Page 21 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

The meeting moves on. Sokolov is still skeptical, but he can't argue with the logic.

I sit back, content to watch the men re-calculate my value in real time.

Afterward, Konstantin dismisses the room with a wave.

The lieutenants file out, some offering nods, one or two with glances that linger.

Orlov actually bows, just a hair. When the last man is gone, Konstantin leans back in his chair and studies me.

"You could have been Pakhan yourself," he says.

I don't bother denying it. "But I'm not."

He stands and comes around the table. I tense, but he only perches on the edge next to me, arms folded. "Why help?"

I snort. "If your men fuck up, Lev and I go down with the rest of you."

He laughs, clearly delighted by my honesty. " I appreciate that."

I rise, brushing imaginary lint off my dress. "If you're done with me, I have a son to tutor."

He waves me off, amused.

Down the hall, the breeze goes cooler. The doors are wide, the floors so clean they shine.

I find Lev in his now fully furnished room upstairs, hunched over a workbook the size of a brick.

His tutor is a young woman with brown hair and the patience of a saint.

She's teaching him fractions in Russian and English, alternating every problem.

He is bored but polite, my son in every way.

I watch for a minute. He finishes the page, then glances up and sees me. His face cracks in a grin and he gives a tiny wave. I wave back. The tutor looks up, sees me, and nods with relief. I open the door. "Can I steal him?" I ask.

The tutor gathers her papers and flees with a grateful smile. Lev hops off his chair and runs to me. I kneel and catch him, all elbows and knees and warmth. "Was it boring?" I ask.

He shrugs. "She's better than the old one."

"Good."

He tucks his face into my shoulder. For a moment, the world shrinks to just us.

Then, I give him something to eat and he finishes his homework and busies himself with his Legos.

I check on Galina. She's in the kitchen that comes with the suite, making dough for pirozhki and bullying the chef out of his own domain.

The sight of her hands in flour, the hum of her voice as she mutters at the yeast, is the closest thing to safety I've felt since Paris.

I watch her, looking for signs of fear, sadness, anger.

I see none. She's in her element, queen of the domestic kingdom.

When she catches my eye, she points at the rising dough and gives a wink.

I smile back. We eat dinner together, just the three of us.

Konstantin does not join. Lev asks if he can visit the library.

I say yes. He bolts, eager to escape. Galina cleans the dishes with militant efficiency, then disappears to her room.

I take my tea to the balcony and watch the sunset over the city.

The skyline glows orange, then dims to blue.

I drink the heat down to the last bitter drop, then I do my hundredth tour of this massive place that still doesn't feel like home, mapping every corridor, every blind corner.

The architecture is new but the bones are old—postwar concrete, wood from forests razed to build palaces like this.

I trail my hand along the paneling, searching for seams. In my father's house, every room had three exits—the one for guests, the one for servants, and the one for escape. I do not expect less from Konstantin.

The guards nod when I pass, their eyes polite but alert. They've been briefed to treat me with respect but not with trust. I watch their posture, the way their hands hover near their weapons, the way they track my steps even when pretending not to. They're good. Not perfect, but good.

The house is alive at all hours. Servants clean, cook, run messages. The inner circle stalks the halls with dossiers and encrypted phones. There's an armory on the basement level. I know because I saw three men come out carrying crates, and the way they smiled said nothing in those boxes was legal.

I test the limits. I walk routes that double back, loop through kitchens, skirt the private elevator.

I try doors, count cameras, clock the rotation of security teams. In the east wing, a hallway ends at a heavy black door guarded by two men.

They're different from the others, military cut, no insignia, faces clean-shaven and bored.

Stopping three meters away, I cross my arms and stare.

The guard on the left glances at his partner, then at me. "Can I help you, Mrs. Vetrov?"

I don't know if I'll ever get used to the name, but I take it in my stride. "What's behind the door?"

"Private vault," he replies immediately. "No access."

I raise a brow at him. "For anyone?"

He hesitates. "No one, ma'am."

I step closer, stopping just inside their reach. "You know, in my family, locked doors were an invitation."

