Page 18 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

KONSTANTIN

A t nine hours on the dot, three black SUVs come up the one-lane logging road.

They drive over the drift like it's not there, flattening the crust and whatever hope Galina had of making it to her cousin's truck.

They come early, before dawn, when the world is most brittle.

Zoya is awake and she has bundled Lev, his hair pressed flat, his mouth a perfect circle of sleep.

Galina stands by the stove, watching the frost melt on the glass.

She doesn't bother waking me. They knew the game was over last night when I showed up on the porch.

I watched her decide between trying to kill me once again and accepting her fate. It took two heartbeats.

The irony doesn't escape me, not for a moment, that the woman I love—the woman born to carry my name, to warm my bed and rule beside me—looks at me as though I'm the monster she was warned about in childhood stories, as though every nerve in her body is trained to recoil from me, when all I see in her rage and resistance is the fire that made me want her in the first place.

Because the truth is, the more she hates me, the more beautiful she becomes.

The fact that she truly believed she could end me still makes me smile, not out of mercy or pity but something far more indulgent, because my little assassin was never going to succeed, but God help me, I adore her for trying.

I almost let her run. But I do not surrender what is mine, not when she still wears my mark in the way she walks, in the son she tried to hide, in the impossible ache she brings with every breath she takes, and when I looked at that boy—at our boy—there was no question in my mind, no need for proof or paperwork, just instinct, blood calling to blood, and in that moment, I knew what I had always known—that she belongs to me, utterly and irrevocably.

Russia has already bent the knee, and she will follow, whether by choice or by fire, because I didn't climb my way through war and betrayal and blood-soaked nights just to lose her now, not when I have come this far, not when I am this close to reclaiming what was always mine.

The men work quietly. Nobody shouts, nobody roughs up the old lady, nobody leaves a mark.

Zoya resists, but it's the resistance of a mathematician running out the clock.

She calculates the odds, tries a feint at the side door, then folds the bluff when Lev's eyes open and see the guns.

Her expression is blank, but the hands she wraps around Lev are not.

We bring them to a holding site just north of Moscow, a brutalist leftover from the Cold War.

The walls are double-thick concrete, and the windows are less than a rumor.

I've had the place scrubbed and modernized, but it still smells like ghost sweat.

They separate the three of them, just enough to keep Zoya on edge.

Galina goes to the medical unit for a check.

Lev gets a real breakfast and a nurse who can pronounce his name.

Zoya gets the interview suite comprising four bare walls, a polycarbonate table bolted to the slab, and a chair designed for discomfort. On the table is a single folder.

I watch her for fifteen minutes on the feed before I go in. She does not fidget or blink at the cameras in the corners. She sits with her arms folded tightly, ankles locked, chin tucked. The posture is classic—a wounded animal, teeth bared but throat exposed.

I enter with nothing but two paper cups of coffee. No guards. No gun. I close the door behind me and sit at the far side of the table and offer her a cup. After a moment, she takes a sip, gingerly. We watch each other. "You look well," I say, just to break the ice.

She bares her teeth. "Is that a joke?"

I shrug. "You're alive. Lev is alive. The alternative was messier."

Her eyes flick up to the camera. "So, this is it? You're my jailer now?"

"I'm your only friend left in Moscow." I tap the folder on the table. "You want to hear the report?"

She says nothing.

I start anyway. "The Baranov estate is nothing but a graveyard, darling.

Your father is dead. Ekaterina is missing, presumed dead.

The assets are frozen, the offshore lines are burned, and every man who could have protected you is either running or underground.

The council knows what Valentin was building.

No one wants to be caught backing a traitor who tried to turn Russia into his private empire.

They've abandoned the Baranov name, Zoya.

You are the last living symbol of a dynasty no one dares touch.

And I'm the only one who still knows what to do with you. "

The confusion on her face is apparent. She doesn't know what Valentin Baranov was doing.

And I may have exaggerated in that I haven't told the council the extent of his plans, only what was needed for me to rise to the top.

But if Zoya feels any surprise, she masks it quickly.

She's not about to show me I have the upper hand, even if she's bound and gagged and out of choices.

