Page 12 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

KONSTANTIN

T he night before

Two paper cones of pommes frites and a bottle of Bordeaux, and no one to share them with.

I look like an idiot, standing on Rue Saint-Denis at three in the morning, the smile on my face not turned to a grimace of disbelief yet.

The bottle sweats condensation. The chips go limp in the city air.

I scan the block once, twice, a third time for effect.

Sofia, for lack of a real name, is gone.

She left the moment I turned my back to charm the street vendor.

I missed her exit, which offends me more than I care to admit.

I pride myself on knowing all movements in my surroundings, including the ones in the margins.

Yet here I am, holding a late-night snack for a girl who has ghosted the world's best operator.

I stuff a fry into my mouth. "Mmm," I mutter dryly as I chew. "Salt and mockery."

I let the anger come, sharp and clean. Not at her.

At myself for expecting otherwise. The paper cone folds in my grip.

The wine swings by the neck, a glassless toast to my own stupidity.

I step under a streetlamp, shadow split by the sodium light.

Paris is dead at this hour. The only witness is an old man walking a terrier who presumably has the runs, and he doesn't look up.

I set the food on a bench, bottle beside it.

No point in dragging the weight of disappointment through the next move when my appetite is all but gone.

My phone vibrates, presenting a good pretext to abandon the food. I answer. The line is secure but you never know who's listening. "Speak."

"Sir. Shipping manifests from Odessa just landed. Want them before or after customs?"

I like my lieutenants to be as literal as possible. Cuts down on disappointment.

"Before, obviously. Forward only what can't be traced to us."

"Yes, sir."

"Good lad," I say and hang up before he can be offended. You keep men loyal by making sure they want to kill you a little.

I flag the next taxi. When it pulls over, I tell the driver, “Charles de Gaulle, full speed.” The man nods, eyes me in the mirror, and then ignores me as if he's seen a thousand guys in black coats tonight.

He probably has. I watch the city through the window, filaments of light tangled with rain streaks and regret.

The roads are empty except for municipal sweepers and a girl in a dress two blocks over, head down, clutching her phone like a drowning man.

Not my girl. Wrong shape, wrong gait. Hers is feline, all hips and angles, impossible to mistake.

For one sliver of a second, I entertain the idea of finding her.

I know the hotel she put up at, and the right amount of pushing will get the staff there to admit everything, her whole history.

But then again, I saw her eyes, the way she hid so much and so well.

My finding her won't stop her from running as soon as she sees me.

Instead, I thumb my contacts and pick the Moscow number.

The man answers on the first ring. "Konstantin. You will be arriving at the office tomorrow, yes?"

"Can you get me on the first flight out of the city? Business class."

A brief pause, then, "Yes, consider it done."

I keep my eyes on the city. "Push the meeting. I want a full readout on Baranov movements in the Black Sea first. Use the new satellites."

There's a pause. "Expensive, the satellites."

"More expensive to be surprised," I say. "Get me the logs before I land."

Another pause, this one edged with pride. " Da ."

I hang up. The driver stares at me in the rearview, but I don't entertain the questions in his gaze. I like to think I am the only man in Paris with nothing to confess.

At the airport, I walk through security quietly.

Unlike other families with wealth that rivals mine, there is no private jet waiting for me.

Getting one would be easy, and perhaps half the men on my payroll would call it a matter of dignity.

But I've seen what private fuel burns through the world.

You don't need to play saint to stop lighting the sky on fire just because you're rich enough to pretend it doesn't count.

So I always book commercial. Business class. Clean trail. No unnecessary attention.

At the airport, security lets me through without delay.

No luggage, no duty-free, no chatter. My passport does the work.

In the lounge, I pour a drink and watch the others.

A salesman murmurs into a headset. A pair of hedge fund types scroll through their phones without looking up.

A woman in pearls stares past her husband, her fingers wrapped around a sweating flute of champagne.

Across the room, two teenage girls whisper and glance my way. I hold their gaze until one of them flushes and looks down. The other rolls her eyes, but not convincingly. I sit with my back to the wall, ice melting in my glass, waiting to be called.

