Page 33 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

KONSTANTIN

I t's the night of the event. Vienna is one of the few cities in Europe where power still wears a silk glove.

The old families there don't dirty their hands with blood in the street.

They prefer quiet takeovers, forged ledgers, bribes passed in opera houses and under museum wings. But that makes them no less dangerous.

The Viennese underworld is built on old money, aristocratic rot, and generations of cold alliances.

By hosting this dinner, I am asserting myself not just as Moscow's Pakhan , but as a continental force.

I want these men and women to see me not as a barbarian from the East but as one of them.

If I can charm them, negotiate with them, impress them, I secure more than temporary favor.

I earn access to their networks—clean routes for trade, white-glove laundering services, bankers with no country, and officials who look the other way.

More importantly, I put the Baranov stain behind me.

In Vienna, image is everything. And tonight, I want to project myself as the man who saved the sisters from the tyranny of their father and gave them a home.

Feels like a bit of a deception since I only opened my home to Zoya, but if Ekaterina is here and projecting ownership over what isn't hers, she may as well be of some use to me.

Dress code for the night—double-cuffed white, jacket like fresh tarmac, platinum links at the wrists—a gift from a Turk who now breathes through a tube.

One cufflink is hollow, in case the evening requires a chemical solution.

I work it into place and it clicks like a trigger resetting. My phone vibrates. Sokolov.

ETA thirty minutes. No movement on external feeds. Will ping if guest list changes .

Copy .

Back to the mirror. Blood pressure—steady. Pupils—equal, reactive. Scar above left eyebrow invisible under foundation, unless you know what to look for. I stare at my own reflection, search for the man who used to feel nerves before a meet. Don't find him.

The Glock goes in the inside waistband, grip snug behind the belt buckle.

There are easier weapons to hide, but this isn't about hiding.

It's about letting every man in the room know you're not afraid to point, not afraid to own the threat.

Safety off, half-chambered. The old Bratva would call it theatrical. The new Bratva calls it insurance.

A knock at the door, coded—two quick, one slow. I open.

It's Orlov, carrying a tablet and the cloy of lemon aftershave. He's traded up from the cheap Polish stuff, a silent flex for those who notice such things.

"Prep's done," he says, voice flat. "Entry sweep is green. Wine is pre-poured for inspection, silver scanned for residue. Staff backgrounded down to the sous-chef's third cousin."

"Security?" I check the gun again out of habit.

"Four plainclothes in the salon, two in the kitchen, one each on the balcony and garage. And the new man on perimeter."

"The banker's son?"

" Ja . On time, alone. Sits in the drawing room."

I nod. "And the parliamentarian?"

"Fashionably late. Wants a private word before dinner. Something about trade contracts and a favor for his mistress."

"Let him wait."

Orlov grins.

"And the industrialist's wife?"

"In the chapel, admiring your Madonna and pretending not to be afraid."

"Let her pray," I say. "Then bring her up."

Orlov nods, taps the tablet. The staff is in motion before he clears the threshold.

Finish the tie—hand-stitched, silk, the color of ink in a broken pen. The knot is perfect. I check the line, collar to hem. Some days, the uniform is a second skin. Other days, it chafes. Tonight, it's armor.

Last check—the guest file. I run it again, mentally.

First—the banker's son, Leopold Gratz. His father built an empire laundering old war money through Vienna's private trusts.

Leopold is shinier than the generation before him, all tailored suits and curated charm, but the steel beneath is the same.

He oversees discreet capital flows through Swiss intermediaries and once moved half a billion in arms profits through an opera fund.

He carries himself like a prince but never forgets which knife to twist.

Second—the parliamentarian. Officially, he chairs a cultural heritage committee.

Unofficially, he votes where the money tells him to.

His district is a safe seat, inherited and padded with donor loyalty, but he keeps one foot in every criminal economy that lets Vienna breathe cleanly.

He never raises his voice. That's what the enforcers are for.

Third—the industrialist's wife. She runs her husband's affairs in practice, if not in name.

On paper, she owns vineyards and hotel chains.