A corner of my lip curls up involuntarily. She frowns immediately.

"You seem pleased."

I slide the folder across the table. She doesn't touch it. It's evident she doesn't know what plans her father had for her, and while I'd love to be the one telling her, I don't feel like doubling down on her heartbreak and letting her know she was raised as a pig for slaughter.

"You didn't kill my father yourself," she says suddenly, quietly. "You had one of your men do it."

I nod, not denying it. "Cleaner that way."

We lapse into silence. I let it stretch. The clock in the room ticks loud enough to fake a heartbeat.

"I don't want you dead," I say finally, "but I can't let you run."

She leans forward, forearms on the table. The sleeves of her shirt are rolled back, showing the scar on her wrist. "Why?"

"Because you have my boy."

She smiles again. This one is colder. "Then why bother with all this? You could just bind me in chains and take Lev."

"He's not enough, Zoya."

She looks deep into my eyes. "Always a man of contradictions, aren't you, Markov ?"

I shrug and match her word for word. "Like recognizes like, sweet girl. You're coming home with me."

"To what?" she asks, her voice trembling faintly. "A bigger jail than this one?"

I don't answer. I sip the coffee, let the silence stew.

She shifts in her seat, just enough to change the angle.

Her eyes scan the room, cataloguing exits, weapons, weaknesses.

As I watch her, for a moment, I want to reach across the table and touch her face, just to see if it's still the same as I remember.

I lean in, close enough to see the red veins in her eyes. "You're going to marry me."

She recoils, almost laughs. "Is this a joke?"

"Not a joke." I push the next sheet across the table. "You need protection. Lev needs protection. There's only one way you both survive this. You become Vetrovs and let go of the Baranov name. It will bring you nothing but enemies, anyway."

She breathes through her nose, jaw clamped. "You're insane."

"Maybe," I say, "but I'm right. The law won't touch you if you're under my name."

She chews the inside of her cheek. "What about Galina?"

"She stays with Lev. She gets a pension and a dacha. She'll want for nothing."

Zoya blinks, just once. "And if I say no?"

"I put you in a box so small you'll forget what daylight is."

Her lips part. For a second, I think she'll spit in my face. She doesn't. She sits back, arms folded, and stares at the wall. "Why me?"

I consider telling her the truth. That she's the only woman I've ever met who made me want to be less than a monster. That the last time we were alone in a room, I wanted to tear her clothes off and lose myself inside her, and I still do, even after everything. But she doesn't want sentiment.

"Because you're smarter than everyone else," I say, "and I need someone who can keep up."

She closes her eyes. When she opens them, the gray-green is as clear as a forest in daylight. "Fine," she says. "But on one condition."

I wait.

She leans forward, voice low and flat. "You never, ever threaten Lev. Not even as a joke. Not even as a mistake."

I'm almost insulted at what she thinks I am, but then again, this is a girl who doesn't know she was living with monsters all this while. So I let it slide with a quiet "Agreed" instead. She sits back, and for the first time, she looks tired. I clear my throat. "There is one condition."

She raises a brow at me. "Seriously?"

I shrug. "You have to earn your trust, sweet girl. And you've always presented a bit of a flight risk, haven't you?"

At that, Zoya smiles humorlessly. "Touché. What is it?"

"No phone," I reply, looking directly into her eyes. "Not until you've established where your loyalties lie."

She chews the inside of her lip, and I have to fist my palms to stop myself from staring too long. "How do I talk to others?"

My eyes glint. "Have you been doing a lot of talking while living in that self-imposed exile of yours?"

Once again, I pull a sad little smile from her, and once again, I have to remind my heart to slow the fuck down. She sighs and nods. "Fine. Do I get to use a house phone, at least?"

I stand, toss the empty cup in the trash. "Yes, you do. We leave soon."

Then I exit the room, and once outside and near the camera feed, I watch her exhale, head in her hands, and begin to cry. For a moment, I want to walk back in and take her in my arms. But I know better.

Later, when I bring Lev to her and let him in, she hugs him so hard he gasps. She kisses the top of his head, then buries her face in his hair. She glances at the camera and gives me a look I can't read.