Page 35 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

T he corridor outside the drawing room parlor is a wind tunnel of nerves, the air so cold I could snap it between my teeth.

Frost slicks the windows, beads along the seams of the old glass, mapping the pressure inside.

I press my back to the wall and feel the architecture thrum with it.

At the far end, two guards are planted shoulder to frame, each with a hand ghosting the grip of a gun.

They watch everything except me. The third, near the arch to the parlor, cracks his knuckles and mumbles into a radio.

No one speaks. The night has been shorn to its bones.

The banker's son is splayed inside on a velvet chaise.

Sweat stains the silk at his neck and soaks through to the green brocade beneath.

He looks like a man crucified by his own intestines.

The estate doctor hovers, needle in one hand, portable monitor clamped to the other, his face stuck at maximum pale.

Orlov circles the perimeter, boots quiet, tablet open and fingers dancing. He never stops moving.

I stare through the crack of the double doors.

The glass is leaded, but a single strip lets me count heartbeats by the twitch of the doctor's jaw.

The first hit of adrenaline hasn't faded, and now I feel the burn start to climb my arms. I clench a fist and uncurl it. Blood moves. That's all that matters.

A phone chirps. Orlov slides it from his inner pocket, old-school flip with tape on the hinge.

He ducks his head and murmurs, "Alexei, code one.

Confirm." His voice barely leaks past the marble arch, but I catch the shift in the air.

Alexei Vetrov. Cousin, fixer, the man who made a few of my husband's enemies vanish like a magic trick.

If he's on the call, this is containment—family only. The walls are about to close in.

I want to move, but I know better. The correct play is to let the adrenaline spin, observe, and wait.

That's the game Ekaterina taught me, back when we'd crawl under the billiards table to eavesdrop on our father's meetings.

She'd narrate every gesture, every lie. Watch the hands, little dove.

No one tells the truth with their mouth.

The parlor is full now. Five guards, two of whom I don't recognize, at the four points of the compass and one float.

Sokolov, ever the shadow, stands by the fireplace with a poker balanced across his forearm.

His eyes are rimmed with red. He watches the banker's son warily.

Konstantin is at dead center, a pillar of muscle.

He doesn't move, not a blink. The only sign of life is the twitch at the corner of his left eye.

His face is set to off, but the room rotates around him, everything measured to his axis.

Orlov slides into the corridor, gives me a look.

His shirt is untucked at the waist, a detail he'd never allow if things were under control.

"Alexei's ten out," he mutters, voice low.

"No press, no cops. He's calling a hard seal.

" His eyes flit to the guards, to my hands, to my throat.

"You should go to your rooms. For optics. "

I shake my head, though my whole body is trembling. "I'd rather see it play out."

He sighs, not a full exhale, just enough to show the crack. "Don't say anything yet to other staff. Not to anyone. We'll be running a check shortly."

"Like you'd trust me with a secret," I say, and his mouth quirks, the barest flicker.

"I trust you more than the walls," he says, and then he's gone, back through the doors.

A minute later, the doctor steps out. He peels off his gloves and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. He looks at me, as if for the first time. "Is there a nurse?" he asks.

I shrug. "Just my old nanny, but she's…" I picture involving Galina in this mess. "Old."

He grimaces, disappears again.

Footsteps echo up from the service stairs. Sokolov calls from the parlor. "Mrs. Vetrov, come in." His tone is flat, but I hear the intent. There's no denying this one.

I walk in. There is a medical funk overlaid on the old cigar and leather.

The banker's son is slumped, eyes half-shut, his left hand clawing at the armrest. There's a fresh IV in his wrist, and the line snakes back to a bag that the doctor holds at shoulder height.

Konstantin doesn't look at me. Sokolov points at a spot near the chaise.

I take it, standing. "We need a statement," he says. "For the family."

I know what he wants—the outsider's view, the record of events before the Bratva rewrite begins.

I replay the last hour in my head—the wine, the toast, the conversations and the adoring eyes, me feeling suffocated inside and escaping into the night air as soon as I had the chance, my husband joining me, then the shouts.

Running back in, and for one awful second, thinking that my sister was smiling before her eyes grew dark and she told Konstantin to send for a medic.

"Nothing in the food," I say. "It was the wine. French. 200."

Sokolov nods, confirms with Orlov's tablet. "The bottles?"

