Page 25 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

I wake with a start and drag air into my lungs and let the ceiling come into focus.

The other side of the bed is empty. I sent him away last night—insisted on it, more for the theater than for my own pride.

But his scent remains, warm and heady like the memory of the sun in a land that has known winter for too long.

Under that, me. I stretch and feel the ache along the insides of my thighs, the familiar soreness that comes after we fight and fuck and collapse together.

It's not pain. It's proof I'm still a body.

The clock tells me the time is early yet. Two hours until the city stirs. I could lie here, pretend I'm asleep, let the staff tiptoe around my perimeter. Or I could move. I move.

I get into the shower, lather, scrub, rinse.

No luxuries, just the basics. I towel off, push wet hair back, and dress in front of the mirror.

Navy slacks, tailored. High-neck silk blouse, clean lines, buttoned at the throat.

Not a uniform, exactly, but I want the first eyes that land on me today to see control, not aftermath.

The hallway is empty, but the cameras are alive.

Two guards stand at the landing, posture perfect, hands folded at the waist. They nod in sync, eyes on my feet, never my face.

I wonder if they draw straws to see who gets this detail, or if it's an honor.

I pass without a word and a perfunctory smile plastered on my face, and their relief is almost audible.

Downstairs, the house is awake in that pre-dawn way.

staff moving in choreographed silence, slippers on marble, the distant hiss of water boiling.

I cross to the main breakfast room, since my family—Lev and Galina— no longer dine upstairs and prefer the windowed main kitchen instead.

Lev is already at the table, legs swinging, hair sticking up like a failed experiment.

Galina sits beside him, turtleneck and pearls, face carved from disappointment.

She pours milk, adds honey, and slides the mug to him with a gesture that says nothing is negotiable.

Lev sees me, and his whole face lights up. "Mama, there was a hawk outside my window," he says, mouth still full of buttered toast and jam. "I think it was hunting."

I take the chair opposite and smooth my blouse. "Did you see it catch anything?"

He nods. "A mouse. It just—" He makes a fist, then opens it in slow motion. "Gone."

Galina tsks, wipes jam from his chin. "He exaggerates," she says, not looking at me.

"He's got good eyes," I say. "Like his grandfather."

This stops her, just for a second. I see the crack in her armor, the way she wants to correct me, to rewrite the genealogy of our history in a way that'll make things easy for Lev when he's old enough to understand. Instead she pours me tea, one sugar, slides it over the table.

"You didn't sleep well," she says. "Too much vodka, maybe?"

I shake my head. "Work. The stacks keep coming… ledgers, requests, you know. Half the city wants a favor or a signature."

It's surprising how much work I get done here, given that I once thought I'd be little more than a glorified prisoner.

For all his riddles, my husband does want my intelligence on his side.

I've learned to read shipping manifests and identify when a front company is being used too often.

I sit in on vetting meetings where marriages are proposed like business mergers.

When packages arrive from Odessa or Istanbul, I'm the one who signs for them, noting the insignias, measuring the intent.

I speak with the wives of captains and soldiers, keeping pulse on the fractures that begin in kitchens before they surface on the streets.

Sometimes, I'm asked to bless a deal with my presence, to make a rival believe Konstantin is generous and civilized.

Other times, I'm expected to look the other way when a man disappears after Sunday lunch.

I keep records no one admits exist and burn them before anyone else can read them.

My wardrobe is a strategy, my smile a deterrent.

Even silence is work. What surprises me most is how easily I've adapted.

How much of this was already in me, waiting for the right nameplate on the door.

Galina raises one eyebrow. "He keeps you busy."

"He keeps everyone busy," I say. "Where is he?"

She glances at the clock. "Office. He starts at six-thirty, always. You know this."

Of course I know this. The rhythm of the house is as predictable as a metronome, each moment accounted for.

I sip my tea, let the caffeine burn through the fog.

Lev hums to himself, builds a tower from toast crusts.

"Mama, will you take me to the greenhouse after breakfast?

I want to see if the lemon tree is still alive. "

I reach across, ruffle his hair. "If we're quick, we can get there before school."

Galina sets her cup down with a click. "You spoil him."