The guard shifts, not quite blocking me but making a point.

His right hand rests on the butt of his rifle, a warning as soft as a love note.

I consider pushing, but not today. I run my finger along the seam of the door, feel the chill of metal.

I look both men in the eyes, memorize their color, the lines around their mouths, the precise shape of their ears. Never know which detail will matter.

"Tell Konstantin I was here," I say.

The guards exchange a look but don't reply.

I walk away, casual, but my heart beats double-time.

I replay the scene a hundred ways—if I'd smiled less, if I'd asked more, if I'd moved a half-step to the left.

Making it back to the family wing, I check on Lev who now has his nose buried in Pushkin.

I touch his hair. He leans into me and then goes back to the page.

A quick shower, and then I dress for dinner and slip into Konstantin's office without knocking. He's at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie abandoned, fingers dancing over a stack of contracts. He smells like aftershave and expensive bourbon.

He doesn't look up. "Busy day?"

I drop into the chair opposite. "Your guards are overconfident."

"They have reason to be."

"Overconfidence gets men killed."

He glances at me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Planning a coup?"

I match his tone. "Would you see it coming?"

He closes the contract, leans back, and steeples his hands. "Try me."

We stare at each other. The silence is a battleground, and neither of us wants to be the first casualty.

"Why the vault?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Every empire needs a heart. That's ours."

"Not very poetic."

"Poetry gets men killed, too."

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and fix him with the look my father called the Medusa. "If you want me to play the part, you need to trust me."

He sits very still, then reaches for the decanter on the credenza. He pours two fingers of bourbon and slides it across the desk to me. "I trust you to survive," he says. "I trust you to keep Lev alive. I trust you not to poison my drink." He lifts his own glass. "Beyond that, trust is a luxury."

I down the bourbon in one gulp, feel the burn all the way to my core. "Then why keep me here?"

He considers. "Because you are a weapon. And I need weapons pointed at my enemies, not at my head."

I stand, pacing to the window. The lights of the city glow like a distant firestorm. For a second I want to throw the glass, smash it against the wall, but I settle for tracing the condensation on the pane.

"I know you watch me," I say. "Every step. Every word."

He stands too, coming around the desk until he's a breath away.

"You're not a guest here, Zoya." His voice is low, dangerous. "You're priceless property under protection."

I spin, anger threading through my nerves. "Is that what you tell yourself? That this is protection?"

He tilts his head, studies me like a problem with only one solution. "What would you call it?"

I step into his space, close enough to smell the hint of sweat beneath the bourbon. "I'd call it a cage. Even if the bars are made of silk and gold."

He laughs, and I hate what the richness in it does to me. "You always were a poet."

I jab a finger at his chest. "Don't confuse loyalty with ownership."

He catches my wrist in his hand, holding it just tight enough to remind me who's stronger.

"If I wanted ownership," he says, "you'd be in the vault."

We lock eyes. My breath is fast, his is steady. For a moment, I think he might hit me, or kiss me, or both. I pull my hand free. "Someone needs to tell you when you're being an idiot."

He tosses back his whiskey and pours another. "You're welcome to try."

The argument detonates before either of us says another word.

He accuses me of undermining his authority.

I accuse him of treating people like assets.

We go point for point, neither giving an inch, voices whisper-soft and full of bitterness.

The tension ratchets up with every syllable.

I see the vein at his temple, the tic in his jaw.

He sees the set of my shoulders, the way my hands curl into fists.

It escalates with a single sentence. "If you want to feel like you belong here," he says, "then act like you belong."

I step into his space. "I don't belong to you."

He smells like wood smoke and war. "Don't you?"

He's so close I can taste the whiskey on his breath. "I hate you," I whisper.

He sets the glass down. "I know."

Then he grabs me, and the world tips sideways.

His mouth crushes mine, not in haste, but in furious certainty, as though he's been waiting his whole life to remind me what I am.

What only he can see. "You goddamned witch," he breathes against my lips, not pulling back, not gentling.

"No man's ever known you were a woman. Not like this. Not like me."