Page 47 of The Pakhan's Bride
She walks through the house now with a kind of quiet command. Not from fear, not from rank, but from trust. Theguards step aside for her. The chef brings her samples to taste. She hums when she chops onions. Sometimes, I think she's more powerful here than she ever was as Papa's shadow. Here, she is not the old woman in the corner. She is the keeper of the boy. The guardian of the wife. Konstantin understands that, respects it in ways Papa never did. And in his strange, iron-bound way, he gives her more than protection. He gives her dignity.
Galina goes back to her trimming. "You're better than her, you know. Stronger. But you're always chasing, never stopping to see what you already have."
My throat feels itchy. Galina looks up at me, just once, with a small smile playing on her lips. "He loves you,Zoyechka. Perhaps that isn't the worst thing in this world."
With a little nod, I leave the greenhouse, the scent of rosemary still sharp in my throat. I return to my room and have a quiet meal to myself, nothing extravagant. Once I've finished, I read a book, think of Konstantin in my bed with me, and will myself to sleep an hour.
Evening has fallen by the time I wake up. Lev is back and playing in the nursery. I visit him and ruffle his hair, plant a million kisses on his tiny, sweet face. When he's had his dinner and gone to take some lessons with the tutor, there's a knock at my door, precisely at 8:07. A maid waits in the hallway, face composed, hands folded. She holds out a parcel—tissue paper, a band of navy ribbon, the card tucked under the knot.
"From the master," she says, eyes at my chin.
I take the package. The door closes with a hush, and the isolation is complete. I weigh the box in my hands, test the give of the paper. Inside, a slip of silk, a dress the color of midnight, liquid in its drape, cool as water. The label is Parisian. Of course. Konstantin is not subtle, but he is thorough.
There is a note, handwritten.
Wear this for me.
I set the card aside, touch the fabric. It glides over my skin, almost frictionless. For a second, I am back in the hotel room on the Rue Cler, my fingers in his hair, his mouth against my collarbone, the tastes of wine and rain in the air. I shake off the memory, force myself to focus.
This is not a gift. It is a test. He wants to see if I will bend, if I will perform for him the way his men do, the way his city does. He wants to see if I can be remade in silk and subservience.
But there's a thrill in it, too. The line of the bodice, the engineered curve at the hip, the secret slit that climbs to the thigh. The cut is exact, every measurement known before I knew it myself. I try it on just to see. The fabric fits like memory. It clings where it should, floats everywhere else, a contradiction I can't untangle.
For a moment, I want to believe I could be this woman—elegant, untouchable, a knife so beautiful you'd thank it for drawing blood. I imagine the dinner—guests in black suits, the wine flowing freely, Ekaterina radiant, thePakhanat his throne. I see myself at the head of the table, eyes on every fork, every glass, every traitor in the room. I see the way he'll watch me, the challenge in his smile.
What would it be like to love the man I once ached to hunt down and kill?
A rush flows through me, hot under the skin. It's not just the dress. It's the promise of something sharp, the knowledge that I can outplay him if I'm clever enough. I slip out of the dress, lay it on the bed. My heart is racing. I pull on a robe, pour a glass of vodka, and stand at the window, letting the cold fight with the heat inside me. I think of the future—raw, uncertain, but suddenly more possible than before.
The anticipation is almost as good as the kill.
18
KONSTANTIN
It's the night of the event. Vienna is one of the few cities in Europe where power still wears a silk glove. The old families there don't dirty their hands with blood in the street. They prefer quiet takeovers, forged ledgers, bribes passed in opera houses and under museum wings. But that makes them no less dangerous.
The Viennese underworld is built on old money, aristocratic rot, and generations of cold alliances. By hosting this dinner, I am asserting myself not just as Moscow'sPakhan, but as a continental force. I want these men and women to see me not as a barbarian from the East but as one of them. If I can charm them, negotiate with them, impress them, I secure more than temporary favor. I earn access to their networks—clean routes for trade, white-glove laundering services, bankers with no country, and officials who look the other way. More importantly, I put the Baranov stain behind me. In Vienna, image is everything. And tonight, I want to project myself as the man who saved the sisters from the tyranny of their father and gave them a home.
Feels like a bit of a deception since I only opened my home to Zoya, but if Ekaterina is here and projecting ownership over what isn't hers, she may as well be of some use to me.
Dress code for the night—double-cuffed white, jacket like fresh tarmac, platinum links at the wrists—a gift from a Turk who now breathes through a tube. One cufflink is hollow, in case the evening requires a chemical solution. I work it into place and it clicks like a trigger resetting. My phone vibrates. Sokolov.
ETA thirty minutes. No movement on external feeds. Will ping if guest list changes.
Copy.
Back to the mirror. Blood pressure—steady. Pupils—equal, reactive. Scar above left eyebrow invisible under foundation, unless you know what to look for. I stare at my own reflection, search for the man who used to feel nerves before a meet. Don't find him.
The Glock goes in the inside waistband, grip snug behind the belt buckle. There are easier weapons to hide, but this isn't about hiding. It's about letting every man in the room know you're not afraid to point, not afraid to own the threat. Safety off, half-chambered. The old Bratva would call it theatrical. The new Bratva calls it insurance.
A knock at the door, coded—two quick, one slow. I open.
It's Orlov, carrying a tablet and the cloy of lemon aftershave. He's traded up from the cheap Polish stuff, a silent flex for those who notice such things.
"Prep's done," he says, voice flat. "Entry sweep is green. Wine is pre-poured for inspection, silver scanned for residue. Staff backgrounded down to the sous-chef's third cousin."
"Security?" I check the gun again out of habit.
