Page 67

For one unguarded moment, I allow myself to wonder what it would be like if this were real—if she were truly my fiancée, if our marriage were about desire rather than deception. The thought arrives unbidden and unwelcome, threatening years of disciplined focus.

I move through the crowd to join her, claiming my place beside the woman who has become both an asset and liability to my mission. My hand settles possessively at her waist as Moscow's elite offer congratulations neither of us want. The engagement ring glitters on her finger, its hidden technology transmitting her location to my private security network.

"Smile, darling," I murmur against her ear, feeling her infinitesimal tension at my proximity, the slight quickening of her pulse visible at her throat. "Your father's watching."

"He's always watching," she responds, perfect social smile never wavering. "As are you, I’ve recently learned."

The acknowledgment of my surveillance surprises me—I hadn't anticipated her to bring it up so openly. Before I can respond, Nikolai Sokolov approaches, his assessing gaze lingering on Anastasia with uncomfortable familiarity.

"The perfect Bratva alliance," he offers, raising crystal champagne flute in toast. His smile is practiced but never reaches his cold eyes, his fingers constantly tapping against his glass in a nervous rhythm at odds with his controlled expression. "Markov discipline with Baranov bloodline. Quite the consolidation."

"Nikolai." I acknowledge him with minimal courtesy, noting how his eyes track Anastasia's every movement. My arm tightens around her waist, a physical claim staking that has nothing to do with our public performance and everything to do with the possessiveness growing inside me. "Your hospitality is appreciated."

"For family, nothing less would suffice." His smile carries calculation beneath social polish, his focus shifting continuously between us with predatory assessment. "Distant cousins should support each other's... advancements."

The Sokolov-Baranov connection—distant blood relation through my mother's line, a convenient truth leveraged to support my fabricated identity. Nikolai, believing we share family connection, has provided valuable intelligence throughout my infiltration of Markov's organization. Yet something in his manner tonight suggests reevaluation of allegiances.

"Your Swiss education must have been quite illuminating, Anastasia Mikhailovna," he continues, attention focused entirely on her. "Geneva offers unique perspectives for those with... specific interests."

Something flickers across her perfect composure—momentary tension quickly controlled, but not before I catch it. Nikolai notices too, his gaze sharpening with predatory interest, his nervous finger-tapping accelerating.

"The diplomatic academy provided excellent professional foundation," she responds smoothly, though her pulse visibly accelerates at her throat. "Geneva's neutrality creates valuable perspective on international relations."

"Indeed." Nikolai's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I have contacts in Switzerland who mentioned your... dedicated approach to independent studies. Particularly your interest in private financial structures."

Another micro expression crosses her features—fear, quickly masked behind social pleasantries. My arm tightens instinctively around her waist, physical claim staking in response to perceived threat. My other hand flexes unconsciously, calculating exactly how much pressure would be required to crush Nikolai's windpipe if necessary.

"My fiancée's educational accomplishments benefit our collective interests," I interject, voice carrying edge that causes Nikolai's security to shift position slightly. "Her expertise in international banking structures proves particularly valuable for expansion objectives."

"Of course." Nikolai retreats diplomatically, though his eyes communicate continued interest in whatever he's probing. "I simply admire thorough preparation. Something we Sokolovs share with the Baranov line."

As he moves away to greet other guests, I feel Anastasia's tension beneath my hand—subtle but unmistakable reaction to his comments about Switzerland. Another piece of the puzzle I can't yet assemble.

"Your cousin seems unusually interested in my education," she observes, voice perfectly controlled despite the tension in her body.

"Nikolai notices everything," I respond, studying her profile for revelations she won't willingly provide. "Particularly potential leverage points."

"And what leverage does he imagine my diplomatic training provides?"

"Perhaps it's not your diplomatic training that interests him." I guide her toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, using the movement to draw her closer against me. "Perhaps it's what you did beyond academic pursuits that caught his attention."

Her breath catches slightly—another tell the perfect Bratva princess rarely reveals. "Academia can be quite consuming. Little time for extracurricular activities."

"Yet you found time in Paris."

The reference lands precisely as intended—color flooding her cheeks momentarily before iron control reasserts itself. Physical reactions she can't fully suppress despite years of Bratva conditioning.

"Perhaps Paris was the extracurricular activity." Her blue eyes meet mine directly, challenge evident beneath composed exterior. "A momentary divergence from purpose."

The description of our night together stings more than it should—professional detachment I've cultivated suddenly threatened by unwelcome emotional response. Before I can respond, movement across the ballroom catches my attention.

Dmitri approaches with Viktor Petrov—one of Markov's longtime captains notorious for both brutality and loose tongue when drinking. Petrov's intoxication is evident in his unsteady gait and overly familiar greeting.

"The conquering hero and his prize," Petrov announces, vodka slurring his consonants. "Quite the acquisition, Baranov. Markov's princess after her... educational experiences abroad."

Something in his tone—insinuation beneath drunken congratulations—triggers warning signals. Dmitri's expression confirms my assessment—Petrov approaching dangerous territory with his implications.

"I've known many women who return from Europe with expanded... perspectives," Petrov continues, gaze lingering inappropriately on Anastasia. "Geneva particularly known for discrete accommodations of personal exploration."