some of the MoscowPakhanshave made the journey. They hate missing out on any event, particularly one as posh as this. Sloane may not care much for parties, but she damn sure knows how to throw one.

I believe the real intent of this particular event is to solidify our standing as the most powerful couple in the nation. She knows exactly how it looks, presenting our son and heir to the world. She knows the meaning of the pile of luxurious gifts weighing down the receiving table. She issued a call to the Bratva, and they answered with obeisance.

I make the rounds through the crowd, shaking hands and accepting congratulations from friends, allies, and rivals alike. I kiss the hand of Jori Zaitsev’s new bride and accept an introduction to Pavel Veronin’s eldest son, who requests a private meeting the following week.

Hilo Stepanski has come all the way from Minsk. He presses a wrapped package into my hand, telling me, “This is a gift for you as well as your son. It’s a Rolex from his birth year. You can wear it now, and later you can pass it down to him.”

“Very thoughtful, Hilo. Thank you,” I say, tucking the package in the breast pocket of my tux. “How is business?”

“Volatile,” he replies with a significant raise of his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Have you heard what Moroz has been doing?”

“Yes,” I say shortly, not wanting to mar the festivities with the stain of the dark rumors swirling out of Kyiv.

“Upheaval can be good for business,” Hilo says. “But only if there’s anyone left alive to do business.”

I’m not sorry when Hedeon Markov interrupts us, accompanied by his son Kristoff, his daughter Evalina, and her fiancé Donovan Dryagin. The Markovs are one of the only families who supported me during my bloody battle with my rival Remizov. The Markovs’ loyalty will not be forgotten—they will always have a place at my table.

I’ve already helped Kristoff Markov to secure an appointment as Minister of Culture. I’ll offer my assistance to Donovan Dryagin as well, once he marries Evalina.

Hedeon Markov has a broad, taciturn face with a thick shock of snow-white hair combed straight back from his brow. His hands are harder than iron, and he’s rumored to use them freely on his wife and children, despite his age. His son Kristoff, barrel-shaped and black-haired, shares his father’s dour expression.

Only the daughter displays the famous Markov beauty—or at least, she used to. When last I saw her, she was slim and vivacious, with brilliant blue eyes and a daring manner that earned her several severe looks from her father and brother.

Tonight she looks pale and doughy, leaning on her fiancé’s arm as if already exhausted, though the party is just beginning.

She barely glances up as I take her hand.

“Welcome home,” I tell her.

Sloane greets Evalina warmly, asking how she’s enjoying her time at Kingmakers.

“I’ve decided not to return for my final year,” Evalina replies, quietly.

“Surely Donovan can wait a little longer?” Sloane inquires, with a glance at the tall, stern fiancé.

“It’s Evalina’s decision,” Dryagin says. “I was content to allow her to complete her education.”

I see the slight curl of Sloane’s lip at Dryagin’s magnanimous tone, but she lets it pass.

Her eyes are fixed on Evalina’s somber face.

“We’re glad to have you back,” she says.

Evalina nods. Her eyes land on our month-old son, tightly swaddled and cradled in a sling across the breast of Sloane’s gown. His sleeping face peeps out, dark lashes laying against his round cheeks and small mouth making a delicate sucking motion as he dreams of milk.

Evalina’s hands make a convulsive, clutching motion in front of her chest, as if she’s been afflicted by a sudden pang—heartburn, perhaps.

“Excuse me,” she says, turning and heading in the direction of the ladies’ room.

Hedeon Markov begins to talk of market futures, barely noting his daughter’s departure.

Later, when the party is in full swing, I corner Sloane so I can kiss her behind a potted banyan tree strung with lights.

“Don’t squish the baby,” she teases me.

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