Page 29 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

KONSTANTIN

W hile Zoya settles in with her sister under my roof, I keep myself busy with business in my estate's office room.

My men file in, on time, silent as priests.

Orlov first, hunched in his gray suit, eyes like old river stones.

Sokolov next, shoulders squared, the walk of a man who checks every room for snipers before entering.

The rest fan out along the walls, inner circle only, each one a veteran of some private war.

My seat is at the head, polished oak so dense it could stop a bullet.

It has. Once. The bloodstain is long gone but the grain remembers.

On the far wall, the maps—Moscow in colored zones, each street drawn and re-drawn in pencil, updated daily.

To my left, a full panel of live feeds, every gate, every corridor, even the basements. No one speaks until I say so.

Orlov starts, of course. He has the age and the seniority, and he enjoys both. He places a folder on the table, neat and precise. "Report from the Petrovsky district," he says. "Our shipment arrived, no losses. Customs chief took the new deal."

"Good," I say. My voice never needs volume in this room. "And the man's brother?"

Orlov shrugs, a tilt of the jaw. "Still missing. But we found blood on the river ice." It's enough. I make a note with the stub of a pencil, as if the rest will resolve itself.

Sokolov leans forward. The table seems to bend to him. "There is a problem with the woman."

He doesn't have to say the name. Every man here knows it.

"What problem?" I ask.

He taps his fingers, steady as a metronome. "She walks the house at night. Talks to staff. She questions security. Never the same path twice."

I look at him, dead center. "You are afraid of a girl?"

He almost smiles, but his eyes stay hard. "Not the girl. The intent."

I let it sit. Orlov clears his throat, glances at the map. "Her sister has always been trouble," he says. "The house is quieter now, but the new one… she is more clever than the first."

A pause as the others digest this. Someone coughs. A phone vibrates and is quickly silenced.

"The first one is no better," Sokolov scowls heavily at Orlov. "She always asks about the shipments," he continues. "She wanted to know the schedule for the east warehouse. I told her it was classified. She laughed at me."

I picture Zoya doing just this, and for one mad second, I want to laugh at Sokolov too. Instead, I settle on a question. "Is there more?" I ask.

The two men trade a look. Orlov opens his folder, runs a finger down the page. "She also asked about the basement cameras. She wanted to know why there are none in the vault."

Now the room tightens, as if pulled by invisible string. I keep my face neutral, the expression I use when ordering executions. "It's fine," I say. "Let her see the vault if she wants to."

Sokolov blinks. " Pakhan , is that wise?"

I rest my hands on the table, fingers steepled. "People show themselves when they think no one is watching. Let her think she has freedom."

Orlov nods, but it is slow, a concession, not a conviction. "And if she tries to run?"

"She won't." I shift my gaze to the live feeds.

Sokolov's voice is thin ice. "You trust her?"

I shake my head, just once. "I trust the blood in her. The rest is up to me."

They do not argue. The meeting dissolves, men collecting their folders, sliding out the door without a word. Orlov lingers, as always. "You want my advice?" he says softly.

I nod.

"Don't underestimate the Baranov. She has her father's patience."

He doesn't specify which one, but for what it's worth, I believe this applies to both of them.

Zoya is here because she's my wife. And I'm allowing her sister residence because I need to see what game she's playing.

If I execute her with no preamble, I risk losing Zoya once and for all.

Ekaterina knows that, and she's playing her cards well.

"I know," I say. "That's why she's here."

He bows his head, then leaves. The door seals with a hiss, soundproofed for a reason. I wait until I am sure no one is watching, then press my thumb hard into the groove of the chair, so deep the nail bends. I count to thirty, slowly, forcing the blood back through my hand as I think.

The house bends around Zoya. I see it first in the way the maids stack the towels, her color, her fold, a pattern she brought from her father's side.

The kitchen staff tune the morning coffee to her preference, stronger, two sugars, no cream.

Even the chef, who once bristled at special orders, now watches the clock to serve her at the exact second she likes.

Sokolov's men at the door stand a half-step straighter when she walks past, but it's more than fear. There's a charge in the air, a tension that runs on old genetics—someone like her isn't meant to be subordinate. She is a storm with perfect posture, never running, always moving.

