Page 48 of The Pakhan's Bride
"Four plainclothes in the salon, two in the kitchen, one each on the balcony and garage. And the new man on perimeter."
"The banker's son?"
"Ja. On time, alone. Sits in the drawing room."
I nod. "And the parliamentarian?"
"Fashionably late. Wants a private word before dinner. Something about trade contracts and a favor for his mistress."
"Let him wait."
Orlov grins.
"And the industrialist's wife?"
"In the chapel, admiring your Madonna and pretending not to be afraid."
"Let her pray," I say. "Then bring her up."
Orlov nods, taps the tablet. The staff is in motion before he clears the threshold.
Finish the tie—hand-stitched, silk, the color of ink in a broken pen. The knot is perfect. I check the line, collar to hem. Some days, the uniform is a second skin. Other days, it chafes. Tonight, it's armor.
Last check—the guest file. I run it again, mentally.
First—the banker's son, Leopold Gratz. His father built an empire laundering old war money through Vienna's private trusts. Leopold is shinier than the generation before him, all tailored suits and curated charm, but the steel beneath is the same. He oversees discreet capital flows through Swiss intermediaries and once moved half a billion in arms profits through an opera fund. He carries himself like a prince but never forgets which knife to twist.
Second—the parliamentarian. Officially, he chairs a cultural heritage committee. Unofficially, he votes where the money tells him to. His district is a safe seat, inherited and padded with donor loyalty, but he keeps one foot in every criminal economy that lets Vienna breathe cleanly. He never raises his voice. That's what the enforcers are for.
Third—the industrialist's wife. She runs her husband's affairs in practice, if not in name. On paper, she owns vineyardsand hotel chains. In reality, she controls distribution for three eastern syndicates and launders the profits through art auctions and heritage preservation boards. Her perfume is layered over cordite, and her smile is an artifact of long negotiations.
The secondary guests arrive in clusters. An old man who built his fortune on privatized rail, now mostly a source of connections. A shipping broker with close ties to the Danube ports, whose nephew handles bribes to border control. A restaurateur with more safes than ovens, whose name appears in every black book worth reading. A young woman in silver heels who isn't on the list but whose presence means someone important wants her seen.
The salon fills slowly. The wine is decanted in silence. The staff move like dancers trained for combat. This is not about food. This is about rank, positioning, recalibration. They came to see if the Russian holds court or if Moscow has finally grown too far away to matter.
Zoya is locked down for the hour and will be in her room until summoned. I did it for her safety, but also to see if Ekaterina would bite. She did. Within ten minutes, reports say, Ekaterina was in the kitchen "consulting" with the head chef, then in the service corridor, then inspecting the silver. No official title, no badge of office, but the staff obeyed her anyway. I text Sokolov.
Keep eyes on the older Baranov. Do not engage. Report deviations.
He replies,
She's in the dining room now. Rearranged place cards. Made two phone calls from the house line, but just to confirm the arrival of some of the guests. Both calls were short.
I let the news rest in my bloodstream. She's overplaying, or she wants me to think she is.
Downstairs, the noise of readiness. Linens pressed, glasses fingerprinted, every micro-detail shined for inspection. The house knows what is at stake, even if the guests pretend not to.
I head for the landing. Two men on the stairs, both ex-military, both new. They clear my path with a smoothness that makes me proud. Halfway down, I pause at the overlook and watch Ekaterina command the staff with a surgeon's efficiency. She doesn't see me. Or pretends not to.
At the bottom, Orlov intercepts. "Wine?" he offers, the bottle presented for my approval.
I read the label, check the foil, pass the glass beneath my nose. "Acceptable," I say.
He pours neatly. "Anything else?"
"Cameras," I say. "Are they patched into the study?"
"Everything in real time. No dead zones."
