Page 48 of Obsessive Vows

My father's hand returns to my elbow, the slight pressure communicating that this conversation has achieved its purpose. "The Turkish delegation requires attention," he says smoothly. "Nikolai, we'll continue our discussion tomorrow as planned."

As we move toward another group of guests, he adds quietly, "Sokolov represents useful connection points for our Western expansion. Be prepared for further interactions."

The statement raises more questions than it answers. The Sokolov organization historically operated primarily in Eastern territories, not Western Europe. This apparent shift suggests significant realignment of Bratva power structures during my absence.

Throughout the evening, my attention keeps returning to the tall figure I glimpsed earlier, now nowhere in sight. Something about his movement, the set of his shoulders, had triggered memories I've worked diligently to compartmentalize—memories of Paris, of a night I permit myself to revisit only in the most secure privacy of my thoughts.

The remainder of the evening proceeds like clockwork—each introduction, each conversation flowing seamlessly into the next. I perform flawlessly while mentally cataloging the subtle shifts in alliances and hierarchies evident in the room.

Three hours later, as the celebration winds down, Lena finds me in a quiet corner, her expression carefully neutral. "Your father wants you to join him in the private salon. Something about meeting a new captain who couldn't attend tonight."

"Of course." I keep my voice light, though Lena knows me well enough to recognize my curiosity. "Anyone significant?"

She hesitates, uncharacteristic caution in her expression. "There are... rumors. A new player who's risen quickly through the ranks. Baranov. Viktor Baranov. Apparently, he's become one of your father's trusted lieutenants in remarkably short time."

Viktor Baranov.

The name strikes like lightning, though nothing in my expression betrays the shock. A common Russian name, certainly. Yet the coincidence sends adrenaline coursing through my system, heart rate accelerating despite my outward composure.

Not possible. Not the same man. The universe cannot be so cruelly ironic.

"I haven't heard him mentioned before," I say carefully, fingers unconsciously finding the outline of Sofia's locket beneath my gown.

"Few had until recently. He appeared in Moscow operations about eight months ago. Specializes in security protocols and tactical operations." Lena's gaze sharpens. "Extremely effective, by all accounts. Cold. Precise. The type that makes even veteran captains nervous."

Eight months ago. While I was in Switzerland. While I was carrying Sofia.

My mind flashes to the silver eyes I see every day in our daughter's face. The rare ghost of a smile that transforms her serious expression in the same way I'd witnessed once, briefly, in a Parisian hotel room. The stubborn determination evident even at two months old.

"I should join my father," I say, forcing my thoughts back to immediate concerns. "Would you make my excuses for five minutes first? I need a moment."

She squeezes my hand in silent understanding, moving to intercept my father with some fabricated delay tactic. I slip away, finding temporary refuge in the ornate powder room reserved for distinguished guests.

Alone, I extract the secure phone hidden in a specially designed compartment of my evening clutch. Three rapid authentication steps later, I access the encrypted connection to the Swiss chalet's monitoring system.

Sofia appears on screen, sleeping peacefully in her crib, tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. The timestamp shows the footage is live—3:24 AM in Switzerland. Anna sits in the rocking chair nearby, reading a medical journal, alert despite the hour.

My throat tightens as I study my daughter's sleeping face. Two months old and already changing daily. The dark wisps of hair more pronounced. The delicate features taking clearer shape. The silver-gray eyes—so like Viktor's—hidden behind closed lids. I allow myself thirty seconds of this forbidden connection—all the security protocols permit—before logging out and erasing all access traces from the device.

The silver locket rests against my skin beneath the designer gown, containing its precious cargo of Sofia's first hair clipping. I touch it briefly through the fabric, drawing strength from the tangible connection to my daughter before resuming the Bratva princess persona.

When I return to the ballroom, my father is deep in conversation with Nikolai Sokolov and another man I recognize as Leonid Kozlov, my father's financial advisor. They fall silent as I approach, the abrupt cessation confirming the subject's sensitivity.

"Anastasia." My father gestures me closer. "We were just discussing potential realignment of certain resources. Your insights on Western European protocols might prove relevant to these considerations."

The transparent cover story would be laughable if not for the deadly serious undertones. I play along seamlessly. "I'd be happy to contribute any perspectives that might benefit our interests."

Nikolai studies me with renewed interest. "Your father speaks highly of your analytical capabilities. A valuable asset in these... evolving times."

"The organization faces new challenges," my father says, his tone measured. "Traditional alliances must adapt to changing realities. The Baranov connection offers particular advantages in this climate."

Baranov. The name again, spoken in context that suggests specific importance. My pulse quickens despite rigorous self-control, the locket suddenly heavy against my skin.

"I understand you're broadening the senior leadership structure," I observe carefully. "Incorporating new perspectives seems prudent given our expansion objectives."

"Indeed." My father's gaze holds approval at my diplomatic phrasing. "You'll meet Baranov soon enough. I've assigned him responsibility for certain aspects of our Western operations—including your security detail during the transition period."

The revelation hits with alarming force, though my expression reveals nothing but polite interest. My personal security—the layer of protection between me and Sofia's secret existence—assigned to a man who is her father. A man who disappeared from Paris the morning after our night together. A man now mysteriously embedded in my father's organization.

---