She never looks lost, not even in the parts of the estate she's never entered. When she meets a servant in the corridor, they pause, eyes dropped. Zoya waits for their attention, then nods. It's tiny, but absolute. They get it right every time.

I reach for the cameras and find her in the north wing, walking the perimeter with Lev at her side.

The boy runs ahead, spins, calls to her.

She answers, just enough, then refocuses.

I watch the security chief intercept her at the third floor junction.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Vetrov," he says. "May I confirm the list for tonight's guests? "

She doesn't flinch at the title. "The same as last week, minus the Germans." Her words are clipped. "And no seafood for Galina. She's allergic."

The chief nods, makes a note on his phone, and steps back.

I sigh and push off from the table. There's work to be done.

I don't go upstairs, even when night falls and it is the only thing I want to do.

I stick to my separate room, hoping the book I'm reading will bore me into sleep.

It doesn't happen. Somewhere along the way, the mouse becomes the cat, and it gets too interesting.

Before I know it, it's morning and I've only slept an hour and a half.

I return to my office, thumb the remote, cycle through the cameras.

In the upper right pane, she sits in the library with Lev, reading to him from a battered book of Russian fairy tales.

He interrupts every other line, but she never loses the thread.

She reads like a judge passing sentence.

Orlov stands at my shoulder, reading the screens over my head. "She's finding her place," he says.

"She was born for it," I answer.

He nods. "Do you worry she'll outgrow it?"

I scan the rest of the feeds—the vault, the garage, the guards on the eastern gate. "Only if she wants to."

Orlov drums his fingers on the edge of my desk. "Women like her always want something. The old Pakhan learned that too late."

I turn, meet his gaze. "So did the men who underestimated her."

Orlov stands to leave. "It's good you keep her close. Better to see the knife coming."

I nod him out, then reopen the camera feed. Zoya is still in the library, Lev's head in her lap, her hand tracing circles on his scalp. She glances up, straight at the camera, and holds my gaze through the lens. I let her win that round, turn off the screen, let the static erase her face.

The next hours pass as they would for a Pakhan .

By twelve fifteen, I am seated in my private briefing room.

Sokolov presents the overnight intelligence from our informants in St. Petersburg and the Donbas line.

One of the arms routes has gone quiet. Either the goods were seized or someone has decided to hold them hostage. Either way, someone pays.

By one, I meet with Antonov. He's returned from Kaliningrad with photographs, coded ledgers, and a piece of a man's ear in a Ziplock bag.

Not for intimidation. For identification.

We run it through the biometric database we stole from the Ministry two years ago.

He was a mid-level handler in the Lithuanian corridor.

Defected. That explains the missing arms. I approve his brother's restaurant for liquidation.

At two, a delegation from the Chechens arrives.

Three men in tailored coats, none of them smiling.

We drink tea laced with suspicion, speak in circles, agree on nothing, and lie to each other with perfect manners.

One asks me if I am satisfied with my position.

I reply that power, like faith, is a practice, not a possession.

At three, I have a call with a Russian-American hedge fund in Cyprus. One of my shell companies is under audit. I remind the director, in coded pleasantries, that if anything leaks, I will bury his career in paperwork and his family in something less legal.

At four thirty, I visit the docks. My men have seized a Turkish freighter whose manifest doesn't match the cargo.

Inside, I find weapons marked for African militias and a crate of synthetic diamonds packed in medical gauze.

I make a note to reward the port supervisor for turning a blind eye.

The captain, meanwhile, is locked in the refrigeration unit until he remembers who paid him off.

At six, dinner. A bowl of borscht, dark bread, and an espresso laced with vodka. I eat alone in my study while reviewing the week's bribe schedule. Judges, bureaucrats, and two members of parliament. Each has their own price, which I pay with interest. Loyalty is expensive, but betrayal costs more.

Seven to nine is surveillance. We monitor rivals, allies, and every official who has ever sat across from me.

I watch Zoya through the library cameras.

She is reading to Lev, her voice too soft to catch, but her expression says more than words ever could.

When she glances at the lens, I almost look away.