Page 60 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

There’s a pause, just long enough to set my nerves on edge. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen her today. Was expecting her, to be honest. She’ll bring something extraordinary to our establishment. Another Baranova talent, ha!”

A sinking feeling begins to cloud my mind. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Orlov.”

“Anytime, Mikhail.”

That knot in my stomach tightens, twisting into something more ominous. I end the call with my mind racing. I want to trust her, God knows I do. But the events of the day, the looming dangers of my new role, and now this, it feels like a goddamn setup for a disaster movie.

I shake my head, forcing myself to breathe. No. I won’t go down that road. Not with Gabriette. I trust her. I have to.

Suspicion creeps in, bringing along its ugly cousin, dread. But I shake it off. Gabriette wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize us. We’ve laid our cards on the table, and the stakes are too high for stupid games.

With a sigh, I call Alexei and Viktor, her ever-present shadows. They answer almost immediately, but their silence feels heavy, calculated.

“Report,” I demand, not in the mood for pleasantries. “Where is my wife?”

“Mrs Baranova has been in a theater for the past five hours,” Viktor finally says.

My heart skips a beat. “With whom?”

“A pianist from the philharmonic,” Alexei chimes in.

My jaw tightens. “A man or a woman?”

“A man, sir. His name is Maxim Volkov.”

My grip tightens on the phone, knuckles going white. Maxim fucking Volkov. An accomplished pianist, no doubt, but also a notorious womanizer.

But it’s not jealousy that twists my insides; it’s the fear of how easily things can go wrong, how quickly misunderstandings can form, especially in a world as cutthroat as mine.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. “Keep an eye on her, but do not interfere. Understand?”

“Understood, sir.”

I hang up, my thoughts racing as I lean back into my seat. A theater, a man, five hours. The facts lay themselves out neatly, but they don’t assemble into any picture I want to see. It’s not jealousy that grips me. No, it’s something far worse—a biting uncertainty that gnaws at the trust we’ve painstakingly built.

The car moves smoothly through the darkening streets, but inside, a storm rages. I close my eyes for a moment, wrestling with the chaos in my mind. Tonight, I’ve ascended to a position of unimaginable power, bound by ink and blood to the Bratva.

And yet, as I sit here alone, I can’t shake the feeling that there are still pieces of the puzzle missing. Pieces that could topple everything I’ve built, everything I care about.

But then I think of Gabriette. Despite my fears, my doubts, my bloody history, I feel like I can trust her. I have to. Because without trust, we’re nothing but two broken souls pretending to be whole.

I lean back in my seat and sigh, staring out at the darkened city zooming past my window. I trust her; I do. But the world we’re entangled in doesn’t give a damn about trust, or love, or anything sacred.

And with every passing second, as the city lights blur into streaks of inconsequential glow, I realize that the line between love and vulnerability is perilously thin. Too thin for comfort, yet too essential to ignore.

And in that shaky realisation, our lives hang in the fucking balance.

GABRIETTE

The car pulls up in the underground parking and I feel a twinge of anxiety tighten in my chest. I spent the entire evening absorbed in the life of Amaranthe without realising how long I’ve been under.

Amaranthe’s concerts, her legacy—my evening had been enveloped in the haunting beauty of her cello music. A woman of unparalleled talent, and Mikhail’s great-grandmother, no less. The hours had flown by, uncounted and unfelt.

I step into the quiet foyer of our home, my heels click softly against the marble floor, announcing my return. I drop my purse onto the console table and take off my coat, still lost in the melodies I heard earlier.

But then I walk into the living room and stop dead in my tracks. Mikhail is there, sitting on the edge of the couch. His elbows are braced on his knees, a glass of some amber liquid clutched in his hands. The room seems to thicken with tension, so palpable that I could almost touch it.

As he looks up, those mismatched eyes of his lock onto mine, and I can sense the tempest swirling behind them. Anger, confusion, maybe even hurt.

---