Page 54

The knowledge pulses inside me like a second heartbeat, yet my exterior remains flawlessly composed. Years of Bratva training serve me well tonight, when everything depends on performance.

"He's an unusual man, Baranov." My father's gaze assesses me with cold calculation as he runs a finger along the edge of a crystal glass, the sound unnervingly precise in the tense quiet. "Rose quickly through our ranks. Ruthlessly efficient. The kind of mind that understands power."

"And that's why you selected him? His strategic value?" I keep my tone perfectly neutral, betraying nothing of the storm beneath.

"Men have married for wealth, women for protection." He dismisses my question with a flick of his hand. "The Baranov connection brings certain... historical weight to our organization. Old Bratva blood, though most of his family line is gone now."

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes eight, each resonant tone marking the approach of inevitable collision. My stomach tightens with coiled tension, acid rising in my throat. I swallow it back, the bitter taste lingering on my tongue.

"Dmitri will bring him through the west entrance." My father moves to his position at the head of the table, the subtle shift in his posture signaling the transition from conversation to command. "Remember your training, Anastasia. First impressions create lasting foundations."

As if I don't already know exactly the impression Viktor Baranov made on me in Paris. As if the memory of his hands on my skin hasn't haunted me through pregnancy and beyond. As if I haven't mapped the geography of his touch across my body a thousand times in dreams I refuse to acknowledge upon waking.

"I understand my role perfectly, Father." I take my assigned place at the table, positioning myself with practiced grace. The portrait of the obedient Bratva daughter, accepting her fate as political currency.

The double doors open precisely on schedule, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the carefully controlled atmosphere. Dmitri enters first, his massive frame moving with surprising lightness as he performs his security sweep. His deference is immediately apparent—the slight lowering of his gaze, the subtly submissive angle of his shoulders—as he nods to someone outside my line of sight.

And then he's there.

Viktor.

The shock of recognition hits me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. My vision narrows, the room's edges blurring as every cell in my body focuses on him. The photographs my investigator provided didn't capture the full reality of him—the controlled power in his movement, the perfect tailoring of his suit emphasizing broad shoulders, the penetrating intelligence in those silver-gray eyes. The scar along his right knuckle that I traced with my tongue in Paris darkness.

Eyes I've seen every day in our daughter's face.

My mouth goes desert-dry. The temperature in the room seems to rise ten degrees in an instant, heat spreading across my skin in a flush I pray isn't visible. I force myself to breathe normally, to maintain the poised expression of a woman meeting her arranged fiancé for the first time. Yet inside, rage and disbelief collide with unwelcome physical response—the traitorous tightening of my nipples beneath silk, the liquid heat pooling low in my belly at just the sight of him.

My body remembers his touch, his scent, the weight of him—memories that have no place in this dangerous moment.

"Mr. Baranov." My father's voice cuts through the charged silence. "May I present my daughter, Anastasia Mikhailovna Markova."

Viktor moves forward with controlled precision, each step measured and deliberate. A predator in perfect control of his power. His gaze meets mine without a flicker of recognition. Nothing in his expression betrays our shared history—no acknowledgment of Paris, of the night that created Sofia, of the connection that felt momentarily genuine in a world built on falsehoods.

Yet something in the air between us vibrates with dangerous intensity. As he approaches, I catch the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, distinctly masculine. The same scent that lingered on my skin after Paris, that I searched for in hotel sheets the morning after he disappeared.

"Miss Markova." His voice—that voice that whispered filthy promises against my skin in Parisian darkness—now delivers perfect Bratva formality. "The honor is mine."

Mine. What he’d called me that night. I almost can’t take the barrage of emotion that batters me.

He takes my extended hand, the brief contact sending electricity racing through nerve endings that should know better than to respond. His skin is warm against mine, slightly calloused at the fingertips—the same hands that once traced constellations across my body, now performing the theater of formal introduction. His thumb brushes almost imperceptibly across my pulse point, feeling the racing betrayal of my heartbeat.

Our eyes lock, and for the briefest moment, something flickers behind his careful mask—recognition, heat, something darker I can't name. Then it's gone, controlled and contained behind the perfect performance.

"Mr. Baranov." I manage the expected response, my voice betraying nothing of the hurricane inside. "My father speaks highly of your contributions to our organization."

"Please, sit." My father gestures to the table. "We have much to discuss."

The formal dinner commences with excruciating slowness. Crystal glasses filled with wine I cannot bring myself to drink. Courses presented by silent staff who disappear between servings. Conversation flowing with practiced ease about innocent topics—Russian literature, European politics, the approaching cultural season in Moscow.

I'm intensely aware of Viktor's every movement across the table. The controlled grace of his hands as he handles silverware. The perfect posture that speaks of military discipline. The way other men—even my father's longtime captains—defer to him with a mixture of respect and fear when he speaks.

"I understand you studied in Geneva, Miss Markova." Viktor's perfectly modulated question carries no subtext a stranger would detect. Yet his eyes hold mine a fraction too long, the intensity behind them burning through my defenses. "International relations, I believe?"

"Yes." I force myself to break eye contact, focusing on cutting my venison into precise pieces I have no intention of eating. "The diplomatic academy provided excellent perspective on cross-border negotiations. Skills that transfer effectively to our organization's international ventures."

His knee brushes mine beneath the table—too deliberate to be accidental, too brief to be acknowledged. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up my thigh, memory flooding unbidden through carefully constructed barriers:

His mouth hot against my inner thigh, silver eyes looking up at me through dark lashes as his tongue traced patterns that made me bite my knuckles to keep from crying out. The taste of expensive vodka on his lips when he kissed me afterward. The weight of his body pressing mine into Parisian silk sheets, his whispered Russian endearments against my ear as he?—