Page 47 of Obsessive Vows

The silver locket rests against my skin beneath layers of silk and carefully constructed composure. Every few minutes, I find my hand drifting toward it unconsciously, seeking the tangible connection to my daughter. Each time, I redirect the movement into a deliberate adjustment of my earring or hair—gestures that appear natural to observers but serve as constant reminders of my vigilance.

"The Minister of Economic Development is approaching," my father murmurs, his hand resting possessively at my elbow. "Remember what we discussed about the Kaliningrad development."

I incline my head slightly, acknowledging the directive without looking away from the approaching dignitary. Another player in the complex Bratva-political ecosystem my father has cultivated for decades—legitimate connections providing cover for operations that would shock these same officials if fully revealed.

"Minister Orlov," I greet him with perfectly calibrated warmth. "I'm honored you could attend."

"Miss Markov." He kisses my hand with performative gallantry. "Moscow has missed your presence. I understand Geneva provided excellent educational opportunities."

"Invaluable ones," I respond, launching into the rehearsed account of diplomatic theory and international finance studies, omitting the far more practical education I received in creating parallel identities and untraceable financial networks. "The Swiss approach to international negotiations offers fascinating contrasts to Russian methodologies."

My father watches with barely concealed satisfaction as I navigate the conversation exactly as required—directing it toward the Kaliningrad special economic zone, expressing educated interest in the minister's pet project, creating openings for my father to cultivate the relationship further.

This is what my diplomatic training was officially for—becoming a more effective asset in the Markov organization's sophisticated integration of criminal enterprise and legitimate business. Not for constructing the elaborate infrastructure protecting my daughter's existence.

As the minister moves on, replaced by an endless procession of Moscow elite, I maintain flawless composure. The perfect Bratva princess returned to assume her responsibilities. Nothing in my expression betrays that every fiber of my being strains toward Switzerland, toward a small chalet where my heart resides.

"You're performing beautifully," Lena whispers during a momentary lull, champagne flute concealing her lips. "Even your father seems impressed."

"Impressed enough to give me breathing room, I hope." I maintain my social smile while scanning the room with practiced casualness. "Any updates?"

She understands the coded question immediately. "Your investment portfolio remains secure. All accounts showing positive growth."

Our established shorthand confirming Sofia is well, the security protocols holding. The first week of separation has passed without incident.

"Good." I take a measured sip of champagne, wincing slightly as my body reminds me of its biological realities. Despite careful medication to suppress lactation, my breasts still ache occasionally—a physical reminder of Sofia that no medicine can fully eliminate. "And our other matters?"

"The usual maintenance schedule continues. I've created space in your calendar as discussed."

Translation: she's arranged the regular private time I'll need for secure communications with Anna, disguised as spa appointments and shopping excursions beyond my father's immediate surveillance.

My gaze drifts across the ballroom, cataloging faces and connections with the automatic assessment instilled through years of Bratva training. Most are familiar—political figures, business associates, other Bratva families maintaining the delicate alliances that prevent open warfare. A few new players have emerged during my absence, their positions in the hierarchy evident from interaction patterns and security arrangements.

Across the room, a flash of movement catches my attention—a tall figure in conversation with Yevgeny Kuznetsov, my father's longtime security chief. Something about the man's posture triggers recognition, a phantom memory I can't immediately place. Before I can focus properly, my attention is diverted by my father's approach.

"Anastasia." My father's voice interrupts before I can investigate further. He approaches with a man I don't recognize—tall, aristocratic, impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit that accentuates his naturally commanding presence. "Come meet Nikolai Sokolov. He's expressed interest in discussing our Eastern European ventures."

Something in my father's tone triggers internal alarms. Not the particular inflection he uses when family interests intersect with business, but something more sinister, more politically nuanced. A strategic introduction with purpose beyond simple networking.

I offer my hand with practiced grace, assessing this stranger swiftly. Nikolai Sokolov. Early thirties. The refined poise of old Bratva aristocracy tempered with modern sophistication. Eyes that assess without appearing to—a skill refined through years of dangerous political maneuvering.

"Miss Markov." His handshake is firm but appropriate. "Your diplomatic achievements have become quite the topic in certain circles. I understand your thesis on Eastern European economic integration was particularly insightful."

"You're well-informed, Mr. Sokolov." I maintain perfect social poise despite my surprise at his specific knowledge. My academic work had been deliberately kept low-profile. "The academy provided excellent frameworks for analyzing cross-border cooperation models."

"Indeed." His smile carries polite interest without revealing deeper thoughts. "I've recently been exploring similar models through our legitimate business ventures. Perhaps we might compare perspectives sometime."

My father watches this exchange with unreadable expression. The Sokolov name carries complicated history within Bratva circles—a once-dominant family reduced to secondary status through various power struggles. That my father facilitates this introduction signals shifting political alignments I don't fully understand.

"Nikolai has been instrumental in modernizing certain aspects across the Baltic region," my father adds, his casual tone belying the significant information he's sharing. "His family's shipping interests provide valuable infrastructure."

Coded language for smuggling routes and distribution networks. My diplomatic training translates these euphemisms automatically, cataloging the implications of such an alliance.

"I'd be interested to hear more about these innovations," I reply, maintaining the delicate balance between professional interest and social decorum.

"I believe you'll have the opportunity soon enough." Nikolai's response carries subtle nuance I can't quite decipher. His gaze lingers momentarily on my face, something like curiosity flickering behind his professional demeanor. "Your father and I have several matters under discussion that may benefit from your international perspective."

As we exchange pleasantries, my mind races through possible implications. The Sokolovs historically maintained territory in the eastern regions, rarely venturing into the western European markets my father has dominated for decades. This apparent collaboration suggests significant structural changes in the Bratva hierarchies—changes that occurred during my carefully orchestrated absence.

---