Page 21

Kira

T he aroma of dill and paprika envelops the kitchen as a single electronic beep turns my world upside down.

I freeze, my wooden spoon suspended over the bubbling borscht that I've spent the last two hours perfecting—a surprise for Mikhail when he returns from his meeting downtown.

The rich burgundy broth reflects the overhead light like spilled wine, and for a moment, I think I've imagined the sound.

But my phone beeps again, insistent and sharp against the simmering stove.

The security alert glows on my screen:

Motion detected - Front entrance - Unknown individual.

My pulse hammers against my throat as I swipe to the camera feed.

A man I don't recognize stands in our foyer, his weathered face scanning the marble columns and crystal chandelier with calculating eyes.

He's not alone—Bogdan hovers beside him, gesturing toward the main staircase with an easy familiarity that makes my stomach clench.

Bogdan is one of Mikhail’s most trusted soldiers, installed as my bodyguard only last week when my security detail needed "reinforcements." He knows better than to allow unauthorized people into our home.

The stranger's coat drips rain onto our Persian rug, and something about the way he moves—predatory, patient—sends ice racing through my veins. This isn't a business associate or family friend. This is something else entirely.

My bare feet make no sound against the hardwood as I abandon the stove and slip toward the back hallway. The secret room Mikhail showed me on our second week of marriage— just in case, kisa —suddenly feels less like paranoia and more like salvation.

The hidden panel slides open with a whisper, and I'm swallowed by a darkness that smells of concrete and fear. My fingers shake as I find Mikhail's number, the phone's glow casting eerie shadows on the reinforced walls.

One ring. Two.

"Kira?" His voice cuts through the silence, rough with concern. "*What's wrong?*"

"Someone's here," I whisper, pressing myself deeper into the shadows. "A stranger. Bogdan let him in. I’m in the safe room.

"Stay where you are." Mikhail's voice sharpens to steel, and I hear shuffling on his end, the distant murmur of interrupted conversation. "Do not make a sound. Do not open that door for anyone but me."

The line goes silent for three terrifying seconds before he returns. "Are they armed?"

I strain to recall the grainy footage. "I... I don't know. I couldn't see clearly, but the way he moved..." My voice catches on the fear lodged in my throat. "Mikhail, Bogdan was showing him around like a tour guide. Like he belonged here."

A Russian curse hisses through the speaker, low and venomous. The secret room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker with each shallow breath I take. The walls—reinforced concrete that could withstand a bomb—press in around me like a tomb.

"I'm coming home. Ten minutes." The background noise on his end grows chaotic—doors slamming, engines roaring to life. "Stay on the line, kisa ."

I slide down the wall until I'm huddled on the floor, knees drawn to my chest. The phone trembles against my ear as I listen to Mikhail's breathing, punctuated by terse commands to whoever is with him.

"The borscht," I whisper stupidly, thinking of the pot still simmering on the stove. "I left everything out. They'll know someone's here."

"Good," Mikhail replies, his voice a controlled burn. "Let them know they've interrupted something. Let them wonder."

I close my eyes, trying to steady my racing heart.

Beyond the reinforced door, our home—still more his than ours despite the marriage certificate—feels violated.

I'd been cooking in bare feet and one of his shirts, hair piled messily atop my head, pretending at domesticity in a household built on blood, money, and power. The irony isn't lost on me, even now.

"Tell me what you see on the cameras," he demands. "Can you still access them?"

I fumble with the phone, switching to the security app without ending our call. The front entrance is empty now. I swipe through feeds—living room clear, dining room clear, the study?—

"They're in your office," I breathe, watching the stranger run his fingers along the spines of leather-bound books while Bogdan stands at attention by the door. "He's looking at your things. Touching everything."

The growl that emanates from Mikhail sends a shiver down my spine that isn't entirely fear.

"Five minutes," he promises. "And then I'll show him exactly whose home he's violated."

I should be terrified by the deadly calm in his voice. Instead, I find myself clinging to it like a lifeline in the darkness, realizing that for the first time since our arranged marriage, I'm grateful for the violence that simmers beneath my husband's careful control.

"Are you armed?" Mikhail asks, his voice dropping an octave lower.

I glance at the small safe embedded in the wall—another feature he showed me during that first tour. Inside rests a sleek Glock, almost identical to the one he insisted I carry everywhere.

"Yes," I say, not wanting to move from my huddled position.

"Good girl," he says, and despite everything, warmth blooms in my chest at his approval. "I'm three minutes out. Viktor and Alexei are with me."

