Page 30 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

At ten, I join a raid on one of our former safehouses in the outskirts. It has been turned into a brothel by a gang with no sense of legacy. We drag six men out into the snow. Three kneel. The other three dig. By eleven, the house is ours again. I leave before the fire starts.

At midnight, I shower. Hot water, clean hands. I change into a black wool suit and walk the upper halls of my estate. The guards nod. The maids vanish. The building breathes around me, loyal and silent.

One a.m. is for strategy. In the map room, I meet with my political advisor.

We discuss the void left by the Baranovs.

Their power has bled out across the regions.

I have sent proxies to Omsk, to Nizhny, to the Far East. By spring, I will control every pipeline worth fighting over.

Ricci is circling, but I know his habits. He moves too fast. He dies slow.

At one forty-five, I go back to my separate room and sit quietly on the bed. At two, I pour a drink. Armenian brandy, older than I am. Just for a minute, I allow myself to miss the girl who kissed me in Paris. There is no such thing as peace, only the illusion of stasis.

The house is never truly asleep. Even at two in the morning, the guards walk their patterns, the cameras shift their angles, the furnace ticks and hums like a nervous heart. I finish my drink and walk the corridors in bare feet, each step mapped to avoid the boards that creak.

Zoya's room is tantalizingly close, and when I gently knock on the door, it opens with no resistance.

She sleeps on her side, one arm thrown over the pillow, her hair a spill of color in the silver light.

The sheet rides low on her back, skin visible where the fabric has slipped.

In sleep, her face is younger, softer, almost vulnerable.

A different person from the one who holds court at the table, who fences with Orlov and makes Sokolov sweat.

I smell jasmine on her skin, but not the kind you buy in bottles. The kind that lingers in your bones.

It snaps me back to Paris. One cold night, a half-empty café, her laugh echoing off chipped tile.

I spilled wine on her shirt, red blooming on silk.

She dabbed it away, then poured the rest of the glass over my head, eyes daring me to escalate.

We ended up in a hotel bathroom, clothes in a pile, shower on full blast, neither of us willing to yield.

I still have the shirt, stained and perfect, in a box in my closet.

I sit in the chair near her bed, careful not to make a sound. For ten minutes, I just watch her breathe. Her eyes move under the lids, a fast, chaotic dance.

I want to wake her. I want to tell her everything about her father, about the deal he cut to trade his own blood for a fraction of power. I want to see if she'll hate me for being the one to end it. Or if she'll understand, and that would be worse.

But I can't because the words choke off somewhere behind my teeth.

She shifts, murmurs something in her sleep, then falls still again.

I reach out, almost without thinking, and brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

My hand is too large, too rough for this kind of thing.

The gesture is absurd, but it feels real.

She sighs, a soft exhale, and settles deeper into the mattress, whispering "Markov.

" That kills me just a little more. I watch her another five minutes, maybe ten.

Then I stand, move to check on my son in his room.

Lev is asleep, sprawled sideways, one arm dangling over the edge.

There's a toy wolf next to his pillow. I don't remember who gave it to him, but it fits.

He sleeps the way only children can, recklessly, as if nothing in the world could ever touch him.

Only, he isn't alone.

Ekaterina is sitting beside the bed, a shadow outlined by the nightlight.

I notice she's turned off the nanny cam.

She moves her hand through Lev's hair, slow and steady.

Her nails are perfect, painted a deep blue, each stroke calculated to comfort but also to claim.

"Couldn't sleep?" she whispers, not looking away from the boy.

"No," I say.

She brushes the hair off Lev's forehead, then stands. The silk robe clings to her as she moves, catching every stray photon from the hallway lamp. She smiles, then, but something about it looks sour, like old milk. "He has your eyes," she says, "but Zoya's spirit."

She stops an arm's reach away. I don't move.

"I used to think you were just a rumor," she says. "The Pakhan who never made a mistake."

Her hand rises slowly. She straightens my collar, maybe intimate if not for the smirk on her lips. Her fingers linger. "But now I see," she says, voice just above breath. "You bleed. Just like the rest."

I let her finish, then step back. "My son needs his rest," I say coldly.

She tilts her head, as if amused. "Of course."

She glides past me, the silk trailing along my sleeve. At the door, she pauses. "We could have been something, you and I," she says.

I say nothing. She leaves. The door closes on the tail of her robe.

This girl is nothing but danger for the stability of my family, but I can't tell Zoya what she's doing because there's nothing conclusive here.

I need proof, and quickly. Standing in the dark, I let my eyes adjust. The boy breathes, deep and steady.

I pull out my phone, thumb a message to Sokolov.

Just three words. Ekaterina. Full background.

My eyes stay fixed on the screen until the dots stop blinking, the reply immediate. Yes, Pakhan. I pocket the phone, watch Lev another minute, then slip out the door.