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

I keep my back to her. "What part is that?"

She leans in slightly, voice soft, pleasant. "Being the beautiful, irresponsible one."

The last thing I need right now is provocation, so I brush past her into the corridor, the train of the dress dragging like chains behind me.

The hallway stretches long and narrow, portraits of stern-faced Baranov patriarchs lining the walls.

I make it three steps before her hand closes around my arm.

"Don't walk away from me," she hisses, pulling me into an alcove. This close, I can smell her perfume, expensive and French, like crushed flowers and steel.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"I want you to take this seriously." She stands too close, backing me against the wall. "This isn't about you. It's about securing our family's future."

"I know exactly what it's about."

"Do you? Because I remember Barcelona." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I remember the diplomat's son you left bleeding in that hotel room."

I meet her eyes then and refuse to look away, even though I feel sick. "He put his hands where they didn't belong."

"And you put a letter opener through his palm." She leans closer. "Papa cleaned up your mess then. He won't do it again."

I hold her gaze. My face reveals nothing of the anger or fear I feel, nor the sick twist of disgust in my stomach.

But my fingers twitch at my sides, curling into half-formed fists.

She notices. "Just remember who you are," she says, stepping back.

"A Baranov daughter." She smooths an invisible wrinkle from my sleeve.

"Try not to stab anyone important tonight. "

Amused at her own joke, she giggles and flits away, leaving me to watch her go.

It's only when she's disappeared that my hands finally unclench, leaving crescent moons of red where my nails bit into my palms. There's no time to dwell.

I smooth the fabric at my waist, steady my breath, and begin the descent toward the ballroom.

By the time I reach the mezzanine, the music is already in motion, violin and cello, subtle and expensive.

My reflection passes in a gilded mirror, the slit of the gown noticeable, the neckline scandalous by Bratva standards, the diamonds at my ears heavy enough to remind me who they belong to.

I pause just once at the landing to lift my chin.

To become what I must.

The Baranov ballroom glitters like a frozen lake under moonlight.

Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the marble floor where two hundred of Europe's most dangerous people discuss art and weather in seven languages.

Gliding between conversations in my gown, I keep my smile fixed in place like it's been carved from ivory.

I haven't taken a full breath in three hours, and I wouldn't attempt to here, given that my surroundings sting of cologne and perfume in the way that too much luxury turns rancid when displayed with no restraint.

String quartet notes float above the murmur of voices.

Waiters in black move like shadows, bearing trays of champagne and caviar.

Everyone watches everyone else. Knives remain in pockets.

Guns remain holstered. This is civilization, after all.

The bloodletting comes later, in boardrooms and back alleys.

A German arms dealer bows over my hand. A Serbian politician kisses both my cheeks.

A French banker stares too long at the hollow of my throat.

I respond to each with calibrated warmth.

I am a thermometer, adjusting to the temperature needed for each interaction.

My father stands across the room, watching.

"Ms. Baranova," drawls an American with State Department credentials and CIA eyes. "Your Russian is impeccable."

"As is your attempt at flattery," I reply sweetly in English, allowing my accent to thicken slightly. Men often mistake my willingness to play vulnerable for actual vulnerability.

I count faces, naming families and allegiances in my head.

The Moretti contingent from Milan. The ?zcan group from Istanbul.

The Baltic alliance hovering near the east windows, drinking too much and laughing too loudly.

My sister cuts through the crowd like an icebreaker, leading an older Italian man toward our father.

Not Matteo Ricci but perhaps his uncle or a close male relative, going by the similar facial structures.

Ekaterina's diamond earrings catch the light as she throws her head back in laughter.

The perfect daughter. The perfect soldier.

My silk gloves feel damp against my palms. The faces around me blur into masks of politeness. I have played this game since childhood, perfected the rule book, memorized every move. And still I feel like I'm drowning in open air.

"Another glass, Miss?" A waiter appears at my elbow.

I take the champagne. "Thank you."

Across the room, I spot Matteo Ricci leaning against a column, watching the crowd with hooded eyes.

Tall and lean, he has sandy hair swept back from a face that belongs on ancient coins.

He catches me looking and raises his glass in a mocking toast. I return the gesture, my wrist graceful, my smile never reaching my eyes.

My father nods toward Ricci. The signal is clear.

I move toward the Italian, intercepted three times on my journey across the floor.

An Albanian jeweler compliments my necklace.

A Montenegrin shipping magnate asks about my father's health.

A Russian diplomat I've known since childhood runs a finger down my bare arm while his wife pretends not to notice.

Five steps from Ricci, I'm cut off by a broad-shouldered man with a Roman nose and silver at his temples.

"Alessandro Conti," he introduces himself in Italian.

"Trade attaché to the consul. Your hospitality is magnificent, Ms. Baranova. "

I switch to flawless Italian. "We're honored by your presence, Mr. Conti. I hope you're enjoying Moscow."

"The cold is forbidding, but the company" —he runs appreciative eyes over my form— "more than compensates."

My lungs constrict. The lights from the chandeliers suddenly seem too bright, splintering into needles that pierce my vision.

I've been here before, this feeling of walls closing in, of oxygen thinning.

"Your father's art collection is remarkable.

The Caravaggio in the entry, is it authentic? " Conti continues, oblivious.

"As authentic as anything in this room," I reply, my mask still perfect despite the vise tightening around my chest.

I see Matteo moving away, engaged by someone else. My father's eyes narrow from across the ballroom. Ekaterina's mouth tightens into a disapproving line.

Something inside me snaps like a tether breaking, a door swinging open.

I won't do this. Not with the room spinning and my skin crawling with the touch of too many unwanted hands.

"Mr. Conti," I interrupt smoothly, pressing my fingertips to my temple.

My face arranges itself into apologetic discomfort.

"I'm so sorry, but I seem to be developing a migraine.

The lights…" I allow my voice to falter just enough.

Concern replaces the lechery in his eyes. "Of course. Should I call someone?"

"No, thank you. I just need a moment of quiet. Please excuse me." I squeeze his arm with perfect gentleness. "We'll continue our conversation soon."

I slip away before he can respond, weaving between bodies toward the service entrance at the far corner of the ballroom.

The door clicks shut behind me, sealing off the noise and light.

The back stairwell stretches up and down, cold concrete instead of marble, bare bulbs instead of crystal.

My heels click against the steps as I descend, echoing like gunshots in the empty space. One flight down. Two. Three.

No cameras here. No eyes. No performance required.

My fingers fumble with the clasp of my necklace, the heavy diamonds suddenly suffocating. It comes free, and I stuff it into my clutch. The earrings follow. Then the bracelet. Each removal feels like breaking a chain.

On the fifth-floor landing, I stop, leaning against the wall.

The rough concrete scrapes against my bare shoulders as I slide down to sit on the cold step.

My lungs expand fully for the first time in hours.

I pull pins from my hair, dropping them like tiny grenades around my feet.

Dark waves tumble free, falling across my face.

The dress still constricts my ribs, but I can't do anything about that here. I kick off my heels, flex my toes against the gritty concrete. The chill seeps through my thin stockings and up into my bones. It feels like waking up.

From floors above, the muffled sound of the orchestra reaches me.

They're playing something Russian now, Tchaikovsky.

I close my eyes and tip my head back against the wall.

Five minutes , I promise myself. Five minutes of not being Zoya Baranova, dutiful daughter and bargaining chip. Five minutes of being no one at all.