In reality, she controls distribution for three eastern syndicates and launders the profits through art auctions and heritage preservation boards.

Her perfume is layered over cordite, and her smile is an artifact of long negotiations.

The secondary guests arrive in clusters.

An old man who built his fortune on privatized rail, now mostly a source of connections.

A shipping broker with close ties to the Danube ports, whose nephew handles bribes to border control.

A restaurateur with more safes than ovens, whose name appears in every black book worth reading.

A young woman in silver heels who isn't on the list but whose presence means someone important wants her seen.

The salon fills slowly. The wine is decanted in silence. The staff move like dancers trained for combat. This is not about food. This is about rank, positioning, recalibration. They came to see if the Russian holds court or if Moscow has finally grown too far away to matter.

Zoya is locked down for the hour and will be in her room until summoned.

I did it for her safety, but also to see if Ekaterina would bite.

She did. Within ten minutes, reports say, Ekaterina was in the kitchen "consulting" with the head chef, then in the service corridor, then inspecting the silver.

No official title, no badge of office, but the staff obeyed her anyway. I text Sokolov.

Keep eyes on the older Baranov. Do not engage. Report deviations.

He replies,

She's in the dining room now. Rearranged place cards. Made two phone calls from the house line, but just to confirm the arrival of some of the guests. Both calls were short.

I let the news rest in my bloodstream. She's overplaying, or she wants me to think she is.

Downstairs, the noise of readiness. Linens pressed, glasses fingerprinted, every micro-detail shined for inspection. The house knows what is at stake, even if the guests pretend not to.

I head for the landing. Two men on the stairs, both ex-military, both new. They clear my path with a smoothness that makes me proud. Halfway down, I pause at the overlook and watch Ekaterina command the staff with a surgeon's efficiency. She doesn't see me. Or pretends not to.

At the bottom, Orlov intercepts. "Wine?" he offers, the bottle presented for my approval.

I read the label, check the foil, pass the glass beneath my nose. "Acceptable," I say.

He pours neatly. "Anything else?"

"Cameras," I say. "Are they patched into the study?"

"Everything in real time. No dead zones."

"Good."

The table is set. Ekaterina has taken over the center of the room, gray-green dress like a slice of midnight, hair swept back with military rigor.

She inspects the cutlery, moves a napkin one centimeter to the right, and dismisses the server with a nod.

The women here run on silent authority, but Ekaterina runs on the kind that makes men want to confess before she's even asked a question.

She glances at me, then looks away. For a second, I see the girl she once was, lighting fires in the woods behind the Baranov dacha, then framing the neighbor's boys for the arson. But only for a second.

The dining room officially opens to the guests, and Leopold Gratz arrives first. His gaze sweeps across the room and immediately settles on Ekaterina, whose hand he moves to kiss.

She lets him linger a beat too long before motioning to the seat at her right, the place of strategic favor.

He takes it with a nod that carries the weight of four generations of banking secrecy.

Next, the parliamentarian makes his entrance. He doesn't shake hands. Instead, he glances around the room, expression unreadable, his tie slightly askew like a man pretending not to be under surveillance. He gives a soft word to the ma?tre d' and seats himself without waiting to be told.

The other guests file in. Ekaterina is already in her element.

Ice-blonde hair, not a strand out of alignment.

She arranges the seating, introduces herself to each guest, never by first name, always as "Valentin Baranov's daughter.

" The echo is telling. Every man here knows the Baranov name and what happened to its last living owner.

The industrialist's wife floats in last, as if timing were a weapon.

Her gown is minimal, diamonds severe, and her hair caught in a net of pearls.

She pauses at the threshold, enough for the cameras to catch the silhouette.

Then she walks to her seat without looking left or right, the perfume she wears unmistakably hers—oud, myrrh, and power.

Orlov signals from the doorway—all clear, guests accounted for.

I clear my throat, not for effect but to mark the beginning.

"Gentlemen," I say, "and ladies." The parliamentarian flinches. The banker's son grins. "Tonight is not about the past. It's about what happens when we stop pretending there is no future. Please enjoy yourselves."