Page 27 of Auctioned to the Russian Pakhan
“Could I?” She looked at him with such surprise that he realized no one had ever suggested such a thing to her before. “I’m twenty-four years old, married to a man I barely know, trapped in a world where stepping out of line could get people killed. When exactly would I find time for marine biology?”
The question hung between them like a challenge, loaded with implications that made his chest tight. Because she was right, wasn’t she? The life she’d been born into, the choices that had been made for her, the situation she was currently trapped in, none of it left room for dreams about studying fish in far-off oceans.
“Maybe things will change,” he said finally, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.
“Maybe,” she agreed, but her tone suggested she didn’t believe it any more than he did.
The moment of melancholy passed as their conversation moved on to lighter topics, but something had shifted between them. A recognition, perhaps, of the constraints that bound them both. The understanding that they were both trapped in roles that had been chosen for them long before they’d had any say in the matter.
But despite the underlying sadness of that realization, Matvei found himself enjoying the evening more than he had any right to. Irina was funny, intelligent, and surprisingly insightful about everything from politics to literature to the psychology of restaurant design. She made him laugh in a way that felt foreign and wonderful, and when she smiled at him across the table, he forgot about everything except the way the candlelight caught the blue of her eyes.
He was just thinking that this might be the most perfect evening he’d ever spent when the temperature in the restaurant seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Well, well,” a familiar voice said from behind him. “Isn’t this cozy?”
Matvei’s blood turned to ice as he recognized the voice, his hand moving instinctively toward the weapon concealed beneath his jacket. But even as he turned, he knew it was too late. They were surrounded.
Four men in expensive suits had materialized around their table as if from thin air, their positions carefully chosen to provide maximum tactical advantage while maintaining the illusion of casual dining. But these weren’t just any men in suits.
These were the Nikolai brothers.
Ilya stood directly behind Matvei’s chair, his dark eyes promising violence in several creative forms. Kostya was positioned to his left, that easy smile he was famous for nowherein evidence. Viktor had taken the spot near the wall, cutting off their most obvious escape route. And Fedya, cold, calculated Fedya was standing beside Irina’s chair with the kind of stillness that suggested he was three seconds away from painting the restaurant walls with blood.
“Hello, Sister,” Ilya said, his voice carrying the kind of deadly calm that made smart people start writing their wills. “Miss us?”
Irina had gone white as marble, her eyes wide with what looked like genuine fear. Not of her brothers, Matvei realized, but of what might happen next. Of the bloodbath that could erupt in the middle of this elegant restaurant if someone made the wrong move.
“How did you find us?” she whispered.
“We’ve been tracking your new husband for weeks,” Kostya said, his usual warmth replaced by something sharp and dangerous. “Imagine our surprise when we discovered that the man who bought our baby sister is Matvei fucking Volkov.”
The curse word sounded wrong coming from Kostya’s mouth, but the sentiment behind it was crystal clear. They knew exactly who he was, exactly what kind of threat he represented to their family.
What they didn’t know, apparently, was who had orchestrated Irina’s kidnapping in the first place. That was something, at least.
“Gentlemen,” Matvei said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding his system. “I suggest we all take a moment to consider our surroundings. This is a public place filled with innocent people. Surely we can discuss this like civilized men.”
“Civilized?” Viktor spoke for the first time, his voice like gravel. “You kidnapped our sister. Forced her into marriage. And you want to talk about being civilized?”
“I didn’t kidnap anyone,” Matvei replied truthfully. “I bought her at an auction to prevent her from falling into worse hands. The marriage was her choice.”
“Bullshit.” Fedya’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried more menace than a shout. “Stand up. We’re leaving. All of us.”
For a moment, the tableau held. Eight people frozen in a deadly dance that could go wrong in an instant. Matvei could feel the weight of concealed weapons, could sense the tension radiating from everybody at the table.
Then he smiled.
“I don’t think so,” he said conversationally. “You see, this restaurant doesn’t just cater to civilians. Notice the gentleman at the bar nursing his whiskey? That’s my cousin Adrian. The couple by the window having what looks like a romantic dinner? My people. The sommelier who’s been hovering near our table all evening? Also mine.”
He leaned back in his chair with deliberate casualness, making sure they could all see that he was completely relaxed despite being outnumbered.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he continued. “We’re going to finish our dessert like civilized people. Then we’re going to leave separately, and if you want to discuss this situation further, you can call my office and arrange a proper meeting. Because if you really want to have a bloodbath in the middle of Boston’s most exclusive restaurant, putting your sister directly in the line of fire, then by all means, let’s see how that works out for everyone.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Matvei could practically hear the calculations running through each brother’s mind: risks, collateral damage, and the very real possibility that Irina could be hurt in whatever violence erupted next.
It was Ilya who broke first, his jaw working like he was chewing glass.
“Friday night,” he said finally. “Bella Vista. Eight o’clock. You and Irina. No weapons, no backup, just a civilized conversation between family members.”
