Page 2 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
Her phone buzzed with a text from Valentina: “Coffee tomorrow? I have gossip about your favorite brooding cousin.”
A smile curled on her lips despite herself. Valentina had a way of doing that, piercing through Irina’s icy defenses with ease. Over the past year, she had gone from Ilya’s wife to Irina’sconfidante. Someone who understood the game they were born into, the sharpness it required of women, and the softness it forced them to hide.
The café was nestled on a quiet corner, warm light spilling from its windows, the scent of espresso and sugar thick in the air. She spotted Valentina immediately, curled into the corner booth like she owned it, dark brown hair pinned back in a sleek twist, manicured fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup.
“Running late, bratva princess?” Valentina teased as Irina slid into the seat opposite her.
“I’d rather be late than risk sharing a car with Viktor again,” Irina said with a shudder. “He kept trying to psychoanalyze me. I don’t think he blinked once.”
Valentina snorted. “God. That sounds like hell.”
“It was.”
They both laughed. It was easy with Valentina, easy to forget the world they came from, the weight of their last names, the scars their men carried and gave.
“I saw Zia yesterday,” Valentina said after a sip of her cappuccino. “She’s thinking of cutting her hair. Lev nearly had a stroke.”
Irina arched a brow. “Lev? The man who took a bullet without flinching? Zia waves scissors around, and he panics?”
Valentina leaned forward conspiratorially. “Apparently, he begged her not to. Said it was a ‘symbol of her femininity.’”
Irina burst into laughter. “What century are we in?”
“Right?” Valentina smirked. “Then Adrian walks in and starts giving Zia recommendations for hair salons in Prague. The man’s all ice until someone mentions a makeover.”
“I swear, your family’s more dramatic than mine.”
“You take that back,” Valentina said, feigning offense. “Your family is the gold standard of dysfunction. Maeve and Fedya alone could be their own HBO series.”
Irina rolled her eyes. “She stabbed him with a fork once.”
“Foreplay,” Valentina said with a straight face.
Irina choked on her drink, laughter spilling out. “You’re evil.”
Valentina grinned. “Flattering, but I preferaccurate.”
After another half hour of gossip, laughter, and subtle complaints about the suffocating love of overly dangerous men, Irina pushed back her cup and stood.
“Restroom. Be right back.”
Valentina gave her a lazy wave as Irina made her way toward the back of the café. The hallway was dim and quiet, the air cooler here. She pushed open the restroom door and stepped inside.
One of the stalls was already occupied. At the sink, a woman with vibrant red hair stood facing the mirror, dabbing powder onto her pale skin. Her makeup was precise, lips painted a deep crimson, but she didn’t glance up as Irina passed behind her to enter a stall.
The woman was still there when she emerged, blotting her lipstick now.
Irina washed her hands slowly, casting a quick glance at the mirror. The woman’s green eyes met hers briefly, then dropped again. No smile, no words. Just an odd silence that made Irina’s skin prickle.
She dried her hands, giving the stranger a polite nod, then turned toward the door.
“Oh,” the woman said suddenly, her voice soft and accented. “Is this the way out?”
Irina turned slightly. “Yeah. Just down the hall, back into the main café.”
“Thank you.”
She stepped toward the door. Irina moved to follow, and then, in a flash, something heavy cracked against the back of her skull.
