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"Sokolov's remnants, though they operate under different management now." Something flickers across his face—too quickly to read. "Your father eliminated the original leadership five years ago."

His assessment raisesquestions I'm not ready to ask. Instead, I say, "When my mother was alive, she used to tell me that the Bratva's greatest weakness was its inability to evolve beyond blood feuds and territorial disputes."

"Your mother sounds like she had unusual insight for someone in her position."

"She wasn't born into this world like I was," I explain, memories surfacing with unexpected clarity. "She married into it, brought outside perspective. She used to say that the reason Japanese and Italian organizations survived for generations was their ability to codify their operations, to create structures that outlasted individual personalities."

His silver eyes sharpen with interest. "And what did Mikhail Markov think of his wife's analysis?"

"He dismissed it," I say, the old hurt still lingering. "In my father's view, codification creates vulnerability. Better to keep operations fluid, relationships personal, power centralized."

"The philosophy of a dictator, not a builder."

"Yes." The simple agreement feels treasonous yet liberating. "My mother tried to teach me a different path. To see beyond immediate tactical advantage to long-term strategic sustainability."

Viktor props himself on one elbow, studying me with newfound intensity. "What specific lessons did she give you?"

"That information is more valuable than brute force. That loyalty bought with fear lasts only until a greater fear presents itself. That women in our world are often underestimated and can use that blindness to advantage." I pause, remembering her voice, her steady hands as she taught me to handle a knife, to read security protocols, to identify the signs of betrayal. "She was preparing me for something, I think. Something she saw coming."

"Her own death?" His question is gentle despite its bluntness.

"Perhaps." The grief remains surprisingly sharp despite the years. "Two weeks before the accident, she started showing me hidden accounts, escape routes, contingency plans. Things no Bratva wife was supposed to know about, let alone share with a teenage daughter."

His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining in unexpected comfort. "She was giving you tools for survival."

"Yes. Though I didn't understand until it was too late." The memory of her burns brighter tonight, as if this moment—naked in a stranger's bed, defying everything my father built around me—somehow brings her closer. "She used to say that freedom isn't the absence of constraints, but the ability to choose which constraints to accept."

"Wise woman." Something like genuine respect colors his voice. "And what constraints do you choose, Anastasia?"

The question hangs between us, laden with implications neither of us fully addresses. What do I choose? Freedom. Purpose. Connection that doesn't come with the price tag of obligation or advantage.

"I choose this," I say simply, gesturing to the space between us. "Tonight. You. My decision, not made for political advantage or alliance. Just mine."

Later, as the first hint of dawn lightens the Paris sky, we lie tangled in each other's arms, my head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. The intimacy of the moment feels oddly more significant than the physical passion that preceded it.

"My mother was murdered," I say suddenly, the words emerging unbidden.

His body tenses slightly beneath mine, but he doesn't speak, giving me space to continue.

"The official story was a car accident. Mechanical failure, they said. But she never drove that car—it was meant for one of my father's lieutenants. She knew something dangerous, something that made her a liability."

His hand strokes my hair, the gesture oddly comforting. "Did she tell you what she knew?"

"Not directly. But she left... breadcrumbs. Information hidden in places only I would find. Codes embedded in birthday gifts, data stored in objects my father would never think to examine." I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "She was building a case against someone inside the organization. Someone close to my father."

"And you've continued her work," he observes. Not a question.

"When I can. It's difficult with my father's constant surveillance, but I've gathered fragments. Enough to know that whoever she was investigating is still active, still trusted within the inner circle."

Viktor's arms tighten around me, protective yet somehow possessive. "That's dangerous knowledge, Anastasia."

"Everything about our world is dangerous," I counter. "My mother knew that better than anyone. 'In the Bratva,' she would say, 'information is the only currency that never devalues. Everything else—money, weapons, loyalty—fluctuates with market conditions.'"

A smile touches his lips. "I would have liked your mother, I think."

"She would have seen through you in an instant," I say with unexpected certainty. "Just as she saw through everyone around her. It's what made her dangerous to someone."

"And they worry you've inherited her perception."