Page 17 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)
ZOYA
T he Present Day
The snow has climbed halfway up the windows this evening, burying the cabin in blue-white shadow.
Each log, each seam between planks, has its own rim of ice.
I sit at the kitchen table, having managed to return home—because this place has become the only home I have—at ten minutes past eight.
It's not even a table, just two slats of timber spattered with black knots and burns.
My fingers leave damp prints. They shake too much to interlace, so I fold them flat against the grain and focus on breathing.
Galina is a storm. When I arrived here, she surmised my mission had failed simply from the look on my face.
She ransacks drawers, kicks the stove for heat, piles food into a plastic sack.
She's in her housecoat, but underneath she wears black wool leggings, two shirts, a scarf wound like a tourniquet around her throat.
"We go tonight," she snaps, voice stripped to wire.
"Before he comes hunting. Little dove, are you hearing? " She checks the window, then me.
I nod once. The world outside is a bruise, sky blackening around the edges. The only color comes from Galina's hands, raw and red from snowmelt.
Lev is asleep in the next room, folded into a cocoon of musty blankets. His breathing is perfect. Sometimes, I tiptoe close and hold my palm over his mouth, just to feel the hush of it. Tonight, I don't dare. He's the only thing in this place that doesn't shake.
Galina upends a basket—apples, three potatoes, a stale heel of bread. She swears, stuffs them into the bag, then moves to the cupboard. "Nothing left," she says. "We eat next at the border." She grabs my chin, turns my face to the light. "Zoya. You must listen."
"I am listening." My voice is underwater, thick with old panic. I can't swallow it.
"Good. We go west. My cousin has truck at border. You remember what to do if…" She makes a gun with her hand, points it at the window, then the door. "If anyone comes, you go under. Crawlspace. Lev too."
"Crawlspace," I echo. My palms sweat against the table, despite the chill.
Galina lets go. She takes the duffel from the closet, crams in shirts and socks, a cheap bottle of vodka, a pack of cigarettes.
She pauses only to check on Lev—she always kisses his forehead, even asleep—then returns to the packing.
"You must eat quickly," she orders. "Eat now. It will be a long road."
I glance at the plate—a wedge of cheese, already sweating in the air. I pick it up, bite, chew until the salt burns the roof of my mouth. Galina kneels in front of me. Her face is all bones and will. "What happened at house…" She waits, as if I can speak it.
I try. The words are rusty, crusted with scabs, recalling every painful memory from six years ago.
"They came at dawn. Six cars. Papa was on the balcony.
" I close my eyes, and the scene replays frame by frame—Papa's silhouette, gunmetal hair, the red dot that appeared mid-chest. "They shot him.
He fell over the railing. The blood…" I stop, chew more cheese.
Galina puts a hand on my knee. "You saw?"
"Yes." I keep my eyes shut. "They shot the guards. Ekaterina…" My breath fogs the air. "I don't know where she is." I stare at the wall. The paint is peeling, yellow at the corners. "I didn't help."
Galina's hand tightens. "You helped by living. He would want this. You must remember that now, Zoyechka . Don't let his sacrifice be in vain."
"Would he?" I don't mean to say it. The doubt slips out between my teeth, sour and raw.
Galina is quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is softer, almost kind. "Your Papa was a hard man. But you were his heart. Always."
My throat closes around the next bite. I drop the cheese, clench my fists in my lap until the ache distracts from the memory.
"I've been so blinded by the need for blood, the Pakhan's blood.
I didn't think what would happen if it came to this.
" I touch a scar on my palm and dig a fingernail into the seam, just to feel something that isn't cold or numb.
Galina stands, paces the length of the cabin.
Each step is a declaration of war against the floorboards.
"You did what you had to. Now you listen to me.
" She slams the duffel on the table, zips it shut.
"We go right now. I packed everything. You take Lev.
I will get us to the truck. If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide."
"And if they find us?"
She shrugs, her eyes flinty. "Then we die fighting."
A shudder crawls up my spine. Galina checks the windows, peels back the curtain a centimeter. The wind picks up, rattles the glass in its putty. "You have a few minutes to check everything," she says. "Use them."
I go to Lev's room, sit on the edge of the bed, watch him breathe.
His hair is dark, wild, refusing the parting.
I touch his cheek, warm, soft, alive. My heart cracks just a little.
Closing the door behind me, I lean against it until the shaking stops.
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater, careful not to make a sound.
It is not a night to die, but it could be.
The trees loom, tall and skeletal, their branches lacquered in ice.
The wind moves through them like breath, like warning.
Somewhere far off, a fox yips once and falls quiet.
Even the moon looks sharpened, its light angled like a blade.
There is no safety in this wilderness, no promise.
Only the cold and the rhythm of my heartbeat in my ears.
I walk toward the woodpile. The logs are half-buried under a fresh crust, brittle and silver. My breath forms clouds. I watch them rise and vanish, the only proof I am alive.
Somewhere behind me, the porch groans. I freeze.
It could be Galina asking me to hurry up. Could be the wind. Could be a hundred things. I stay crouched, one hand still buried in the snow, the other wrapped around a log that I've pulled out.
Then silence again. Not the absence of sound, but the pressure of something watching. I turn slowly, still kneeling, still half in the snow. The cabin is behind me. The door is closed. The steps are bare.
But there is someone there.
A shape between the trees. Still as the night itself. No movement. No fog of breath.
My throat tightens. My first thought is to run. My second is that I won't make it. I rise to my feet, log still clutched in hand. The figure steps forward. Black coat. Leather gloves. Boots that do not crunch.
My legs don't move. My hands drop the wood.
I hear it thud into the snow, but it sounds distant, like a page torn from someone else's story.
He doesn't raise a weapon. He doesn't shout.
He just walks toward me with dreadful familiarity.
The distance between us collapses. I see the shape of his shoulders, the set of his mouth.
And I know. I know before he speaks. I know by the way the world seems to lean toward him, as if gravity itself remembers.
My knees want to buckle. I force them to hold. He steps into the open, and the moon hits his face.
Konstantin Vetrov. The man I loved, the man I tried to kill. His eyes are the same. Everything else has changed. The cold has made him more beautiful somehow, more dangerous. The kind of beautiful that breaks nations.
"You really thought I wouldn't find you?"
The moon highlights the shape of his jaw, the scar on his cheek, the white of his smile.
I know that smile. "Hello, Zoya," he says.
He stops two meters from me, just out of arm's reach. His eyes are bright, fevered, but the rest of him is calm, so calm I want to scream.
He looks at the log in my hand and smiles, and I hate what it does to my heart. Konstantin, Markov, lover, murderer, executioner. "Going to kill me with that?"
"If you make me," I say. The words come out steady. My knees are less sure.
He laughs amusedly. "Your Papa would be proud." He shifts his weight, never taking his eyes off mine. "Put it down, sweet Zimushka . I'm not here to hurt you."