Page 42 of The Pakhan's Bride
She's still better at the game than I'll ever be.
When the sun starts to set, we walk the grounds together, arm in arm. The snow is thin, patchy, and the breeze smells of smoke and thaw. We walk in silence, boots crunching on the gravel. I feel her weight next to mine, light but unyielding. At the garden gate, she stops. "You've changed," she says, voice low. I brace for the insult.
"You've somehow morphed back to the sister I had before the world tried to take you away from me."
She brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucks it behind my ear, and smiles. It's the smile of a girl who once believed in happy endings.
16
KONSTANTIN
While Zoya settles in with her sister under my roof, I keep myself busy with business in my estate's office room. My men file in, on time, silent as priests. Orlov first, hunched in his gray suit, eyes like old river stones. Sokolov next, shoulders squared, the walk of a man who checks every room for snipers before entering. The rest fan out along the walls, inner circle only, each one a veteran of some private war. My seat is at the head, polished oak so dense it could stop a bullet. It has. Once. The bloodstain is long gone but the grain remembers. On the far wall, the maps—Moscow in colored zones, each street drawn and re-drawn in pencil, updated daily. To my left, a full panel of live feeds, every gate, every corridor, even the basements. No one speaks until I say so.
Orlov starts, of course. He has the age and the seniority, and he enjoys both. He places a folder on the table, neat and precise. "Report from the Petrovsky district," he says. "Our shipment arrived, no losses. Customs chief took the new deal."
"Good," I say. My voice never needs volume in this room. "And the man's brother?"
Orlov shrugs, a tilt of the jaw. "Still missing. But we found blood on the river ice." It's enough. I make a note with the stub of a pencil, as if the rest will resolve itself.
Sokolov leans forward. The table seems to bend to him. "There is a problem with the woman."
He doesn't have to say the name. Every man here knows it.
"What problem?" I ask.
He taps his fingers, steady as a metronome. "She walks the house at night. Talks to staff. She questions security. Never the same path twice."
I look at him, dead center. "You are afraid of a girl?"
He almost smiles, but his eyes stay hard. "Not the girl. The intent."
I let it sit. Orlov clears his throat, glances at the map. "Her sister has always been trouble," he says. "The house is quieter now, but the new one… she is more clever than the first."
A pause as the others digest this. Someone coughs. A phone vibrates and is quickly silenced.
"The first one is no better," Sokolov scowls heavily at Orlov. "She always asks about the shipments," he continues. "She wanted to know the schedule for the east warehouse. I told her it was classified. She laughed at me."
I picture Zoya doing just this, and for one mad second, I want to laugh at Sokolov too. Instead, I settle on a question. "Is there more?" I ask.
The two men trade a look. Orlov opens his folder, runs a finger down the page. "She also asked about the basement cameras. She wanted to know why there are none in the vault."
Now the room tightens, as if pulled by invisible string. I keep my face neutral, the expression I use when ordering executions. "It's fine," I say. "Let her see the vault if she wants to."
Sokolov blinks. "Pakhan, is that wise?"
I rest my hands on the table, fingers steepled. "People show themselves when they think no one is watching. Let her think she has freedom."
Orlov nods, but it is slow, a concession, not a conviction. "And if she tries to run?"
"She won't." I shift my gaze to the live feeds.
Sokolov's voice is thin ice. "You trust her?"
I shake my head, just once. "I trust the blood in her. The rest is up to me."
They do not argue. The meeting dissolves, men collecting their folders, sliding out the door without a word. Orlov lingers, as always. "You want my advice?" he says softly.
I nod.
