Page 72 of Obsessive Vows

The door opens without warning, Dmitri entering with professionalism that doesn't quite mask the satisfaction in his expression at interrupting our private moment. Two junior security officers flank him, hands resting on visible weapons.

"Unauthorized security breach detected in Miss Markova's private chambers." Dmitri's announcement carries formal protocol despite his obvious awareness of the situation. The toothpick shifts in his mouth as his gaze moves between us, assessing the tension with uncomfortable perception. "Standard response protocols activated."

"Stand down, Dmitri." Anastasia's command emerges with perfect Bratva princess authority, composure fully restored despite the emotion charging the air moments earlier. "Mr. Baranov arrived early for our security briefing. Communication error, nothing more."

Dmitri's eyebrow raises slightly—his tell for disbelief—but position requires acceptance of her explanation. "Of course, Miss Markova. However, your father requests immediate presence in the main study for the scheduled briefing."

"We'll be there momentarily." Her dismissal leaves no room for argument despite Dmitri's obvious reluctance to leave us alone again. "Secure the southwest corridor for our arrival."

After momentary hesitation, Dmitri withdraws with visible disapproval, the junior officers following with similar reluctance. The door closes, leaving us in charged silence that vibrates with unfinished confrontation.

"This isn't over, Anastasia." I maintain distance despite the urge to close it, to recapture the moment of vulnerability before interruption. "We will finish this conversation."

"Yes, we will." Her response carries unexpected weight, something resolved in her expression replacing defensive evasion. "But not here. Not surrounded by my father's surveillance and security teams constantly interrupting."

"Where, then?" The question emerges more eagerly than tactically advisable, revealing priority shift I can no longer deny even to myself.

"The Baranov estate." Her answer shocks me—the abandoned family home I visited that morning, the shrine to everything Markov destroyed. "Tomorrow night. No security teams, no surveillance, no interruptions. Just truth between us."

The suggestion carries implications beyond tactical consideration—her willingness to meet at my family's estate, away from her father's protection, suggesting either trap or genuine desire for resolution beyond performance.

"How did you know about the estate?" I ask, tactical assessment temporarily overriding emotional response.

"I make it my business to know everything about my arranged fiancé." Her smile holds no warmth, though something like resignation replaces the anger from moments earlier. "Just as you've made it your business to know everything about me."

"Not everything, it seems." The reference to her secure communications hangs between us, unresolved question that will determine everything that follows.

"Tomorrow night you'll get your answers." She moves toward her closet, practical focus replacing emotional vulnerability. "Now we need to meet my father before his suspicion escalates beyond management."

I watch her retreat behind perfectly composed Bratva princess facade, the glimpse of vulnerability vanishing beneath practiced performance. Yet something has fundamentally shifted between us—her agreement to meet at the Baranov estate, her promise of truth, her momentary willingness to reveal what she protects with such elaborate measures.

The mission remains absolute—Mikhail Markov must pay for my family's murder, his empire must collapse, justice long denied must finally be delivered. Yet increasingly, Anastasia occupies equal space in my mind, her secrets becoming as essential to uncover as her father's vulnerabilities.

Tomorrow night at the Baranov estate—the physical manifestation of everything I've lost—I will finally learn what Anastasia Markova protects with such dedication. Who commands her loyalty beyond her father's organization. What secrets justify encryption protocols that exceed Bratva standards.

And then I will decide whether those secrets threaten my mission—or offer unexpected salvation from the single-minded vengeance that has defined my existence for five empty years.

20

VICKTOR

The Baranov estate stands abandoned in the late afternoon light, generations of family history crumbling beneath Moscow's unforgiving seasons.

Today it serves another purpose—secure location for the conversation that can no longer be postponed.

I sweep the main reception room for surveillance devices a third time, professional paranoia overriding rational assessment that already confirmed the location's security. No electronic monitoring. No listening devices. No observers beyond the ghosts of Baranov ancestors watching from tarnished portraits along the walls.

As I inspect the Makarov secured at my back, check the ceramic blade concealed at my ankle, verify escape routes once more, I acknowledge the truth beneath strategic considerations: this meeting transcends mission parameters. Threatens discipline. Creates vulnerabilities I've avoided throughout my campaign against Mikhail Markov.

I've arranged contingencies for all potential scenarios—Anastasia arriving with security team (counter-surveillance measures activated), attempting to kill me (defensive protocols without lethal response), fleeing before conversation concludes (secondary interception points established), or the most dangerous possibility of all: genuine connection that compromises mission focus.

The security alert chimes softly from my phone—perimeter breach at the eastern gate. She's arrived alone, her vehicle approaching through the overgrown drive as my analysis predicted. The perfect Bratva princess accepting dangerous invitation from arranged fiancé—either supreme confidence or a risk assessment.

I move to the window, watching as she exits her Mercedes with practiced grace despite obvious tension in her movements. Blue dress beneath tailored coat protecting against spring chill. Hair arranged in loose waves rather than severe chignon preferred for Bratva functions. Deliberate choices communicating something I haven't yet decoded.

She pauses at the entrance, hand hovering over the ancient door knocker before squaring shoulders with visible determination. The gesture reveals vulnerability beneath perfect composure—a glimpse of the woman behind Bratva princess facade.

The woman I met in Paris. The woman who haunts my thoughts with unwelcome emotion. The woman whose secure communications have consumed my surveillance resources with increasingly personal fixation.

---