Page 31 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

My mind lights up, already running through the day's calculus—security rotations, staff gossip, the itinerary of a Pakhan's wife on high alert.

I catalog the house's vulnerabilities before I'm fully conscious.

Old habits. Galina used to say I was born in a foxhole, learned to smile with a knife between my teeth. She wasn't wrong.

The ritual helps—feet to floor, count to ten, let the cold work its way through my bones.

I pull on the day's armor—navy wool slacks, a white blouse buttoned to the throat, a soft gray cardigan.

The necklace is Konstantin's choice, platinum and diamonds.

My hair goes up, severe and practical, held by a silver pin that doubles as a shiv.

I check the mirror. The woman there is someone I could learn to like—sharp lines, skin clear, jaw set for war.

In the corridor, my shoes whisper against the rug.

I touch the polished banister as I descend, noting where a cleaner's hand left a streak of ammonia.

Nothing escapes my inventory. On the landing, a guard stands at parade rest, eyes on the wall.

He blinks when I pass, but only once. I test the edge of my smile, see if it cuts.

The kitchen is a hive already. The sous-chef is kneading dough, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The smells of yeast and flour hang thickly, overlaid with the faint tang of bleach. He bows his head. " Dobroe utro , Mrs. Vetrov."

"Morning," I answer, inspecting the counter. Three loaves proofing, tea already steeped, the set table waiting in the breakfast room beyond. I glance at the clock and am satisfied to see we're fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

The cook clears his throat, voice low. "There will be apple pirozhki for the boy's lunch, if you approve."

He means Lev. I nod. "He'll be pleased. Thank you."

This is the game—manners as currency, a smile worth more than a threat.

I check the monitor on the wall—four camera feeds in black and white.

I clock two more guards in the foyer, a cleaner in the west hall, Lev's tutor arriving in the drive.

No sign of Konstantin, no sign of Ekaterina. I pocket the knowledge for later.

I take my tea black, no sugar. In the breakfast room, the table is set for three—Lev, me, and the Pakhan . Lev appears first, hair wet from the shower, face scrubbed pink. He slides into his seat, eyes darting to the door. "Morning, Mama," he says. "Is Papa coming?"

"Not today," I tell him, voice soft enough to seem regretful. "He has early meetings."

He nods, tries to hide his disappointment in the cut of toast. I give him a cup of his favorite chocolate milk, spiced with just a hint of coffee.

Many would faint at the idea of caffeine for a child.

But he loves it, and I can make a small concession for him today.

He grins, stirs the cup, already plotting his next move.

"Will you take me to school?" he asks. The words are rehearsed, but the need is real. I touch his hair, smoothing the cowlick at his temple.

"Of course," I say, and I mean it.

We eat in silence, the way families do when there's nothing left to say.

I scan the room, counting the patterns in the wallpaper, the scratches on the wood.

My peripheral vision never rests. The cleaner from the hall passes by, eyes flicking up for a fraction of a second.

I log the encounter—height, gait, left-handed.

The guard in the foyer trades places with another, a subtle shuffle meant to look casual.

I watch the hand-off, note the way the new man glances at the silver in the sideboard.

He's not a thief. He's looking for himself in the glass.

Lev finishes his breakfast in record time. "May I be excused?" he asks, already rising.

"Go," I say. "I'll catch up."

He bolts, socks sliding on the marble, a streak of energy that briefly warms the house. I collect my cup, sip once more, then stand. My hand lingers on the napkin, flattening it, making it perfect. These are the details that matter.

Then I get up, take Lev to school, and return.

With nothing on my schedule for the remainder of the day, I move through the house, pausing to adjust a painting, to scan the horizon through a window.

The snow is crusted, the sky blue steel.

The absence of Konstantin and Ekaterina is a vacuum, and every vacuum wants to be filled.

I walk the perimeter of the house, checking the blind spots in the cameras, the fire doors, the side exits.

I note a scuff mark on the baseboard in the east corridor—a shoe dragged in haste.

I bend, touch the mark, feel the fine dust. New.

I listen for footsteps in the halls. The guards walk heavily, the cleaners lightly.

