Page 59 of Obsessive Vows

"The safe house on Tverskaya. One hour." I disconnect without waiting for response, already moving to secure my weapons, the familiar ritual of checking each piece grounding me in purpose rather than memory.

Anton's concern is justified. Anastasia's presence fundamentally alters the dynamics. The woman I'll be expected to marry—to share intimate space with, to perform the role of devoted husband for—is also the most dangerous potential witness to any move against her father. The daughter who, if my intelligence is accurate, Markov genuinely values despite his use of her as a dynastic asset.

A complication, certainly. But potentially a devastating advantage—if played correctly.

***

"You're distracted." Anton paces the perimeter of the safe house, checking surveillance equipment. His normally steady hands betray tension, fumbling slightly with the calibration tools. His left eye twitches—the subtle tell he's developed when truly concerned. "Years of discipline, and now you're compromised by what? Sentiment?"

"Tactical reassessment," I correct coldly, studying the intelligence files spread across the table. The images of Anastasia swim before my eyes—surveillance photos tracking her movements since her return to Moscow. "Anastasia's presence creates both vulnerabilities and opportunities."

"It's a disaster." He stops pacing, fixing me with rare direct challenge, arms crossed over his chest. I can smell the faint scent of cigarettes on him—he's been smoking again, a habit he only returns to when stressed. "Your... history with her creates unacceptable exposure. If Markov discovers?—"

"He won't." My tone ends further discussion on that point, the words tight through clenched teeth. "What concerns me is why Anastasia maintains the pretense. She recognized me instantly yet played along with the charade of first introduction."

Anton's expression shifts subtly, his perpetual frown deepening. "Self-preservation, perhaps. Admitting prior acquaintance with her father's lieutenant would raise uncomfortable questions."

"Perhaps." I tap the surveillance photographs showing Anastasia entering her father's Moscow compound yesterday. Her face in profile, expression unreadable, the sunlight catching in her hair. My finger lingers longer than necessary on the image. "Or she has her own agenda we haven't identified."

Something about her behavior nags at my instincts—the controlled perfection of her performance at dinner, yes, but also subtle tells my years of tactical training won't allow me to dismiss. The way her hand occasionally drifted to her throat during conversation, as if touching something beneath her clothes. The carefully measured responses that revealed nothing while appearing to share information. The care within her movements, as if every gesture had been choreographed to create specific impression.

Not just Bratva princess conditioning. Something more deliberate.

"Dmitri reports she's made three secure calls since returning to Moscow," Anton notes, sliding a data chip across the table. The metal catches the light, gleaming dully against the scarred wood. "Encrypted communications through channels his team can't penetrate."

"To whom?" I insert the chip, scanning call metadata. Duration, frequency, routing protocols. My pulse quickens against my will.

"Unknown. Bounced through six proxy servers. Professional-grade security." Anton watches my reaction carefully, eyes narrowed with assessment. "Beyond standard Bratva protocols."

Interesting. Markov's precious daughter, maintaining communication channels her father can't monitor. The perfect Bratva princess with secrets of her own.

"Expand surveillance," I decide, already calculating probabilities. "Full spectrum on all her movements. I want to know who she's communicating with."

"Already initiated." Anton hesitates, then adds with uncharacteristic caution, one hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck—a gesture I've only seen him make when truly concerned. "Viktor, your judgment regarding the Markov woman?—"

"Is perfectly clear," I interrupt, steel entering my voice. "The mission remains unchanged. Anastasia's presence simply adds another variable to be managed."

He studies me with uncomfortable perception, eyes narrowing slightly. Something too close to pity flashes across his features. "And that's all she is? A variable?"

The question strikes too close to uncomfortable truth. I deflect. "She's Markov's daughter. His greatest vulnerability. The perfect access point to his inner circle."

"And if controlling that access point requires... personal involvement?" Anton's implication hangs in the air between us.

"Then I'll do what's necessary." My voice remains perfectly controlled despite the heat that flares at the thought of touching Anastasia again, of feeling her skin beneath my hands, of tasting her again. "The end justifies the means."

Anton nods, seemingly satisfied with my response, though something in his expression suggests he sees more than I've intended to reveal. He turns away, giving me a moment to compose myself, to force away the unwelcome physical response to thoughts I shouldn't be having.

"The Tverskaya meeting is scheduled for noon. Markov's security will conduct standard protocol until twelve-fifteen, then withdraw to perimeter positions."

"Creating our 'accidental' privacy." I review the building schematics one final time, memorizing exit routes, surveillance blind spots, security rotation schedules. "Perfect."

"Your objective?" Anton asks, professional mask back in place.

"Assessment." I gather my weapons, checking each automatically, the familiar weight of metal against my palm grounding me in reality rather than memory. "Determining what Anastasia knows, what she wants, whether she represents threat or opportunity to our primary mission."

Or whether the connection I felt in Paris was real or merely another Bratva deception—a question I refuse to acknowledge even to myself.

***

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