Page 25

We pass through the first security checkpoint at the Markov estate, the massive iron gates sliding open with grandiosity. Unlike Paris's ornate, decorative barriers, everything here is designed for functionality, for protection, for control. The guards scan our vehicle, checking for explosives. No pleasant nods or casual greetings like the Parisian doormen; these men are soldiers, their eyes constantly scanning for threats, their hands never far from their weapons.

The sprawling compound looks more like a military installation than a home, despite the neo-classical façade. Beneath the elegant exterior lies a fortress—bulletproof windows, surveillance cameras disguised as architectural details, and underground bunkers connected by a network of escape tunnels. My gilded prison, where even the air feels regulated, filtered, controlled.

"Home sweet fortress," Lena mutters, pulling up to the main entrance. "Listen, whatever happened in Paris... if you need to talk..."

I squeeze her hand, momentarily overcome with affection for this one true friend. "Thank you. Maybe later."

"I'll hold you to that." She gets out of the car, embracing me again. "And I still want all the dirty details about this mystery man. I bet he was spectacular in bed. You have that 'thoroughly fucked' glow."

"Lena!" I glance around in horror, but the security staff remain professionally impassive.

She laughs, unrepentant. "What? Your father's not here yet. Live a little." She lowers her voice. "Seriously though, was it good? You deserve good."

For a moment, I allow myself to remember—the weight of Viktor's body against mine, the heat of his mouth, the way he watched me with those silver eyes as I came apart beneath him. "It was... educational."

Lena whoops with delighted laughter. "That's my girl! Educational. I'm using that next time someone asks about my weekend activities."

A security guard approaches, expression carefully neutral. "Miss Markov, your father requests your presence in his study when you've settled in."

Reality reasserts itself immediately. I straighten my spine, shoulders squaring as I step back into the role I briefly abandoned in Paris. "Tell him I'll be there in thirty minutes."

The guard nods and retreats. Lena squeezes my arm sympathetically. "Duty calls. Call me later, okay? I'm serious about talking if you need to."

I nod, watching her drive away before turning to face the imposing Markov mansion—my childhood home, my gilded prison, my inescapable destiny.

My father's study remains unchanged since my departure—the massive oak desk positioned to catch the northern light, the wall of leather-bound books he's never read, the subtle security measures integrated into every surface. Mikhail Markov himself sits with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, deliberately backlighting himself to advantage during meetings.

"Nastya," he says, not rising as I enter. "Welcome home."

I cross the room with measured steps, kissing his cheek as expected. "Thank you, Father. Paris was lovely."

"So I gather from your daily reports." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit. Tell me about the Louvre."

A test. I settle into the indicated chair, reciting details about exhibitions I researched extensively before the trip but never actually visited. My father listens with perfunctory interest, his expression giving away nothing.

Something shifts in my father's eyes as I finish—satisfaction, perhaps. I've passed the examination.

"Good." He opens a folder on his desk. "Now, to business. Your brief vacation is over, and we have matters to discuss regarding your future."

Here it comes. The "important matters" he mentioned before my departure. I maintain a neutral expression, hands folded in my lap, the perfect obedient daughter despite the rebellion still burning in my blood from Paris.

"The Sokolov situation has evolved," he continues. "Nikolai has consolidated power within their organization following his uncle's... unfortunate accident."

By "unfortunate accident," my father means an assassination he likely ordered himself. I merely nod, well-versed in Bratva euphemisms.

"Their operations in Western Europe have expanded significantly, particularly in response to Petrov aggression." He slides a document across the desk. "This creates both challenges and opportunities for our organization."

I scan the document—financial projections, territory assessments, strategic realignments. Standard Bratva business, though the focus on France catches my attention. Had Viktor been involved in these power plays? Was that why he was in Paris?

"You've been following these developments?" my father asks, watching me closely.

"To the extent possible," I hedge. "The Sokolov expansion has been aggressive but methodical. Their security protocols have improved significantly in the past year."

He nods, apparently satisfied with my assessment. "Your education continues to serve you well."

The economics degree I earned under his watchful eye—a compromise after he burned my Harvard acceptance letter—has proven useful in understanding the financial underpinnings of Bratva operations. Knowledge he's gradually allowed me to access, preparing me for some future role I've never fully understood.

"I have plans for you," he continues, confirming my thoughts. "Plans that will secure the future of the Markov organization for generations."