I switch back to the camera feed, my breath catching as I watch the stranger settle into Mikhail's leather chair, spinning slightly as if testing its comfort. The audacity makes my blood simmer. Bogdan stands nearby, his posture relaxed but his eyes vigilant, scanning the room methodically.

"They're still in the office," I whisper. "The man—he's sitting in your chair now."

Mikhail's response is a string of Russian obscenities so colorful they almost sound poetic.

I swipe through more feeds, checking other areas of the house. "Wait—there's someone else. Kitchen." My heart sinks as I watch a second man lift the lid from my pot, wafting the steam toward his nose. He dips a finger into my carefully crafted borscht and tastes it, then nods with appreciation.

"He's eating my soup," I say, oddly indignant despite the danger. "I spent hours on that."

A tiny chuckle escapes Mikhail, surprising us both. "You'll make more, kisa . When this is over."

The casual promise of a future—of another evening in our kitchen—steadies me. I draw a deeper breath, forcing my shoulders to relax.

"Tell me about this dinner you were making," he says, and I recognize the tactic—keep me talking, keep me calm while he races home.

"Borscht with fresh dill," I murmur, closing my eyes to focus on his voice rather than the claustrophobic darkness. "Pelmeni that I spent all afternoon folding. Honey cake for dessert."

"My favorites," he says softly. "You were cooking my favorites."

The raw surprise in his voice makes my chest ache. Six weeks of marriage, and this is the first time I've tried to please him with something that didn’t involve sex. The realization sits between us, unacknowledged but heavy with meaning.

"I wanted—" I start, but the words die as movement on the screen catches my attention. "They're moving. The second man joined them in the office. They're looking at your desk drawers now."

"One minute out," Mikhail responds, and I hear car doors slamming. "Stay where you are until I come for you. No matter what you hear."

My throat tightens. "What are you going to do?"

"What is necessary." His voice has transformed—the brief moment of warmth calcified into something cold and lethal. "This is still Bratva business, Kira. Even with you involved."

The line goes silent except for his measured breathing. The front door opens without a sound. On my screen, the men in Mikhail's office continue their search, unaware of what is to come. Bogdan glances at his watch, nodding to himself as if on schedule.

I should look away. I should close the app and cover my ears. Instead, I watch with terrifying clarity as my husband—tall and lethal in his tailored suit—appears in the doorway of his office, flanked by men whose faces betray nothing.

The stranger in Mikhail's chair looks up, startled but not afraid. His lips move, forming words I cannot hear. Bogdan steps forward, hands raised in explanation or defense, but Mikhail's expression doesn't change—a beautiful marble sculpture of controlled rage.

I press my palm against the cool concrete wall, anchoring myself as the feed cuts to static. The security system has been overridden. Whatever happens next, Mikhail doesn't want it recorded.

The silence stretches out like an elastic band pulled too tight, wrapping around me and making the air feel thick and suffocating.

It's so quiet that I can almost hear the dust settling around me, broken only by the faint, rhythmic sound of my own shallow breathing.

I focus on counting the steady thud of my heartbeats, reaching three hundred before a sound finally cuts through the oppressive stillness—three sharp raps against the hidden door, each one echoing like a shout in the quiet, followed by two slower, more deliberate knocks.

Our signal.

"Kira." His voice reaches me through the reinforced panel, steady but strained. "It's over. You can come out now."

My legs tremble as I stand, fingers searching for the interior release. The door slides open, revealing Mikhail's broad silhouette against the hallway light. His face is composed, but a smear of crimson stains his white shirt cuff, and his knuckles are raw.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, eyes sweeping over me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

I shake my head, stepping into his outstretched arms without hesitation. His embrace is crushing, desperate in a way I've never felt from him before. His heart thunders against my cheek, belying his calm exterior.

"Who were they?" I whisper against his chest.

His fingers thread through my hair, cradling my head as if I might shatter. "Not tonight, kisa . Tonight, we clean up and eat whatever can be salvaged of your dinner. Tomorrow, we talk about Bogdan's betrayal."

I pull back enough to see his face, searching for answers in the glacial blue of his eyes. "He let them in deliberately. He was working against you."

Something flickers in Mikhail's gaze—a grudging respect for my perception, perhaps. "Yes. And now we know."

The implications sink into me slowly, like poison. If Bogdan could betray us, others could, too. The fortress of our home suddenly seems made of paper, vulnerable to fire and wind.

"Come," Mikhail says, leading me toward the kitchen with a hand pressed firmly against the small of my back. "Your soup is still warm. I want to have dinner with my wife."