Page 9 of Bratva Bride
I stood, smoothing my skirt with hands that wanted to shake. Checked my reflection in the mirror—pale but composed, dark hair pulled back in its usual bun, nothing to suggest the go-bag hidden in the air vent or the bus ticket in its front pocket.
The walk to my father's office felt longer than usual. The estate sprawled across three acres in Brighton Beach, a fortress masquerading as a family home. Italian marble floors that cost more than most people's houses. Original oil paintings in gilded frames—all legally purchased, all with perfect provenance, all cold as the man who'd selected them. The Morozov bratva believed in appearances. In sophistication. In the kind of power that wore a suit instead of brass knuckles.
Security cameras tracked my movement down the curved staircase. I knew where each one was positioned—had mapped them all during my planning. The blind spots were few, carefully calculated to appear natural rather than deliberate. My father trusted his walls and his guards more than he'd ever trusted me.
The house smelled like his cigars. That sweet, acrid smoke that clung to everything, marked his territory like a wolf markingtrees. It would be one of the first things I'd wash out of my hair in Montreal. One of the first signs of him I'd scrub away.
His office door stood open. That was unusual. He typically kept it closed, locked, the inner sanctum where brutal decisions were made in civilized tones. But today he wanted me to walk in freely. Wanted me to feel like I had a choice.
I didn't.
Viktor Morozov sat behind his mahogany desk, a Cuban cigar smoldering between his fingers. The smoke curled up toward the coffered ceiling, creating a haze that made the room feel smaller. Three laptops were open in front of him, their screens reflecting off his reading glasses. Two phones sat at his right hand—one for legitimate business, one for everything else. The security monitors on the wall behind him showed every angle of the estate. The maintenance gate was visible on monitor four, innocent and unremarkable.
He didn't look up when I entered. That was typical. Viktor Morozov made people wait. Made them stand there, uncertain, while he finished whatever was more important than their presence. It was a power play so routine I barely noticed anymore.
Thirty-two seconds passed. I counted them.
"The Council meets at noon." His voice was flat, emotionless. He slid a manila folder across the desk with two fingers. "I need analysis on each family's current position. Strengths, weaknesses, what they'll demand. You have one hour."
I stepped forward and picked up the folder. My fingers didn't tremble. Years of practice had taught me to lock my body down, to show nothing he could use against me. Inside, the folder was thick with intelligence briefs. The Kozlovs. The Sokolovs. The Petrovs. The Beskharovs. And the Volkovs.
I recognized most of it immediately. Intercepted communications I'd decoded over the past three months.Financial records I'd analyzed for patterns. Shipment manifests I'd cross-referenced for discrepancies. My work, repackaged and presented as raw intelligence for me to analyze again.
"The Volkovs will push for investigation into the bombing," I said. My voice came out steady despite my racing pulse. "Probability eighty-nine percent they'll demand a neutral mediator. The Kozlovs will—"
"Not verbal analysis." He still hadn't looked at me. "Written. Detailed. Thirty pages minimum."
Now his eyes rose to meet mine. Pale blue, like winter ice. Like looking into a mirror that reflected nothing back. Those eyes had watched men die. Had ordered deaths. Had looked at my mother's body without flinching.
"This meeting determines whether we continue this war or find . . . alternative solutions." He took a long pull from his cigar. "I need precision. Accuracy. The kind of work only you can do."
The compliment was calculated. He knew exactly how to play me—starved for approval, desperate for acknowledgment that I was more than just a tool. Even knowing it was manipulation, some pathetic part of me preened at his words.
"Of course," I said. "I'll have it ready within the hour."
He nodded once. Dismissal. I turned to leave.
"Anya."
I stopped but didn't turn around.
"Accuracy is everything today. Don't disappoint me."
The threat was subtle but clear. Disappointment had consequences in the Morozov family. I'd seen what happened to people who disappointed him. They disappeared. Or worse, they didn't.
"I won't," I said, and walked out of his office with my spine straight and my face calm.
Five hours until freedom. I could give him one more perfect analysis. One more demonstration of my value. One more lie to cover my escape.
Asoftknockprecededthedoor opening—Elena, the head housekeeper who’d been with our family since before I was born. She entered with a tray, her face a practiced mask of deference that couldn't quite hide the exhaustion in her eyes.
"Your tea, Miss Anya," she said, setting it on the corner of my desk. Chamomile, the one she brought when she knew I was stressed.
"Thank you, Elena," I said, my fingers pausing over the keyboard. I noticed a slight tremor in her hands as she arranged the cup and saucer. She'd been looking pale for weeks, moving more slowly through the cavernous house. "Are you feeling all right today?"
Elena looked up, startled. I wasn't supposed to notice her, wasn't supposed to see her as anything more than a function of the household. "I am well, miss. Just a long week."
"You should rest when you can," I said quietly, meeting her eyes for a brief moment. "Your grandchildren are visiting this weekend, aren't they? You'll need your energy for them."
