Page 26 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

After they're gone, I stay at the glass, watching the echo of their movements. The smells of motor oil and cold iron climb up to the balcony. I press my forehead to the pane, close my eyes, and imagine the day I run this place myself.

When I open them again, the garage is empty.

With a little sigh, I go ahead with other affairs of the day.

A meeting with the estate steward to review the supply chain for yet another gala.

A discreet check on the catering order that's being rerouted through a shell company in Kemerovo, something about optics, always optics.

I sign off on new guest protocols for the Bratva wives' charity event next month. I veto the flower arrangements.

By noon, I'm seated beside Valya Morozova, wife of a mid-tier captain, exchanging pleasantries over cardamom tea while we pretend not to measure each other's allegiance.

She offers gossip like sugar cubes, and I pretend to nibble.

When I excuse myself, she rises a little too quickly, and I know I've won that round.

Later, I sit for a portfolio review with the security chief, pretending to care which sectors need heatmapping first. My signature is now shorthand for consent.

I wear it like a crown. Next, I'm in the main receiving hall, listening to a trade emissary drone about cross-border tariffs while the men discuss weapons disguised as medical aid.

I nod where expected, smile where deadly.

But nothing compares to what I saw in the garage.

That moment—the grease on his wrist, the silent command of space—stays with me like a bruise that won't bloom.

I had always known Konstantin was dangerous.

I had not known he was that beautiful in his violence.

Watching him work, I felt something coil tighter inside me.

It was hunger, yes, but for what, I'm not yet sure.

Power, maybe. His power, his… love? Validation? I shudder at the thought.

I escape to the lower veranda, a slab of heated concrete with a view of the garden and the pond.

I sip black tea, extra lemon, and let the bitterness root in the back of my mouth.

Lev is back from school and out in the yard, hunched over a bare patch near the pond's edge.

He's in his second set of clothes for the day, first outfit soaked through by the snow, second already smeared with dirt and grass stains.

He ignores the chill, focused on his task—stacking pebbles into towers, each one slightly higher than the last.

The first tower collapses at three stones. The second lasts for five before tilting into the snow. The third stands for a moment, fragile and improbable, then topples with a sound so faint I only notice because Lev clenches his fists in anger. He resets, gathers the scattered pebbles, starts over.

I envy his attention, the way he can lose himself in a world with no future and no history. I wonder if he knows how rare that is.

There's a shadow at the edge of my vision. Konstantin, coat unbuttoned, shoes crunching on the path. He moves like he owns the cold, like it's his currency. The holster under his coat is visible, matte black against the white shirt. He doesn't see me or pretends not to.

He approaches Lev, crouches beside him. There's no hello, no performance for the camera. He simply sits, knees in the snow, and waits for Lev to notice him.

Lev does, after a minute. He hands Konstantin a pebble, then shows him the wobbly base of the tower, explaining with his hands why it keeps falling.

Konstantin listens, really listens, then takes a stone and sets it with surgical precision.

He glances at Lev, who nods approval. Together they stack, alternating, unhurried.

After a few tries, they make it to six stones before it collapses.

Both of them laugh, the sound rising in two registers—childish and adult, innocent and ruined.

When they finally build a tower that stands, Lev claps his hands, grinning so hard it looks painful. He throws his arms around Konstantin's neck, buries his face in the crook of his shoulder. Konstantin stays still, lets the boy hang on, one gloved hand resting gently on Lev's back.

He doesn't look up at the house, doesn't check the windows or the balcony. He holds Lev until the boy lets go. Then they build another tower, and another.

I finish my tea, throat tight. I want to scream at them, or join them, or break every window in the house just to see if they'd notice. Instead, I sit perfectly still.

At dusk, Lev is herded inside, pink-cheeked and steaming with energy. He bolts for the bath, leaving a trail of muddy footprints. I linger on the veranda until the cold works its way through the wool of my coat, into the skin. Only then do I go inside, head straight for my rooms, and lock the door.

The night brings vivid dreams. I am back in Paris, the hotel room.

The sheets are cotton, rough against my skin.

He is faceless, a shadow with warm hands and a low, patient voice.

He pours red wine over my collarbone, licks it off, calls me little winter.

We fight, we fuck, we laugh, always on the edge of hunger and hate.

When I wake, my throat is raw, my arms wrapped around a pillow that isn't my husband.

The room is still, and the only sound is my own breath.

But then I hear it, soft as a prayer—"You always did sleep like a princess. "

Ekaterina's voice, clear as day, from the foot of the bed. I roll over, heart in my mouth.