Page 54 of The Pakhan's Bride
Outside the office, the hallway is alive with foot traffic—guards crossing, staff running emergency protocols, Galina in a sweater and pearls, acting like she isn't listening to every word. I hear her heels click up to my door, pause, then retreat. She's logging my moods, and later, she'll relay them to Zoya over tea.
I loosen my tie, then think better of it and tear it off. The silk nearly snaps, and I toss it onto the radiator, where it coils like a sleeping snake.
Orlov blinks but says nothing. "What's your read?" I ask.
He tilts his head. "Professional with a playful streak. Not a crime of passion, not a warning shot from amateurs. If the goal was to kill, they'd have dosed all the glasses."
"They wanted to make a point," I finish.
He nods, eyes narrow. "It worked."
I smile, all teeth, and let the silence extend until I see sweat pop on his hairline.
The door opens. Sokolov enters, two guards at his flanks. He's wearing the same suit as last night, but now it fits himlike a second skin. "Pakhan," he says, "we've finished the sweep. Nothing out of line. The perimeter is locked, the guest list triple-checked. No one entered or left since the last shift. We have the servants in the annex and the chef in isolation."
"And the guests?"
"All cleared to leave at 8:00 on the dot."
I nod, then reach for the coffee. The mug is empty, and I almost throw it but stop myself. "Run the tapes again. Every angle."
Sokolov looks at Orlov, then at me. "It's the server who escaped, isn't it?"
"Not him," I say. "Though it'd be unfortunate if we don't find him. It's the hand on his leash we care about."
Sokolov's mouth quirks, then he leaves, pulling the guards with him.
I sit in the office and watch the sunrise hit the glass towers across the river. I imagine the men in those offices—oligarchs, politicians, police captains—waking up to the news that the house of Vetrov nearly collapsed overnight and that thePakhan'swife survived by sheer force of habit. I imagine the calls they will make, the alliances they will test, the debts they will try to collect.
Orlov hovers. I let him.
"Prepare a statement for the staff," I say. "No one is to speak to media or police. We handle it in-house. Anyone leaks, they're gone."
He makes another note.
"Get me a new tie, too," I add, "and tell the kitchen I want fresh eggs. Not the powdered shit they serve the guards."
Orlov hesitates. "And Zoya?"
I drum my fingers on the desk, counting out a measure of patience. "She's in her rooms?"
"Hasn't left since last night," he says. "Security confirms."
"Good," I say, though I know it isn't.
When Orlov leaves, I turn the main monitor to the live feed of the staff annex. The young maid is crying now, Sokolov at her side, speaking not as a wolf but as a father. I recognize the trick—he's making himself small, offering absolution before she even confesses. I study her face, the tremor in her hands, the slow collapse of will.
This is not a house. It is a machine, and every moving part exists to serve the engine. I flex my hands, let the skin stretch over the scars.
If someone wanted to scare me, they picked the wrong target. I make a call to Alexei. The line picks up on the first ring.
"Status?" he asks.
"We're clean," I say. "But we're being watched."
A pause. "By whom?"
"That's what you're going to find out. Sokolov will deliver fresh intel soon."
