Page 36 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

First the sommelier, shaking but defiant.

He insists he never touched the bottle after Ekaterina.

The head server, a man with a face like concrete, says he saw nothing, heard nothing, did nothing.

Three maids cycle through, faces wiped of personality.

Each is asked the same questions, in the same order, and each answer sounds more practiced than the last.

Konstantin stands behind it all, the eye of the needle, hands clasped at the small of his back. Alexei leans beside him, whispering now and then, but mostly, he watches. It's theater, but the stakes are real.

Her voice, when it comes, is thin and high, cracking halfway through the second question.

"Did you see anyone handle the wine bottles after they were uncorked?" Sokolov asks, his voice calm, almost gentle, soft as a lullaby, though it only makes her tremble harder.

She shakes her head. "No, sir. But I know which glass was meant for which guest. We were given a placement chart before service. It was part of our final briefing."

Sokolov tilts his head, just slightly. "And who gave you that chart?"

Her eyes flick to him for a second, then drop again. She swallows hard. "The instructions came from the head server, sir. But he… he was taken ill just before dinner began. We were told to proceed without him. His assistant distributed the chart in his place."

Alexei jots a quick note beside a name. "And were the glasses differentiated in any way?"

She nods, slowly. "Yes, sir. Each was marked.

The stem base was discreetly etched with a number that corresponded to the seating chart.

One of the senior staff would confirm it before final placement.

We also had color-coded tags—removable tape—on the underplate during transport to the dining room.

They were discarded after the glasses were laid out. "

Sokolov lifts the poison-coated glass delicately between two fingers, then turns it toward her. The rim is faintly marked with a trace of lipstick, berry red, slightly smudged. "And this glass?"

The maid barely glances before recoiling. Her face drains of color. "That was number eleven," she whispers. "It was meant for Mrs. Vetrov."

The room goes zero Kelvin. All movement stops. For a full second, no one breathes. Konstantin turns, face granite. "Speak," he says.

The maid's lips tremble. "I think… I think that glass was meant for your wife, sir. I think she was the target."

Alexei sighs, a long, tired sound. "Of course."

Konstantin does not react, but something changes in the way he stands. A new tension, a drawn string. Orlov takes the glass in his latexed hands, bags it, and nods to Konstantin. "We'll test it."

The guards herd the staff back to the parlor. The questioning resumes, but the conclusion is foregone. It's not about finding the culprit anymore. It's about containment. Who knew, who didn't, who can be trusted to keep their mouths shut.

Orlov groans and rubs his eyes. "We'll need to reset the staff," he says.

Alexei checks his watch. "The replacements are already en route."

I linger, feeling the gravity settle. Ekaterina is nowhere to be seen. The banker's son dozes on the chaise, a sheen of sweat catching the light. Konstantin surveys every body and meets my eyes. The guards file out. Alexei makes a quiet exit.

Sokolov and Orlov huddle together, discussing logistics. The world outside the windows is dark, a slab of midnight. Inside, the house is reset, but the rules have changed. I touch my throat, feeling for a pulse. It's faster than I like.

Hanging back is unbearable, so, with a little shake of my head, I escape the parlor and break into a run, not stopping until I'm upstairs.

Lev is fast asleep. I close the door to his room, thanking every remaining good force out in the world for his presence, and walk the length of my bedchamber until I wear a groove in the Persian rug.

Lamplight fights the frost on the glass, pushing gold rivers across the floor and casting shadows tall enough to drown in.

I run my hand along the dresser, trail a finger over the lineup of perfume bottles, the neat geometry of hairpins, the glint of the necklace Konstantin gave me.

My mind won't let go. I see the dinner, every second played back at half-speed.

Ekaterina's smile, calibrated to the exact wattage required.

Her hands steady, even as the banker's son started to seize.

Her voice calm, clear, unflappable. It's not politics.

Maybe I'm paranoid, but I feel like it's an old code, a bone-deep knowledge of the game.

She was ready for this, maybe even waiting for it.

The walls close in. I go to the window and drag a line through the condensation.

The night is so clear I could count the stars.

The garden below is empty, the snow unbroken.

Somewhere, the house guard circles, boots crunching on gravel.

I watch his route, the rhythm, the pattern.

It's different tonight. Tighter. More urgent.

I force myself to sit. I pour a half glass of vodka, no ice, and let the burn sit on my tongue.

The silence is absolute, except for the click of the old clock on the mantel.

I drink, and with it, the memory of the first time I tasted real fear—my mother's funeral, the stench of lilies and leather gloves, the way Ekaterina never once looked at the casket.

She just stared at the men who'd come to pay their respects.

My eyes begin to hurt as I stare at the table, at the single artifact from the night—my place card, thick stock, name printed in gold.

I flip it in my hands, back and forth. The ink catches the lamplight, refracts into tiny rainbows.

On the reverse, a watermark—the Baranov crest, faint as a rumor, but visible if you know where to look.

I run a thumb across the design and frown as I notice what is indubitably a signature. I remember the story because it is one Papa told, and very often— The wolf that lives is not the strongest or the fastest. It is the one who knows when to show its teeth and when to hide them.

The moment I close my eyelids, I hear the echo of his voice, the way he would lower it to a growl when he wanted me to really listen. "You show your teeth too early, you get shot. You never show them, you starve. There is a third way, Zoya. But you have to find it yourself."

I open my eyes, stare at the crest. A wolf's head, eyes closed, mouth just starting to part. Whoever left this wanted me to see it. But why ?