Page 69 of Obsessive Vows

"Penetration of encryptionparameters requires physical access to the device during active transmission." Anton's assessment comes with rare technological certainty as he paces my surveillance room, eyes deliberately avoiding the wall covered with Anastasia's photographs. "Remote interception remains impossible given her security protocols."

I study the schematic he's provided—technical specifications for interception equipment that must be placed within three meters of Anastasia's secure phone during active communication. The unit is smaller than I expected, easily concealed in standard household objects.

"Timeline for implementation?" I ask, already calculating potential placement opportunities within Markov's compound.

"Equipment arrives tomorrow. Deployment requires proximity during her next scheduled call." Anton stops pacing, turning to face me directly. His usual professional distance falters, genuine concern breaking through. "This level of surveillance exceeds what is needed for the mission, Viktor. Personal interest compromises personal discipline."

"She's hiding something significant," I respond, avoiding the implied criticism. My voice rises despite my efforts to maintain control. "Something beyond standard Bratva secrecy. Something that might impact our primary objectives."

"Or someone." Anton's statement lands heavily. He studies me with uncomfortably perceptive eyes, the years of our partnership allowing him insights few others would risk voicing. "Your surveillance suggests a pattern consistent with a clandestine relationship. Regular communication, emotional response indicators, elaborate security measures beyond standard requirements."

The suggestion—one I've deliberately avoided articulating even in private assessment—ignites familiar rage. The possibility of Anastasia maintaining a relationship with someone else, someone she protects with elaborate security while preparing to marry me...

"Irrelevant to mission objectives," I state flatly, forcing discipline over emotional response. The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Personal attachments mean nothing compared to operational success."

Anton's expression suggests he believes otherwise but knows better than to challenge me further. Still, he places a hand briefly on my shoulder—a gesture of support we rarely permit ourselves in this life of constant performance.

"Five years is a long time to live inside a mission, Viktor," he says quietly, the only acknowledgment he'll ever make of what this vendetta has cost me. "Remember why we started this. Remember what matters."

After he leaves, I return to the engagement ring’s tracking screen transmitting Anastasia's location continuously to secured servers. I wonder how soon she’ll stop wearing it outside our public appearances? She knows I’m tracking her, so she’ll never do anything potentially shady while wearing it.

The ring is a fitting metaphor for Anastasia herself—beautiful exterior hiding complex systems beneath. The perfect Bratva princess with secrets worth protecting through elaborate measures.

Tomorrow's operation will penetrate those secrets, identifying who in her life after Paris commands such loyalty, such protection from Mikhail Markov's daughter. Tomorrow I'll know who she contacts with flushed skin and elevated respiration. Who she protects from both her father and her fiancé with technical measures worthy of intelligence agencies.

Tomorrow I'll know who holds Anastasia Markova's true allegiance… and her heart.

And then I'll decide what to do about them.

19

VICKTOR

Istand at the cracked windows of the east wing, watching dawn break over what remains of the Baranov estate. Far away, the burned down winter chalet is long abandoned. Memories of my brother dying outside of it and my parents and sister burning to their deaths inside… I feel the familiar rage building in me.

The estate around me is in disrepair. My focus has been elsewhere for years. Faded opulence gathers dust, the ghosts of my family lingering in every shadow. The scent of abandonment and decay masking what was once home. Five years since I've permitted myself to return to this place—this shrine to everything Mikhail Markov stole from me.

My fingers trace the peeling wallpaper, once deep crimson and gold, now faded to rusty brown like old bloodstains. Beneath, I can feel the texture of the original paint my grandfather applied himself—a story my father told often. Three generations of Baranovs built this place, each adding their mark to its grandeur. Now it stands as a hollow monument to a legacy nearly extinguished.

The master study—once my father's domain—remains largely intact despite years of neglect. His heavy oak desk sits centered before windows that once overlooked manicured gardens, now wild and overgrown. Family photographs have long since been removed to my private safehouse, but their outlines remain visible on the walls, darker rectangles against faded paint like tombstones marking what was lost.

I've chosen this place deliberately for my homebase. The Baranov estate—the physical manifestation of what Markov destroyed—will bear witness to this pivotal moment in my vengeance. Here, surrounded by the remnants of my murdered family, I will extract the truth from Anastasia.

On the desk before me lies the evidence gathered over weeks of surveillance—photographs of Anastasia retrieving hidden communication devices, reports detailing her encrypted calls, thermal imaging showing her elevated body temperature following these mysterious conversations. The most damning evidence arrived this morning—surveillance footage from the motion-activated cameras I had installed in the blind spots of her private rooms.

The images play on my tablet, unmistakable in their implications. Anastasia, alone in her chambers, examining photographs with such naked emotion it feels obscene to witness. Her fingers tracing the images, her expression so vulnerable it bears no resemblance to the composed Bratva princess she presents to the world. The raw longing on her face, the unmistakable tenderness in her touch—emotions never directed toward me, not even in Paris.

The possibility of Anastasia sharing that tenderness with someone else burns like acid in my veins. I cannot breathe through the rage of imagining her with another man, of those blue eyes softening for someone who isn't me.

I’m consumed by the jealousy that has become as essential to my existence as vengeance itself. For years, I lived for a single purpose—destroying Mikhail Markov. Now that purpose shares space with an obsession I can no longer deny or control.

"Blyad," I mutter, aware of the weakness I've allowed to infiltrate my mission.

The mission stopped being just about vengeance the moment I saw Anastasia again across that dining table, her blue eyes widening with recognition before perfect composure locked back into place. Something fundamental shifted in that instant—my carefully constructed purpose splintering to accommodate this new obsession.

I gather the surveillance evidence. Today I will confront her. Today I will demand truth. Today I will discover who commands such devotion from the woman who has unwillingly claimed equal space in my mind with vengeance.

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