Page 29 of The Pakhan's Bride
We don't speak. He leads me down a corridor lined with dead relatives. At the end, there's a side room set with vodka, caviar, and a single chair. He gestures for me to sit. I don't. He pours two glasses and hands me one. His hand shakes, just once. He notices me noticing, and the smile returns. "Congratulations," he says, and clinks my glass.
"To what?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Survival."
I drain the vodka in one go. He watches, impressed.
The silence between us is vast, but not empty. I set my glass on the tray and stare him down. "You got what you wanted. Now what?"
He leans in. "Now we wait. The city is watching. They'll want to see if you can play the part."
"And if I don't?"
He considers this. "Then I suppose we improvise."
I nod, once. The rules are clear. Outside, the music starts again. Somewhere, Galina is comforting Lev, telling him this is a fairy tale with a happy ending. I'm not so sure. I finger the ring on my hand. The edge is so sharp it draws another drop of blood. Eventually, he goes to speak with his guests, and I go to fetch my son and head upstairs to my room.
Ten days after the wedding,I am summoned to the lion's den.
The study is not a masterpiece in subtle dominance. Bookcases along three walls are filled with titles no one ever reads—law, history, tactics, the collected memoirs of men whodied thinking they were the exception. The center is a table, long and gleaming, surrounded by eight chairs in black leather. All are occupied.
I'm escorted in by a man with shoulders like a refrigerator and the personality of a bullet. He closes the door behind me without a word. The meeting halts. Seven heads turn, some with open curiosity, more with the mild surprise of seeing an extinct animal shuffle into a zoo enclosure. Konstantin is at the head of the table, laptop open, eyes already on me before I make it three paces. "Good," he says. "She's here. Sit, please."
I do, pulling the chair out with the dignity of a chess queen being forced to play checkers. My place is between Sokolov and Orlov. In the time that I've spent here, I've familiarized myself with Konstantin's best men. Both are built like tanks, but only one is smart enough to keep his mouth shut. I nod to them. Orlov nods back politely.
Konstantin flicks a glance to Sokolov, who clears his throat. "There's chatter about the Black Sea shipment. Turks are squeezing us for another fifteen percent, and they're using the Americans as muscle." His voice is gravelly. "I've got six men in place, but if customs hits the crates?—"
"They won't," Konstantin says.
Sokolov shrugs, unconvinced. Orlov jumps in, fingers fluttering over the edge of a spreadsheet. "Payments are on track, but we're running hot in Batumi. The port master wants a side deal or he walks it to Interpol."
Konstantin's gaze sharpens. "Handle it."
I wait, invisible. This is not for me. But then Konstantin closes his laptop and looks at me. The room follows, eight pairs of eyes triangulating. "Your thoughts, Zoya?"
I'm so startled I almost laugh. I don't. Instead, I take three seconds to consider the setup. It's a test, but not just for me. I look at Sokolov, then Orlov, then back to Konstantin. "If theTurks are using the Americans as leverage, they want deniability more than money. Hit the port master with kompromat. Show him you can ruin him without ever firing a shot. If that doesn't work, pay him, but not until the day before the shipment lands. Make him sweat."
Orlov smiles a little. Sokolov glances at Konstantin, then at me, clearly astounded. Konstantin looks proud. "You sound like your father."
The compliment tastes like rust, but I accept it, nonetheless. "He taught me to see pressure points."
Konstantin's lip curves. "Anything else?"
I tap the table once, a habit I picked up from Papa. "If you're worried about Interpol, use the Batumi leg to slip a ghost container onto the manifest. Something noisy enough to catch the inspectors' eyes but harmless. Let them get a win. They'll miss what's really important in the confusion."
There's a moment of silence. Then Orlov laughs. "Fuck. I like her."
Konstantin closes the file on his laptop and fixes Orlov with a look that wipes the smile off his face. For some reason, a flush climbs up my neck and settles on my cheeks.
The meeting moves on. Sokolov is still skeptical, but he can't argue with the logic. I sit back, content to watch the men re-calculate my value in real time. Afterward, Konstantin dismisses the room with a wave. The lieutenants file out, some offering nods, one or two with glances that linger. Orlov actually bows, just a hair. When the last man is gone, Konstantin leans back in his chair and studies me. "You could have beenPakhanyourself," he says.
I don't bother denying it. "But I'm not."
He stands and comes around the table. I tense, but he only perches on the edge next to me, arms folded. "Why help?"
I snort. "If your men fuck up, Lev and I go down with the rest of you."
He laughs, clearly delighted by my honesty. " I appreciate that."
