Page 51 of The Pakhan's Bride
"Three on the table."
The doctor interrupts, voice shaky. "He's stable. I've given him charcoal and saline. We need to get him to a clinic, but he'll live. Probably."
"What was it?" asks Orlov, though I can see from the set of his jaw that he already knows.
The doctor holds up a swab wrapped in plastic. "Red dust on the rim of the offending glass, I presume his lips came in contact with it. Not arsenic. Something newer, synthetic, hard to trace. Probably applied with a brush right before serving."
Konstantin finally turns. His eyes are glacier, nothing behind them but frozen sea. "Who touched the bottles after they left the cellar?"
Orlov reads from the list. "Sommelier. Head server. Ekaterina, some, Zoya."
I flinch. "I didn't hand him that glass."
Konstantin absorbs this, unmoved. "Check the cameras."
"Already queued," Orlov says. "We'll have it in five."
The banker's son makes a sound somewhere between a half-groan, half-laugh. "Good wine," he rasps.
I'm grateful he's not causing a scene. Most in his place would. Sokolov pats his shoulder, not unkindly. "You have good taste. Bad luck."
In the corner, the doctor packs his bag, hands shaking. I watch his fingers. No wedding ring. Faint nicotine stains. Orlov's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then hands it to Konstantin. "Alexei is on-site," he says.
Konstantin nods. "Bring him in."
The corridor floods with new energy. Alexei Vetrov appears, a presence ahead of a body, the ghost of every decision you've ever regretted. His suit is gray, finely cut, and he wears a tie the color of old rubies. He takes in the room with a single sweep, then zeroes on the banker's son. He does not break stride.He kneels beside the guest, murmurs something in his ear. The banker's son tries to answer, fails. Alexei stands, turns to Konstantin, and says, "It's handled."
No further explanation. He pivots to me. "Zoya. My dear. Are you well?"
"I am," I say. "But your cousin isn't."
He smiles, the way a snake might. "He's thePakhan," he says without looking at Konstantin. "Trust me when I say he's handled far worse."
For a second, no one moves. Then the room resumes its cycle. Alexei confers with Orlov, voice pitched low. Sokolov checks his phone, probably running background on every server in the house. Konstantin folds his hands behind his back, rocks on his heels, and studies the carpet as if trying to remember where it came from.
The staff file in, one by one, for questioning. Each sits in the straight-backed chair by the window, hands folded, eyes locked on the pattern of the rug. They answer in single syllables. Yes, sir. No, sir. Never, sir. The words pile up like shrapnel.
When it's my turn, I take the chair. Konstantin looms over my right shoulder. Alexei sits across, legs crossed, pen poised.
"Name," he says.
I arch an eyebrow. "You know who I am."
"It's for the record," he replies, unblinking.
"Zoya Valentinovna Vetrov."
"Where were you at the time of the incident?"
"I was outside."
"Did you observe anyone tampering with his glass?"
"No," I say.
Alexei notes it, then glances at Konstantin. "Any reason your wife could be a murderer?"
Konstantin's voice is granite. "I doubt it."
