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The crude implication deserves no response. I continue reviewing security arrangements, identifying weaknesses. "The eastern corridor remains exposed. Adjust sniper positioning to coverage sector four."

"Already arranged." Dmitri hesitates, then adds with false casualness, "You haven't asked about her."

I look up, expression neutral. "About?"

"Your bride." He seems surprised by my apparent lack of curiosity. "Her appearance. Her personality. The woman you'll be sharing your life with."

"Irrelevant to our priorities." I close the security file with finality. "The alliance serves organizational interests regardless of personal preferences."

Dmitri studies me with new wariness, perhaps finally understanding why Markov values my services—complete focus on objectives without emotional complications.

Yet as I leave the security briefing, returning to my apartment to prepare final details for tomorrow's introduction, unwelcome thoughts intrude on my tactical planning. Anastasia Markova. The woman from Paris I once called “mine.” Now to become my wife through her father's political maneuvering.

The coincidence is too perfect to be chance—yet too dangerous to be fully trusted. Did Markov somehow discover our Paris encounter? Is this elaborate arrangement a test of my loyalty, my honesty? Or does he remain entirely unaware that his precious daughter and I have already met—that I've already seen past the Bratva princess facade to the woman beneath?

Will she be a willing participant in her father's arrangements? A resentful pawn? A calculating partner with her own agenda? The variables create uncertainties I dislike.

As I review the intelligence file Anton has delivered on Markov's organization, I find myself lingering on the sparse information about Anastasia. Her education records. Her controlled public appearances. Nothing that reveals the woman I glimpsed in Paris—the one genuine connection in years of deception. Intelligent eyes that saw past my carefully constructed façade, if only briefly.

The comparison between that night of unexpected honesty and tomorrow's coldly arranged alliance creates uncomfortable discord. I force the sentiment away, focusing instead on the advantages the marriage provides. Sentiment is weakness. The mission is all that matters.

Anastasia in Paris was a momentary divergence from purpose. Anastasia as Markov's daughter is a tactical necessity. Nothing more. I replay the murders of my family in my mind to help me quell my warring emotions. They deserve justice, vengeance.

I prepare my weapons for the introduction meeting—checking sight lines, ammunition, concealment options. The routine centers me, returning focus to the priorities that have defined my existence for years.

Tomorrow I meet Anastasia again—not as strangers in Paris, but as Markov's daughter and favored captain. As future wife and husband bound by Bratva alliance, not the genuine connection we briefly shared.

I should have no expectations beyond strategic advantage. No interest beyond the access this arrangement provides to Markov's inner circle. No emotional investment in the woman who will become collateral damage when I finally destroy her father's empire.

I can’t help but wonder how she will handle herself, how she will look at me. As a stranger? Or as a memory that she also cannot quite forget.

As I stand at the window, Moscow's lights spreading below like a circuit board of power and vulnerability, I cannot entirely suppress the memory of her—the woman I met in Paris, not the Bratva princess I've researched. Will she reveal our previous meeting, or play along with the pretense of introduction?

Most crucially—does she understand what her father is capable of? Or will she become simply another casualty in my quest for justice?

Tomorrow the final phase begins. Tomorrow I'll see those eyes again—this time across a formal introduction orchestrated by the man we both hide secrets from.

15

ANASTASIA

"You understand the significance of tonight, Anastasia?" My father adjusts his platinum cufflinks, a gift from the Russian Minister of Finance—or rather, a payment for services the minister would never acknowledge publicly. "This alliance secures our western operations permanently."

The weight of Sofia's locket burns against my skin beneath layers of midnight blue silk. My fingers instinctively rise to touch it, the metal warm from my body heat, before I force them back to my side. My baby. My secret. The one pure thing in this world of violence.

"Of course, Father." I smooth the carefully selected dress—fitted enough to emphasize feminine curves without appearing deliberately seductive. Every detail of my appearance has been calibrated for this evening's performance. "The advantages are considerable."

We stand in the grand dining room of the Markov estate, where crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the tableau of power my father has orchestrated. The massive table—eighteenth-century Italian, acquired from a duchess whose gambling debts required Bratva intervention—stretches beneath arrangements of white roses and silver candelabras. The air hangs heavy with expensive notes of beeswax and roses, undercut with the metallic tang of fear emanating from the servants who move like ghosts around the perimeter, eyes carefully averted from my father's face.

A maid approaches with trembling hands to adjust a place setting. Her fingernails are bitten raw, her movements quick and nervous like a wounded bird. My father's cold gaze flicks toward her, and she flinches visibly before scurrying away. The subtle display of power—how even his glance commands absolute obedience—reminds me exactly what world I've returned to.

What world I'm trying to save Sofia from.

My heart hammers against my ribs, pulse points throbbing visibly at my throat and wrists. Sweat gathers at the small of my back despite the chill that always permeates the Markov estate. I regulate my breathing with practiced control, hiding the storm building inside. In mere minutes, I'll meet my future husband. The man I will be expected to pledge my life to in service of Bratva politics.

Viktor Baranov. The man from Paris. The silver-eyed stranger who for one night made me forget who I was—and who now serves my father as trusted lieutenant.

Sofia's father.