SUBJECT—ZOYA BARANOVA
QUALITIES—Polyglot, high IQ, disciplined, but prone to risk-taking and defiance.
LIKELY RESPONSE TO ARRANGED MARRIAGE—Initial resistance, probable escape attempt, eventual compliance through engineered leverage.
FINAL PHASE—"Wedding" to be performed under diplomatic cover, post-nuptial settlement to guarantee silence from all parties.
I scroll, and the first image loads. Zoya, in profile, sitting at a table in what looks like a Vienna café.
Zoya. My eyes widen. Her hair is a mess, but she's smiling a real smile. Her eyes are alive. Next image—security camera, low-res, her walking alone along the Seine, hair tucked under a black scarf. Last image—a passport photo. The background is blank, the light is flat, but the angle of her chin is unmistakable.
I sit back, and for a moment the world stops. The room is silent except for the dull whine of the fan in the rack server. Zoya Baranov is Sofia.MySofia. And her family is planning to sell her. She's the dowry, not the heiress.
The Baranovs are running the oldest con in the world. Zoya Baranov has been groomed for a single task—to secure an alliance with Matteo Ricci. The more I read, the worse it gets. Should she refuse, there are systems in place to arrange a kidnapping and hold her hostage through the Albani syndicate, which would give a scoundrel like Matteo currency to do as he pleases with her. Bile rises in my throat as I realize the extent of Valentin's greed. The Riccis alone control a dozen Mediterranean ports and have leverage inside the Vatican Bank. If she succeeds in gaining their favor through marriage, Valentin's network expands instantly. New trade routes wouldopen under diplomatic seals. Arms and gold could be transferred under the cover of cultural exchange. The Baranovs wouldn't just recover their lost territory. They would become the backbone of a transnational syndicate that no regime could touch. No street war, no police raid, no Bratva tribunal could undo it. All he needs is her signature.
I stand, blood boiling, and call up the comms. "Orlov, get the team ready."
This isn't about the Baranovs anymore. It's about Zoya, and if they think they can sell what's mine, they're even stupider than I thought.
9
ZOYA
Sunday is the only day my father pretends to be at leisure. He's not a churchgoer, but he observes the ritual. Brunch in the east dining room, newsprint spread like a murder, soft jazz in the background. He wears a cardigan, of all things, and demands we join him in silence for exactly ninety minutes. Ekaterina reads theFinancial Timeswith a marker, circling names like a sniper. I drink black coffee and stare at the table's reflection, counting the seconds until I can leave.
Today, the mood is brittle. My father has spent the last week on edge—calls at odd hours, men arriving in pairs, glances at the sky like he expects it to fall. Ekaterina is almost cheerful, which is never a good sign. I wonder if she knows something I don't or if she's simply high on the drama.
At noon, the grandfather clock strikes with all the subtlety of a firing squad. I flinch, and so does Ekaterina. My father does not.
Then the first shot, loud in its suddenness and far too close, shatters the calm.
It's not a car backfire. Not some idiot with a hunting license. It's the kind of sound you feel in your teeth, a pure note ofviolence that makes the floor vibrate. My cup rattles. My heart skips, then races.
We all freeze. For a moment there's just the echo, then the screaming starts outside, in the courtyard. I'm up before I realize it, hands flat on the table. Ekaterina follows, but slower. My father moves toward the hallway, pulling a pistol from a hidden pocket in the sideboard. He checks the magazine, chambers a round, and gestures for us to follow. There is no fear in him, only a cold efficiency that is somehow more terrifying.
He leads us into the corridor, barking orders at the guards. Two men hustle us up the main staircase, one in front, one behind. Their radios crackle in a dialect of code I never bothered to learn.
From the landing, I see them—men in black, full tactical gear, faces covered. They move in formation, sweeping the garden with disciplined arcs of gunfire. Our men are falling—red bursts on blue suits, the grass shredded to mud underfoot.
My father steps onto the balcony. I expect him to stay low, to command from cover, but he stands full height, like a general on a plinth. He shouts something, maybe a name, maybe a challenge. The men in black hesitate. Then one raises a rifle.
The shot is clean, almost gentle. My father's chest explodes in a mist of red, the spray painting the white stone railing. He staggers back, surprise in his eyes, then crumples to the ground. I can't breathe. Ekaterina screams, but the sound is far away, like a radio tuned to the wrong channel.
The guards drag us up another flight. The marble stairs are slick, my feet sliding in satin slippers. The house is suddenly alive with shouts, boots, gunfire. Doors slam. Someone yells for backup, but the only answer is static.
At the top of the stairs, they shove us into a side hall, then split, one guard with each of us, pushing us in oppositedirections. I reach for Ekaterina, but she's already gone, her face a mask of shock and rage.
My guard is barely older than me. He grips my wrist too tightly, his palm sweaty, gun drawn but shaking. He leads me through a warren of service corridors, away from the windows, toward the saferoom. But the code panel is dead, wires cut and sparking. The guard swears, then pivots, forcing me through the pantry and into the kitchen.
It's chaos. Blood on the floor, a line of bodies at the door. The guard hesitates, then decides the back exit is the only option. We sprint for it, ducking behind the steel fridge as more shots punch through the walls. The guard fires back, wild and high. I crouch, hands over my head, heart in my throat.
The next shot is so loud it deafens me. The guard's grip goes slack. I turn to see his face—calm, almost at peace, the bullet hole perfectly round in his temple. He drops, dragging me down with him.
I can't move. I stay curled on the tile, breaths coming in shallow, animalistic gasps.
Above me, men in black sweep the room. One kicks the body aside, toeing me gently to see if I'm alive. He says something in accented Russian. I don't answer.
He grabs my arm, lifts me to my feet, and points the gun at my chest. For a second, I think he's going to kill me, right here in the kitchen. But he only drags me forward, toward the courtyard and whatever comes next.