Page 27 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

E katerina stands at the foot of my bed.

The sight is so unreal my mind lags, like a streaming video with bad signal.

There are two security guards with her with their hands folded in front, eyes somewhere over my head.

She's covered in a thick coat, her hair pulled back in a makeshift knot, not a single strand out of place.

There's a bruise on her temple, yellowing at the edges, and her jaw is tight with something she wants to control but can't. She says my name, the old way, three syllables—Zoya, like the beginning of a spell.

I stare, waiting for the hallucination to blink out. She is thinner than before, her cheekbones knife-edged, but the eyes are the same. I have spent years mourning those eyes. "Get out," I say to the guards. My voice is shredded.

The left-hand man glances at Ekaterina. She flicks a finger in dismissal, and they vanish, door closing with the soft click of insulation.

I sit up, hair tangled, no makeup, sweater bunched at my ribs.

Ekaterina takes two steps forward. Her face is blank, a white wall waiting for graffiti. "You're not dead," I say.

She almost smiles. "Neither are you."

I want to leap from the bed and punch her, or hug her, or scream. Instead, I wrap the sheet around myself, burrito-tight, and say, "What do you want?"

She sits on the edge of the mattress, careful not to touch me.

For a second, it's like we're teenagers again.

Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twined so tightly the knuckles glow.

"I came an hour ago," she says, her voice almost level.

"I told your husband everything. He decided I was not a threat. "

I bark a laugh. "That's optimism."

She shrugs. "He has your talent for calculation."

I study her face. There are new lines at the corners of her eyes, and the skin under her chin is raw from a hasty shave with a cheap blade. "Is Galina?—"

"She's alive. She got me out," I say. "We lost each other after. I thought you—" I stop. I don't want to say it.

Ekaterina shakes her head, just once. "I watched the house burn from the marsh. I waited until the dogs gave up, then I followed the tracks north. There was a safehouse in Smolensk. I stayed there. When men came, I hid. When they left, I ate what they left behind."

I watch the way she looks at the wall, never at me. I ask, "How did you find me?"

She gives a slow, deliberate smile, no teeth. "They say you married the new Pakhan . It made the news, even in exile. I thought, if you were alive, I should see for myself."

I laugh, one, because I'm amused, and two, I can't help admire her courage. "You risked everything for a gossip column?"

Her hand comes up, trembling, then settles. "I needed to know if you survived."

My silence is response enough, so we sit with it for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the house waking—Galina in the kitchen, Lev stomping down the stairs, a guard tripping on the loose tile in the foyer.

Ekaterina doesn't move. She is carved from chalk and willpower. I say, "What did you tell him?"

"Everything," she repeats. "About the night of the attack. About Papa. About what he planned for us."

The word Papa lands between us like a grenade. "Why are you here?" I ask, and this time the question bites.

She looks at me, really looks. Her eyes shine, but not from tears. "To warn you. To tell you that Konstantin did the right thing."

My mouth dries. "You mean?—"

She nods. "Papa betrayed us. For years, I believed in his plan, in the men he chose for us, in the way he said it had to be. I thought it was duty. Tradition. But when we were in hiding, not one of them lifted a finger. No offers of help. No protection. Nothing."

She reaches into her coat and pulls out a slim folder, edges worn from use.

"I started digging. Following names, tracing transactions.

You know what I found?" She opens the folder and slides a few pages to me "Here.

Signed agreements. Wire transfers. One from Ricci's holding company to Papa's offshore.

Dated around the time of your trip to Paris. "

She flips to the next page. "And this one. An old message chain. He promised Ricci access, with or without a wedding. If you refused, he was going to have you taken."

I stare at her, blood turning to frost. My face stares back at me from her pupils, blue and brittle with disbelief. "He loved us," I say. I need to believe it.

She shakes her head listlessly with the saddest little smile on her face. "He loved power. We were currency. If I'd known the extent of all this, I would have killed him myself."

"What did he do to you?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

Ekaterina shakes her head and pushes the folder aside. "Some things are best left for later, little dove."