I can tell who is coming before I see them.

At the north stair, I pause, close my eyes, and count the beats between the steps above me.

Someone is moving with intent, but not in a hurry.

I wait, pretend to study a portrait on the wall.

Galina emerges, arms full of towels, hair bound in a kerchief. She sees me and starts, then smiles. The lines around her mouth are deeper today. "Hello," she says. "What are you up to?"

"Moving around," I reply. "Too many thoughts."

She nods, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. "It's a big day. Many preparations."

I know what she's referring to. We are hosting a big dinner tomorrow night, Vienna's elite, all under one roof. Konstantin needs everything to be perfect, and preparations are underway to ensure just that. Galina watches me cautiously. "He'll want you there, Zoyechka. Play your part."

I smile, let it reach my eyes. "Tell the staff I'll be in the library if anyone needs me."

She bows, moves on, leaving a faint scent of lavender in her wake.

I watch her go, then climb the stairs, counting the creaks and shifts in the old wood.

On the second floor, the halls are quiet.

I run my hand along the banister, feeling the imperfections in the finish.

I pause at the west window, look out over the garden.

The rose bushes are dormant, pruned to bare sticks.

I remember Ekaterina's hands, slicing the stems, ruthless in her pursuit of symmetry.

Konstantin would never allow anyone else to touch his flowers, but I suspect he lets her have her way because he doesn't want to test me.

I'm not sure what to feel about any of it.

Am I still angry at him? Did he know what Papa was up to before he killed him?

Did he know everything and still tell me nothing?

The thought lingers, a ghost. I push it away, focus on the present.

At the top of the east stair, I turn left, head for the library. The door is unlocked, and it's warm inside, heavy with the scents of old paper and varnish. I scan the shelves, making a note of the volumes out of place. Someone's been here. Recently.

I settle into the window seat, pull out my notepad, and go through the day's schedule. Three meetings for Konstantin, one for me—a photo op at the school. I delete the reminder, then text the head of security.

Will you be running a full detail today?

The reply is instant. Of course, Mrs. Vetrov.

I smile, pocket the phone. The men are loyal, or at least well paid.

I sit for a while, watching the snow, letting the house settle around me.

I think about the absent pieces on the board—the Pa,han , my sister.

I think about the scuff marks, the shuffling of guards, the way Galina seemed anxious today.

I build a map in my mind, draw connections, look for the weak points.

After half an hour, I stand, smooth the creases from my cardigan, and prepare to move again.

The day is just beginning, but the house already feels like a trap.

I have learned to love the taste of it. I leave the library and head eastward, steps light, eyes open.

The east wing smells like citrus polish and fresh linen.

I drift through the arched gallery, trailing my fingers along the chill of the marble, letting my gaze catch on the glint of sun off crystal.

The formal dining hall is a fever dream of logistics—dozens of plates, rank upon rank, each rimmed in gold.

Crystal goblets winking in tight formation.

Napkins folded so sharp the edges look dangerous.

The staff move with the tempo of a pit crew, every gesture rehearsed, every error self-corrected before it can exist. The chef's assistant walks the perimeter, clipboard in hand, checking off each item.

Her lips move in silent inventory, eyes flicking to the centerpiece where three bouquets of white lilies stand at exact intervals.

The symmetry is aggressive, the message clear—this house may be chaos, but the table is law.

I pause at the doorway, an apparition in gray wool.

They're used to acknowledging my presence in silence, but I see the way one waiter watches the set of my jaw, another the flex of my hand against the doorframe.

I do not disrupt the choreography. Instead, I lean in, ears tuned for the fracture lines in the conversation.

At the far end, two servers load silverware onto a linen-lined tray, their movements staccato but quiet. One leans in, voice pitched for secrecy. "She said the wine should be French, not Austrian," he mutters, lining up forks by size.

The other shrugs. "She would know. It's her event."

A pause, then, "The older Baranov sister is more… vivacious. You notice that?"

"Hard not to. Even the menu, she had opinions. I heard she checked with the Pakhan and he approved her changes."

The first server snorts. "Last year, she was dead. Now she's running the palace."