"Let him have his childhood,'" I say in a murmur. "While he can."

She stands, straightens her skirt. "The world will not."

That's the Baranov eulogy, the world will not. I watch her leave, count the seconds until the soft-shut of the kitchen door. Lev makes his voice small, conspiratorial. "Can we bring some lemons for Galina? She likes them in her tea."

I smile. "We can try. But she'll just say they're too sour."

He shrugs, as if this is the nature of things.

I finish my tea and move to the wall console tucked behind the breakfast room curtain.

The security feed flickers to life across the embedded screen, black and white, timestamped.

Konstantin is in his office, as promised.

Three men with him, all familiar faces from the inner circle.

No emergencies yet. I watch the live feed for another minute, then make my way back to Lev, still at the table.

I tap the wood, a little too hard, and see the ripple it makes in Lev's juice glass.

He doesn't notice, absorbed in his structure.

But I see my own reflection in the spill, and I like what I see.

Calm. Ready. This is how you start a war and make it look like a breakfast.

I spend some time with Lev, making sure he has his fun, and once he's on his way to school, I get to work.

The fastest way to anywhere in this house is through the servants' wing.

I learned that from Galina, and from Konstantin's own habits—he prefers the utility paths, the ones with no cameras and fewer questions.

I follow the memory of his footsteps—past the dumbwaiter, left at the laundry, up the hidden stair that smells like bleach and old bread.

There's a guard at the landing. Not the usual brute, but a new man.

Late twenties, cheeks pitted, haircut from a military discount shop.

He sees me and straightens, hand hovering near his hip.

I give him the same look I used to give Parisian waiters—polite, patient, unbothered. He nods and steps aside.

The stairs narrow at the top, opening onto a balcony with an ironwork rail.

The glass wall in front of me hums with condensation.

I wipe a circle clear and peer down. Below, the private garage is half-lit by sodium bulbs.

It's not really a garage so much as a sealed environment—concrete floor, radiant heat, three bays with overhead cranes and power tools, the smell of oil and expensive solvents.

Konstantin is at the center, shirtsleeves rolled, gloves on, engine grease streaked along his wrist like war paint.

He stands with three of his lieutenants, the hierarchy so obvious I can taste it—Orlov to his left, notebook out.

Sokolov at the edge, arms crossed, suspicious as always.

The third man, new to me, younger, nervous, already sweating.

They cluster around a shipment crate the size of a coffin, lid pried off, packing straw everywhere.

A car sits on the lift, black as patent leather, doors off, interior gutted to the frame.

Underneath, a tech in coveralls wires something to the undercarriage—small, tight gestures, hands moving with the focus of a surgeon.

I zoom in with my eyes, recognize the make—Mercedes S-Class, custom armor.

The tracking device isn't just a tracker.

It's a relay, a kill switch, maybe a bomb. Hard to say.

Konstantin leans over the schematic, finger tracing a line from engine bay to rear axle.

He points, says something clipped. The lead engineer wipes his hands on his chest, nods, and disappears into a back room.

Orlov records every word, head bobbing, eyes always two beats behind. Sokolov scowls, but it's an act.

The new guy tries to keep up, but he's lost. He glances at Konstantin, then at the car, then back at his shoes.

He makes a joke, voice bright and too loud, and for a second everyone pauses.

Even the tech stops soldering. There's a beat of silence, then Konstantin smirks, just barely, and the tension pops.

Everyone breathes again. The men move around him like satellites, never colliding, always aware.

I watch the choreography, the way a gesture means more than a paragraph, the way a glance can shift an entire conversation.

It's elegant, in a predatory way. I can almost feel the gravity.

The crate is repacked, sealed. Orlov hands Konstantin a fresh pair of gloves, black nitrile. He pulls them on and signals to Sokolov, who barks an order to the tech. The car is lowered, wheels hit the ground with a sound like a vault closing.

I watch as they ready the shipment for transport, check the undercarriage again, then roll the car out into the snow-blind morning.

The new guy lingers, waiting for praise or punishment.

Konstantin says something, low and private, and the man's face shifts—relief, then gratitude, then a fierce loyalty. I file that away.