Page 26 of The Pakhan's Bride
"Because you're smarter than everyone else," I say, "and I need someone who can keep up."
She closes her eyes. When she opens them, the gray-green is as clear as a forest in daylight. "Fine," she says. "But on one condition."
I wait.
She leans forward, voice low and flat. "You never, ever threaten Lev. Not even as a joke. Not even as a mistake."
I'm almost insulted at what she thinks I am, but then again, this is a girl who doesn't know she was living with monsters all this while. So I let it slide with a quiet "Agreed" instead. She sitsback, and for the first time, she looks tired. I clear my throat. "There is one condition."
She raises a brow at me. "Seriously?"
I shrug. "You have to earn your trust, sweet girl. And you've always presented a bit of a flight risk, haven't you?"
At that, Zoya smiles humorlessly. "Touché. What is it?"
"No phone," I reply, looking directly into her eyes. "Not until you've established where your loyalties lie."
She chews the inside of her lip, and I have to fist my palms to stop myself from staring too long. "How do I talk to others?"
My eyes glint. "Have you been doing a lot of talking while living in that self-imposed exile of yours?"
Once again, I pull a sad little smile from her, and once again, I have to remind my heart to slow the fuck down. She sighs and nods. "Fine. Do I get to use a house phone, at least?"
I stand, toss the empty cup in the trash. "Yes, you do. We leave soon."
Then I exit the room, and once outside and near the camera feed, I watch her exhale, head in her hands, and begin to cry. For a moment, I want to walk back in and take her in my arms. But I know better.
Later, when I bring Lev to her and let him in, she hugs him so hard he gasps. She kisses the top of his head, then buries her face in his hair. She glances at the camera and gives me a look I can't read.
We leave the holding site shortly after. The air outside is glass, so cold it cracks when you breathe. The three of them wait in the lobby, Zoya with Lev on her lap and Galina beside her, hands folded as neat as a corpse's. I'm last out, carrying a folder thick with signatures and witness stamps. The vehicle is a black BMW X7, windows tinted so dark you can't see the faces inside. Lev curls in the middle seat, legs tucked to his chest, awake andcurious. Galina rides shotgun, rigid, eyes fixed straight ahead. Zoya sits behind me, arms around Lev, jaw set.
I drive the first stretch myself. The city is waking up, headlights snaking through the frost. We pass three police roadblocks in ten kilometers. Each time, I see the recognition in the officer's face, the snap to attention, the slow pivot of the gun barrel away from our plates.
It's silent inside except for Lev's breathing and the faint click of Zoya's teeth. The cityscape slips by, a new development where the old factory used to be, a cluster of prefab towers looming like tombstones. Every so often, I catch Zoya watching me in the rearview, eyes narrowed to slits. I look back just long enough to remind her who holds the wheel.
At the ring road, the convoy merges with two more black SUVs. They follow at perfect distance, never overtaking, never lagging. The choreography is military. Zoya clocks this, of course. She notes the radio traffic, the change in pace when we near a tunnel, the way the rear vehicle drifts left to block any tail. I can feel her running the scenario, calculating escape vectors.
She won't find one.
As we close on the center, the skyline brightens. The old Baranov banners are gone, replaced with the Vetrov double-wolf in silver. We take the embankment road, then a right onto Komsomolsky. The traffic thins. The estate looms above, walled in steel and stone, a fortress disguised as modernism. The gate opens at our approach, no ID required. The driveway is heated, snowless. Cameras follow us, automated and constant.
I stop at the entry portico. Two guards in suits open the doors, one for Galina, one for Zoya and Lev. Zoya lifts Lev in her arms. He blinks in the daylight, confused, then burrows against her. I escort them in, up the marble stairs and into the grand foyer. The house is enormous, but the footprint is all vertical,atriums, balconies, glass catwalks with sight lines that would make a sniper drool. The staff bow their heads as we pass.
Zoya's eyes flick around the space, cataloguing everything—four exits, three security cameras, two servants, one way out through the garden if you cut left at the first staircase. She notices the anti-tamper plates on the doors and the absence of family photos on the walls. She's looking for weakness, for a story behind the veneer.
I lead them to the second floor, where the family quarters are. This wing holds a suite, a guest room, and a few other rooms, including a separate room of my own. The suite I've assigned for Zoya is larger than her childhood home's entire upper level. Silk carpets. Polished mahogany. Bed the size of a raft. There's a balcony, but it's locked. At least for now. Zoya sets Lev on the bed. He bounces once, then collapses into the duvet, face lost in the pillow. She looks at me, waiting.
"Galina's room is next door," I say. "Lev can sleep with either of you, but he also has his own room which we're fixing. It's the small attached room to the north of this suite. It connects directly. Should be ready by the weekend. Breakfast is at seven. If you want anything, you ask for me."
I pause for a breath. "He's going to need a nanny."
"No such thing," she fires back immediately. "He has Galina."
Fair enough.I dip my head in acknowledgment. "Fine. We'll enroll him in a private school. I'll forward the files of the best ones this side of town. Take your pick. He'll start Monday."
She nods but says nothing. I start to turn when I hear a small voice from the bed.
"Do I get toys here?" Lev asks, muffled.
