Page 72 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
Irina pressed her palm against her still-flat stomach and wondered if anyone could tell. The pregnancy was barely showing, but she felt different in ways that went beyond the physical. Stronger. More grounded. Like she’d finally found her place in this chaotic world of power and violence that had shaped her entire life.
The dining room buzzed with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Two powerful Bratva families attempting to share a meal without bloodshed was apparently asking too much of the universe. Her brothers sat rigid in their chairs, shoulders squared and jaws clenched, while Matvei’s siblings mirrored their defensive postures across the mahogany table. The women tried to keep conversation flowing, but even their efforts couldn’t mask the underlying current of mistrust that still ran between the Nikolais and Volkovs.
“Pass the salt,” Kostya said to Simon, his tone flat and deliberately neutral.
Simon slid the crystal shaker across the table with mechanical precision. “There.”
Irina bit back a laugh. They sounded like children forced to play nice in the principal’s office. At least they weren’t actively threatening each other anymore, which counted as progress in her book.
“So,” Anka said brightly, clearly trying to salvage the atmosphere, “has anyone given more thought to the auction situation?”
The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Irina watched her husband’s face harden, the easy smile he’d been wearing moments before vanishing completely. The memory of that night still made her skin crawl. Being paraded like cattle, hearing men bid on her like she was property to be bought and sold.
“It needs to be completely dismantled,” Matvei said, his voice carrying the authority that made hardened criminals cower. “Every location, every contact, every piece of infrastructure. We burn it all to the ground.”
Ilya leaned back in his chair, studying Matvei with those dark eyes that had always made Irina nervous. “Agreed. The question is how we coordinate without stepping on each other’s territories.”
“Maybe we don’t worry about territories for this,” Viktor said quietly. He’d been different since that night at the gala, less cold and calculated. More human. “Some things are bigger than business.”
Fedya made a sound that might have been agreement or disgust. With him, it was impossible to tell.
“We’ll need intelligence,” Adrian offered, fingers drumming against the table in that nervous tic he’d had since childhood. “Server locations, financial networks, personnel files. I can handle the digital side.”
“And I can coordinate the physical raids,” Matvei said, then glanced at Ilya. “If you’re willing to share intel.”
The pause stretched long enough for Irina to wonder if they were about to witness another standoff. Then Ilya nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Send me your contact list. We’ll cross-reference with ours.”
It wasn’t exactly a warm friendship, but it was functional cooperation. Given their history, that felt like a miracle.
The conversation shifted to logistics, and Irina found herself studying the faces around the table. These men had been raised to see each other as enemies, taught from birth that power was finite and sharing it was weakness. Yet here they were, planning to work together because they’d all realized some things mattered more than ancient grudges.
Her hand drifted to her stomach again. Her child would grow up in a world where the Nikolais and Volkovs were allies instead of enemies. That had to count for something.
Matvei’s fingers brushed hers under the table, and she looked up to find him watching her with that soft expression reserved only for her. The one that made her chest tight with emotion, she still couldn’t fully name.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.
She nodded, threading their fingers together. “Just thinking.”
His thumb stroked across her knuckles, a gesture so gentle it seemed impossible coming from hands that had ended lives without hesitation. The contradiction no longer surprised her. She’d learned that the most dangerous men were often capable of the most tenderness, once you earned it.
The dinner continued around them, voices rising and falling in heated debate about strategy and resources. But Irina felt separate from it all, cocooned in the warmth of Matvei’s presence and the secret knowledge of the life growing inside her.
When dessert was served, she caught his eye and tilted her head toward the door. He understood immediately, as healways did now. They’d developed their own language of glances and touches, silent communication that bypassed the need for words.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Matvei said, standing and offering Irina his arm. “We need to step out for some air.”
Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t object. None of her brothers did, though she could feel their protective instincts humming with barely restrained energy. They still didn’t entirely trust her husband, might never fully trust him, but they’d accepted that she’d made her choice.
Matvei led her through the mansion’s corridors to his private study, then out onto the balcony that overlooked the garden. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant sound of the city beyond the estate walls.
“That went better than expected,” she said, settling into his arms as naturally as breathing.
“Your brothers only threatened to kill me twice. Definitely progress.” His voice rumbled with amusement, but she could hear the underlying tension. These family dinners were as stressful for him as they were for everyone else.
“Poor baby,” she teased, rising on her toes to press a kiss to his jaw. “How will you ever survive?”
His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. “As long as I have you, I can survive anything.”
