Page 28 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

None of these things affect me too much because the staff loves me well and look to me for running domestic affairs, perhaps even more than they look to my husband.

But earning that place took time, patience, and no small amount of effort.

My sister, meanwhile, seems to have claimed hers in a single day.

She makes her way to the dining room. Lev is there, hunched over a workbook, tongue sticking out as he draws a crooked giraffe.

Ekaterina sits across from him, picks up a crayon, and starts her own drawing.

He watches, skeptical, then laughs when she draws the giraffe with sunglasses and a striped tie.

"Why does it look like Papa?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Everything is a little like your Papa, if you look hard enough."

He accepts this, and the next hour passes in a blur of color and soft snickers. I stay in the hallway, just out of sight, listening.

Later, Galina appears, wearing her armor of pearls and a sweater so old it could be carbon-dated. She freezes at the sight of Ekaterina, lips pressed so tight they disappear. Ekaterina stands, smooths her skirt, and says, "You look well, Galina."

Galina's reply is a single grunt, but she sits at the table anyway, eyes never leaving her old charge.

Ekaterina pours her tea, three sugars and a slice of lemon, exactly how she likes it.

Galina stares at the cup for a long time, then drinks.

When Ekaterina offers her a second cup, Galina takes it.

That's all. I watch this unfold, a spectator to my own family.

The ache in my chest is half jealousy, half something softer.

In the evenings, I sit in my study and pretend to read. I hear her in the next room, the rise and fall of her voice as she tells Lev a story, something about a wolf and a magician. I strain to catch the details, but the words slip through the wall like water.

Sometimes, I catch a fragment.

"The magician was brave, but not as brave as he thought…"

"The wolf always waits, even when he says he doesn't…"

It's always a warning. Or a threat.

After a week, the staff has stopped flinching at the sight of Ekaterina.

The guards relax, just a hair. Even Galina lets her sit closer, though never close enough to touch.

Lev asks about her constantly, wants to know what games she played as a girl, whether she was ever afraid.

She always answers yes. And she always says why.

One morning, I pass her in the hallway. She stops, blocking my way.

"You're following me," she says.

I cross my arms. "Maybe I don't trust you."

She smiles, wide this time. "You shouldn't. I wouldn't."

We stand there, measuring each other. "I'm not here to ruin what you built," she says. "You deserve this."

I wait. There's always a catch. She looks over her shoulder, makes sure the guards are out of earshot. "If I wanted to take it, I would have done it already."

I lean in, close enough that our noses almost touch. "Try it."

She laughs, a single bark. "You're Papa's daughter, after all."

I don't flinch. "He's dead."

She shrugs. "So are we."

I let her pass. She doesn't look back.

That night, Lev crawls into my bed, eyes wide and afraid. "I had a dream the wolf came for you," he whispers. "But then you turned into the wolf, and it was scared."

I hold him tight, his hair damp against my cheek. "I won't let anything hurt you," I promise.

He nods, already half asleep. "Not even the wolf?"

"Especially not the wolf."

I lie awake for hours, listening to the house settle around us.

The next afternoon, I find Ekaterina in the east parlor, hands wrist-deep in a vase of white roses.

The room is bright, almost painful, sun bouncing off the glass and silver.

She doesn't notice me at first. Her attention is fixed on the blooms, arranging them with a surgeon's care, slicing off leaves, snapping stems to a perfect length.

When she finally looks up, her face is lit with something close to contentment.

"I didn't peg you for a florist," I say, leaning in the doorway.

She smiles, serene. "Mother liked to have flowers in every room. She said it made the house less of a mausoleum."

I laugh, sharp and short. "She was right."

Ekaterina sets the shears down, wipes her hands on the hem of her skirt, and gestures to the second chair. "Sit. Please. I promise not to bite."

I hesitate, then cross the room, settling into the low armchair. The vase sits between us, a wall of white petals. "You've made yourself comfortable," I say.

She doesn't miss a beat. "It's what we were trained for, isn't it? Adapt or die." Her fingers pluck a stray petal, let it fall to the carpet. "I see you learned the lesson well."

I want to rise, to pace, but I make myself stay still. I tuck my legs under, hands locked tight in my lap. "Why did you really come back?"

Ekaterina meets my gaze, level. "To see if you'd survived. And to see if I could, too."

I stare at her, looking for the trick. She sees the suspicion. "I don't blame you. I wouldn't trust me either."

We sit in silence, the only sound the soft hiss of the radiator and the distant barking of a dog on the grounds. Finally, she says, "Do you remember the summer at the dacha? When Papa tried to teach us to fish?"

I shake my head. "You caught a boot. I caught pneumonia."

She laughs, a low, private sound. "He was furious. He said we were hopeless."

"Mother said we were just different." My voice is quiet.

"She was right," Ekaterina says, soft. She reaches for a rose, fingers skimming the thorns. "You were always braver than me."

I snort. "I was always dumber than you, that's why."

She shrugs. "Maybe."

The afternoon sun moves, casting new shadows on the rug. Ekaterina leans back, face suddenly tired. "Papa was never going to let us live, even if he did survive what was coming. We were always assets, never daughters."

I nod, a hard lump in my throat. "I know."

"I just wanted—" She stops, the sentence unfinished. "I wanted to believe we could build something better. But maybe it's too late."

I reach across the table, touch her wrist. Her skin is cold, the pulse under it rapid.

"It's not too late," I say, and I believe it for a second.

She squeezes my fingers, lets go. "I hope you're right, little dove."

We spend the rest of the afternoon talking about nothing—favorite cities, the best train routes in Europe, the merits of old Soviet candy versus French chocolate.

She tells me about her years on the run, the shithole apartments and the men who thought they could buy her.

She describes the safehouses in Berlin and the code names she invented just to pass the time. I listen, half in awe, half in dread.

She's still better at the game than I'll ever be.

When the sun starts to set, we walk the grounds together, arm in arm.

The snow is thin, patchy, and the breeze smells of smoke and thaw.

We walk in silence, boots crunching on the gravel.

I feel her weight next to mine, light but unyielding.

At the garden gate, she stops. "You've changed," she says, voice low. I brace for the insult.

"You've somehow morphed back to the sister I had before the world tried to take you away from me."

She brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucks it behind my ear, and smiles. It's the smile of a girl who once believed in happy endings.