Page 49 of The Pakhan's Bride
"Good."
The table is set. Ekaterina has taken over the center of the room, gray-green dress like a slice of midnight, hair swept back with military rigor. She inspects the cutlery, moves a napkin one centimeter to the right, and dismisses the server with a nod. The women here run on silent authority, but Ekaterina runs on the kind that makes men want to confess before she's even asked a question. She glances at me, then looks away. For a second, I see the girl she once was, lighting fires in the woods behind the Baranov dacha, then framing the neighbor's boys for the arson. But only for a second.
The dining room officially opens to the guests, and Leopold Gratz arrives first. His gaze sweeps across the room and immediately settles on Ekaterina, whose hand he moves to kiss. She lets him linger a beat too long before motioning to the seat at her right, the place of strategic favor. He takes it with a nod that carries the weight of four generations of banking secrecy.
Next, the parliamentarian makes his entrance. He doesn't shake hands. Instead, he glances around the room, expression unreadable, his tie slightly askew like a man pretending not to be under surveillance. He gives a soft word to the maître d' and seats himself without waiting to be told.
The other guests file in. Ekaterina is already in her element. Ice-blonde hair, not a strand out of alignment. She arranges the seating, introduces herself to each guest, never by first name, always as "Valentin Baranov's daughter." The echo is telling. Every man here knows the Baranov name and what happened to its last living owner.
The industrialist's wife floats in last, as if timing were a weapon. Her gown is minimal, diamonds severe, and her hair caught in a net of pearls. She pauses at the threshold, enough for the cameras to catch the silhouette. Then she walks to her seat without looking left or right, the perfume she wears unmistakably hers—oud, myrrh, and power.
Orlov signals from the doorway—all clear, guests accounted for.
I clear my throat, not for effect but to mark the beginning.
"Gentlemen," I say, "and ladies." The parliamentarian flinches. The banker's son grins. "Tonight is not about the past. It's about what happens when we stop pretending there is no future. Please enjoy yourselves."
The banker's son remarks on the crystal, noting its cut and clarity. Ekaterina responds in flawless German, casually revealing that the set was secured just this morning. She speaks of "transition years," of "recalibrating to modern expectations." She references old alliances, names half the men's dead fathers in her opening remarks. They respond, first out of politeness, then out of something closer to fear. She directs the staff with the flick of a finger. They follow, never waiting for confirmation from the man who technically signs their paychecks.
I watch quietly, although I have half a mind to choke her here and now. But it is far more important to know what I'm up against. The old Bratva would have called her dangerous. They'd have been right. My own men are stiffer than usual, moving around her as if she radiates static. They don't look at her directly unless spoken to.
The room is a catacomb of old money—crystal fixtures tuned for maximum refraction, chandeliers like upside-down forests. Every surface reflects the image of the table, multiplying the players into dozens of potential threats. The silverware is weighty enough to be used as a bludgeon. There's a knife at every setting, another signal, but only to those who speak the language.
Above the wainscoting, cameras are disguised as cherubs and caryatids. Each one is patched into the study, to my phone, and to a cloud server that can be wiped in sixty seconds. Insurance.
Ekaterina compliments everyone in some way or the other, then pivots into a story about her father and a Turkish consul in 2007. The details are intimate, but sanitized. No mention of the murders that night, just the caviar and the joke about Polish judges. They laugh, but the banker's son watches her hands the whole time.
After the first course, the parliamentarian leans in. "You are your father's daughter," he says, voice lowered, "but I think you are more dangerous."
Ekaterina lifts her glass. "Thank you," she says, deadpan. "I have better teachers."
The men bristle, unsure whether this is a compliment or a threat. She lets them sweat in the silence.
The staff brings in the fish, served on plates cold enough to fog the air. Ekaterina tastes first, then signals the others to proceed.
Orlov passes behind me, whispers, "She's rerouted the wait staff. They only answer to her tonight."
I nod, not surprised. "It's time. Send for my wife."
A few minutes later, Zoya arrives, and she is easily the most beautiful woman anyone has laid eyes on. The dress refracts every photon in the room, makes her the axis of the table before she even speaks. Hair up, not a strand out of place, coils so tight they could cut glass. She moves like a ghost with unfinished business. When the servers draw out her chair, she acknowledges them with a nod so slight it could be missed.
She takes in the table with one sweep. Eyes clock the exits, catalog the guards, measure the distance between each guest's hand and the nearest weapon. I track her gaze and see the architecture of the evening being rebuilt in her head.
Ekaterina begins a story about the summer palace in Yalta, her voice smooth, measured, designed to impress. But then Zoya speaks, and the entire room shifts. The change is subtle but complete—as if her sister has vanished from the table entirely. Heads turn. Eyes fix. Every man and woman leans in, lips parted, captivated by a voice that doesn't yet know its own power. Zoya could be recounting a fairytale, and they'd believe every word. She isn't trying to command the room, but that only makes it worse for Ekaterina. I see the flush rise in her cheeks, sharp and furious, staining her composure with that particular shade of red reserved for envy. I sip my wine, hiding the laugh that threatens to slip free.
Conversation shifts—import quotas, border skirmishes, the feasibility of running high-value goods through the new Black Sea corridor. I answer questions, deflect provocations, but keep my eye on Zoya.
She waits, coiled, until the parliamentarian raises his glass. "To the new order," he says, eyes half-lidded, "and to old names rising from ashes."
There is a pause. Then Zoya lifts her own glass, meets my stare, and says, "Ashes don't rise. They drift. Or they settle." She's telling them she's part of the Vetrov name now. My heart thrums.
The room freezes. For a heartbeat, even Ekaterina is silent. Then the parliamentarian laughs, loud and genuine. "Spoken like a true Baranov!" He slams his glass, sloshing wine onto the linen.
She reacts with the loveliest smile. Another hour passes, and she's the star of the evening, her sister having receded into an obscure corner. Post dinner, the guests hang back to indulge in the rare peace of conversations that follow a good meal. I excuse myself and head to the adjoining balcony, where Zoya stands. Outside, the temperature is below zero, but the stone balcony is empty except for a single figure.
Zoya is leaning by the rail, dress thin as a razor, breath rising in small, white clouds. She doesn't turn when I approach. Frost blooms on the marble beneath her palms.
"You could have sent for me sooner," she says, voice flat.