"Three on the table."

The doctor interrupts, voice shaky. "He's stable. I've given him charcoal and saline. We need to get him to a clinic, but he'll live. Probably."

"What was it?" asks Orlov, though I can see from the set of his jaw that he already knows.

The doctor holds up a swab wrapped in plastic. "Red dust on the rim of the offending glass, I presume his lips came in contact with it. Not arsenic. Something newer, synthetic, hard to trace. Probably applied with a brush right before serving."

Konstantin finally turns. His eyes are glacier, nothing behind them but frozen sea. "Who touched the bottles after they left the cellar?"

Orlov reads from the list. "Sommelier. Head server. Ekaterina, some, Zoya."

I flinch. "I didn't hand him that glass."

Konstantin absorbs this, unmoved. "Check the cameras."

"Already queued," Orlov says. "We'll have it in five."

The banker's son makes a sound somewhere between a half-groan, half-laugh. "Good wine," he rasps.

I'm grateful he's not causing a scene. Most in his place would. Sokolov pats his shoulder, not unkindly. "You have good taste. Bad luck."

In the corner, the doctor packs his bag, hands shaking. I watch his fingers. No wedding ring. Faint nicotine stains. Orlov's phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then hands it to Konstantin. "Alexei is on-site," he says.

Konstantin nods. "Bring him in."

The corridor floods with new energy. Alexei Vetrov appears, a presence ahead of a body, the ghost of every decision you've ever regretted.

His suit is gray, finely cut, and he wears a tie the color of old rubies.

He takes in the room with a single sweep, then zeroes on the banker's son.

He does not break stride. He kneels beside the guest, murmurs something in his ear.

The banker's son tries to answer, fails.

Alexei stands, turns to Konstantin, and says, "It's handled. "

No further explanation. He pivots to me. "Zoya. My dear. Are you well?"

"I am," I say. "But your cousin isn't."

He smiles, the way a snake might. "He's the Pakhan ," he says without looking at Konstantin. "Trust me when I say he's handled far worse."

For a second, no one moves. Then the room resumes its cycle.

Alexei confers with Orlov, voice pitched low.

Sokolov checks his phone, probably running background on every server in the house.

Konstantin folds his hands behind his back, rocks on his heels, and studies the carpet as if trying to remember where it came from.

The staff file in, one by one, for questioning. Each sits in the straight-backed chair by the window, hands folded, eyes locked on the pattern of the rug. They answer in single syllables. Yes, sir. No, sir. Never, sir. The words pile up like shrapnel.

When it's my turn, I take the chair. Konstantin looms over my right shoulder. Alexei sits across, legs crossed, pen poised.

"Name," he says.

I arch an eyebrow. "You know who I am."

"It's for the record," he replies, unblinking.

"Zoya Valentinovna Vetrov."

"Where were you at the time of the incident?"

"I was outside."

"Did you observe anyone tampering with his glass?"

"No," I say.

Alexei notes it, then glances at Konstantin. "Any reason your wife could be a murderer?"

Konstantin's voice is granite. "I doubt it."

Alexei smiles, scribbles something. "We'll confirm with the footage."

I sit back, stretch my hands on my knees. "Is this necessary?"

Alexei leans in, his cologne sharp. "Someone tried to kill a guest in this house. If it was you, I'd admire the audacity. If not, I want to know who you suspect."

He waits. I see the game—put the suspicion in my hands, make me the weapon.

I think of Ekaterina, ready to help as soon as she could, but why? She's hot, then she's cold. But she had no business killing the banker's son. If anything, he'd have been a match made in heaven for her. Who, then? Could it be…

"I suspect the sommelier," I say. "He's new."

Alexei's pen flickers. "Interesting."

"Anyone could have done it," Sokolov mutters. "This is ridiculous."

"Not anyone," Orlov corrects. "You'd need nerves and access."

"Let's get to work," Konstantin interjects, gesturing to the door with a flick of his head. "Time is of the essence."

The house is in full lockdown. No one comes in or out without Sokolov's say-so.

The guests are sequestered in their rooms, guards at every threshold.

I lean on the doorframe and watch as Orlov and Sokolov run the staff through a wringer.

The guards alternate—first gentle, then severe, back to gentle.

The staff, house-broken to the last, line up and take their medicine.