My flight is called. I board in silence. Seat 2A, window. I never look out. There's nothing down there I haven't already lost or taken. I hang my jacket neatly, settle in, and close my eyes before the safety demonstration begins. A steward offers me champagne. I take water instead.

The plane ascends with a low hum, smooth and forgettable.

I let the pressure shift in my ears, let it remind me that I am moving.

Sometimes, that's the only proof. I close my eyes and count to ten, but sleep does not come.

My mind is already in Moscow, sifting through files and faces, prepping for the next move.

The Next Day

I hit Moscow a few hours later, when the city's ugliness is at its most honest. Traffic is a standstill of black sedans and battered Ladas, all heading nowhere with the urgency of men late for their own funerals.

The rain is a thin gray, barely worth the name, but it sticks to every surface and seeps into your bones. I like it. Makes the city feel real.

Stepping out of the plane, I leave the airport and head for my car, which then drops me at the old finance building near Red Square.

Three stories of concrete and paranoia. My people are already waiting—the usual suspects, arranged by loyalty and proximity to the coffee machine.

Nobody looks up as I walk in, but I see phones drop, conversations clip short, the space tighten.

I have that effect. I cultivate it. The conference room is pure Soviet—linoleum, stained oak, fluorescent lights.

The table is scarred from a thousand impromptu interrogations. At least the satellite link is new.

They've covered the table with satellite prints, port manifests, stacks of paper coded with Cyrillic shorthand and what passes for forensic handwriting in my operation.

Three men wait. Antonov is tall and hungry, the kind of man who won't stop climbing until he owns the mountain or dies on it.

Orlov is small, compact, but dangerous. He smiles with too many teeth and always sits closest to the exits.

Sokolov is the best analyst in Moscow, but he stinks of garlic and never meets my eye.

I can forgive a lot in a man with his skill set.

I take the head of the table but don't sit. It keeps them off balance. "Report."

Antonov goes first. "Odessa port, last six months. Twenty-six percent uptick in diplomatic clearances. Most flagged for 'state security'. No inspections, no scans, straight to air or rail. Primary route, Southern line. Most manifests list only 'official supplies', but the weight doesn't match."

I nod once. "Show me the tags."

He lays out four manifests. The names are bland, but the stamps are all from the same office. The Baranov seal, red and black, centered above a hawk. I watch Sokolov's eyes flick to my face, measuring my reaction. I give him nothing.

Orlov cuts in. "We ran the numbers. Baranov clan hasn't moved this much in years. Not since the Turkish pipeline collapse. They're pushing something big."

"People?"

Orlov shrugs. "Maybe. Could be hardware. Could be cash. The volumes are massive, but the containers are diplomatic. Even the Americans won't touch those."

I lean over the table. "You sound impressed."

He grins sheepishly. "Only with the scale, sir."

The last report is Sokolov's. He pulls up a series of surveillance photos, grainy and wet from a drone parked above the Black Sea.

"Not just Odessa. We tracked Baranov affiliates at every major southern port—Batumi, Varna, Constanta.

All using similar channels, all leveraging diplomatic staff.

They've built up presence at every consulate in the lower Balkans.

Over fifty new hires with state credentials. "

I study the prints. "What's their endgame?" I ask, not really needing an answer.

Antonov shrugs. "If it's the old game, they're arming someone. If it's the new one, they're bringing someone in."

I finally sit. The chair creaks in weak protest. "I want access to the Southern Customs Hall records, all ports from Montenegro to Sochi.

I want the full names on every Baranov diplomatic credential issued in the last eighteen months.

I want eyes on every delivery from the southern corridor, and I want it last week. "

The three men nod in perfect unison.

"And Sokolov?"

He looks up.

"If you leak any of this to the Americans, I will know. And you will be working border patrol in Vorkuta for the rest of your miserable life."

He chuckles but nods. The meeting breaks. My men scatter to their tasks, notebooks in hand, egos trimmed for efficiency. I stand by the window, rain still ticking against the glass. Moscow looks no better than before. I crush the thought, light a cigarette, and start plotting my next move.