I loosen the grip of the sheet. My skin is hot and cold at once. "Why did you never come for me? You could have sent word. You could have?—"

"Gone where?" Her voice rises, then breaks. "Every safe house, every old friend—gone. Either dead or bought. I had to wait until it was safe. Until I knew who won."

"You always said you'd never be a pawn," I say.

She nods, rueful. "Now I am queen's gambit, at best."

We stare at each other. The distance is four feet but it might as well be another planet. She reaches out, slow and shaky. Her hand lands on mine. It is cold, the nails bitten to the quick. "Zoya," she says, and this time my name is a lifeline. "I missed you."

A single sob tries to break out of my chest, but I clamp down on it. I will not let her see me weak. Ekaterina leans in as I shake my head. "You wanted it, too. You always said I'd be the perfect wife for a Pakhan ."

She laughs, bitter and raw. "I was an idiot. I thought I was training you to survive. I didn't know he would throw you to the wolves." Her fingers tighten on mine. "I'm sorry, little dove."

No one has called me that except for Galina since the night of the massacre. I swallow, hard. "It doesn't matter now."

"It does," she says. "I had to see you. To tell you."

I don't pull my hand away. She sits up, straightens her skirt. The old Ekaterina returns, for just a second—the one who could smile her way out of any interrogation, who could charm the teeth from a viper. She looks at me, and I see it—the pain, the guilt, the need to fix what she broke.

"I can leave, if you want," she says. "Konstantin will keep me under guard, but?—"

"No," I say, and the word surprises both of us. "Stay."

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. We sit like that, hands clasped, for a minute or an hour. When the guards return, Ekaterina stands and squares her shoulders.

"I will be here," she says, like it's a promise. She walks out, the two men flanking her, leaving me in a room that feels smaller than it did a half hour ago. Sitting there, my heartbeat gradually slows, and I wonder if anything she said was true.

Ekaterina was mean to me in the last few years at the Baranov estate, so much so that all I ever wanted was a way out.

But as children, she was fierce, brilliant, impossible not to follow, and harder to not love.

But something shifted when we got older and when people started seeing me first. I never asked for it.

I never wanted to be the one they noticed.

But they did. And each time they overlooked her for me, I watched her flinch a little deeper.

She never said it, not aloud, but I could feel the distance grow.

The world prized my face and ignored her mind, and somehow, that made us both feel small.

She mattered most to me, and I don't think she ever believed that.

Maybe I didn't show it enough. Maybe I was too afraid of losing her to say what needed saying before it was too late.

And now, I want to believe her. I want to kill her. I want my sister back. I curl up under the sheets, pull them over my face, and listen for the sound of her voice in the next room.

The next morning, I find Ekaterina in the atrium, backlit by winter sun.

She wears one of my old sweaters, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hands curled around a mug that smells of instant coffee and something burnt.

The guards stand at exact intervals, eyes forward, the line of their shoulders a military horizon.

For a second, I think she's alone, that she's tricked them all.

Then I see Konstantin in the far doorway, arms folded, expression as blank as the marble floors.

He calls my name as he walks over and stops beside me. His hand lands on my shoulder, and for some reason, I don't shrug it off. Ekaterina watches us, her mouth curved in a thin smile. It's a look that says— you picked a good one, but I could have done better .

Konstantin nods at the head guard. "East wing only. Two men at all times. She eats with the family, but nowhere else. Understood?"

The guard agrees and moves to flank Ekaterina. She inclines her head, perfect deference, and for the first time, I realize she has no intention of running.

That afternoon, I follow her through the house.

She moves like a rumor, never too fast, never in a straight line, always leaving just enough space for the staff to move around her.

She lingers in the kitchen, complimenting the cook on his borscht, tasting with the tip of her tongue, then suggesting he add more dill.

He grins, says she's right, and when she leaves, the spoon stays in the pot for twice as long as usual.

Next, she's in the laundry, sleeves rolled, folding towels with a maid whose name I forget but who always has the sweetest smile for me.

The woman's hands shake, but Ekaterina talks to her in low, gentle tones, and soon they are laughing about something I can't hear.

By the time I circle back, the towels are stacked in perfect rows, and the maid's eyes shine.