Page 55 of The Pakhan's Bride
He laughs, the sound bright as steel. "It's always a pleasure, cousin."
I hang up. The sun is up now, the city awake and hungry.So am I, I think to myself as I leave the office and make for the war room. The screens on the north wall play a slow rotation of Moscow's arteries—roads, rail, comms—while the far screen cycles the estate's internal feeds, including a thermal map of every body in the house.
Alexei arrives shortly after and takes a seat at my left, his posture perfect even at seven in the morning. Sokolov flanks him, already on his second energy drink, eyes bloodshot but lucid. Orlov is at the end, notes open, stylus clicking, never looking up unless directly addressed.
I close the door, then double-check the lock. Heavy oak, old Soviet ministry. The kind of door you could shoot through but never pick.
Alexei starts the meeting with a single tap of his phone. He goes on to tell me the girl was the last person who spoke with the head server, who happened to vanish into thin air. She didn't have much else to reveal. "Cousin, we have eight possible vectors for the poison," he continues. "Sokolov thinks it's inside, I say outside. But we both agree the estate is the weakness."
He says "the estate" like it's a lover that cheats but never leaves. I ignore the bait.
"The house has never been breached," Sokolov grumbles.
Alexei makes a small smile. "Statistically, precedent means nothing."
"Statistically, your face would look better with a broken nose," Sokolov retorts.
I let them snarl. It's what I pay them for.
Orlov clears his throat. "We have two priorities—protect the family, and project strength to the street. The first is non-negotiable. The second is reputational. I recommend we move the boy and his mother to the Belarus property, just until the internal sweep is clean."
He means my family, the only people I love, and the ones most in danger. I was supposed to be protecting Zoya, and I almost lost her. Alexei leans in, voice measured. "You know it's temporary. We keep them out of sight, say it's for ‘health reasons', and nobody needs to know. If the girl's sister is the issue, she never sees them again. We handle her in-country."
Sokolov drums his fingers. "I don't like the optics,Pakhan. If the word gets out?—"
Alexei cuts him off. "No word will get out. Orlov's people are solid."
I look at the thermal map. Two blue dots in the east wing, moving in tandem—Zoya and Lev, walking the corridor. One more in the atrium, likely Galina. Red dots at every windowand entry. I imagine the entire house on fire, the only way to guarantee a clean break.
"Moving them is a mistake," I say.
Three heads pivot in unison.
"It shows we're afraid," I add. "It says thePakhancan't control his own territory."
"APakhanis not invulnerable," Orlov says quietly. "He is not supposed to be."
"Maybe not," I answer, "but he's supposed to act like it."
The silence is thick. Alexei waits, as always, for an order he can implement or subvert. I don't trust the outer world to take care of my wife and son.
I look at each in turn, then at the weapons racked on the west wall—a history of violence, from Makarovs to Sig Sauers to a battered Remington that still carries blood in the receiver. I imagine the bullets these men have used, the bodies they've stacked, and the impossible arithmetic of keeping everything in balance.
"We keep them here," I say. "Doubling patrols. Unannounced shifts. Lock the kitchen, monitor all food and water. No one eats unless it's from my hand."
Sokolov nods, almost grateful. Orlov makes a note, but I catch the tension in his jaw. Alexei just stares, a small smile tickling his mouth.
"If another attempt is made," Orlov presses, "do we escalate?"
"Yes," I say. "Meeting adjourned," I add, and the men file out, not a word wasted.
When the door closes, I sit alone at the table. The screens glow with the city's pulse, a million lives mapped in heat and movement. I let my mind drift, then focus in on the dinner tape, now queued on the main display.
I play it once, at normal speed. Ekaterina is the axis, everything rotating around her—the way she pours wine, the way she brushes hair from her eyes, the careful stillness when the banker's son begins to cough. But she didn't hand him the glass. The man took it himself, and from the table.
I rewind, play again, slow-motion. I watch the tilt of her head, the hands in her lap, the twitch at the corner of her mouth when Zoya enters the room. I pause on that frame. The look is everything. Challenge, amusement, a dare, and perhaps even devotion, rolled into one.
Sitting back, I close my eyes. The pulse of the room is in my blood now. I imagine the city outside, full of men who think they understand power, and women who know it's all theater. I imagine Ekaterina in her room, playing out the next move, already two steps ahead.
