Page 38 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

The silence is thick. Alexei waits, as always, for an order he can implement or subvert. I don't trust the outer world to take care of my wife and son.

I look at each in turn, then at the weapons racked on the west wall—a history of violence, from Makarovs to Sig Sauers to a battered Remington that still carries blood in the receiver.

I imagine the bullets these men have used, the bodies they've stacked, and the impossible arithmetic of keeping everything in balance.

"We keep them here," I say. "Doubling patrols. Unannounced shifts. Lock the kitchen, monitor all food and water. No one eats unless it's from my hand."

Sokolov nods, almost grateful. Orlov makes a note, but I catch the tension in his jaw. Alexei just stares, a small smile tickling his mouth.

"If another attempt is made," Orlov presses, "do we escalate?"

"Yes," I say. "Meeting adjourned," I add, and the men file out, not a word wasted.

When the door closes, I sit alone at the table. The screens glow with the city's pulse, a million lives mapped in heat and movement. I let my mind drift, then focus in on the dinner tape, now queued on the main display.

I play it once, at normal speed. Ekaterina is the axis, everything rotating around her—the way she pours wine, the way she brushes hair from her eyes, the careful stillness when the banker's son begins to cough. But she didn't hand him the glass. The man took it himself, and from the table.

I rewind, play again, slow-motion. I watch the tilt of her head, the hands in her lap, the twitch at the corner of her mouth when Zoya enters the room. I pause on that frame. The look is everything. Challenge, amusement, a dare, and perhaps even devotion, rolled into one.

Sitting back, I close my eyes. The pulse of the room is in my blood now. I imagine the city outside, full of men who think they understand power, and women who know it's all theater. I imagine Ekaterina in her room, playing out the next move, already two steps ahead.

She wants me to chase her.

I open my eyes, and the tape is still playing. I watch and learn and let the hours pass until I can't stop myself from seeing my family.

Zoya has been avoiding me, that much is clear. Perhaps she should, but then again, that's not how this works. I climb the stairs quietly. The guards stationed at the balustrade bow their heads in unison, and I answer with a dip of my own.

Zoya's suite calls to me with a view of the courtyard and the moonlit cages of rosewood below. The guard at her door is one of my oldest and most trusted men. I acknowledge him as he steps aside and test the handle. Unlocked.

I don't knock. I step inside and close the door behind me.

Zoya sits by the window, a silk robe tied at her ribs, hair down and wild around her face. Her feet are bare, one tucked under the other, and she's drinking something pale from a chipped tea cup. I clear my throat. She still doesn't move. "How are you?"

She lifts the cup, sips, then sets it down. "You'd know by now."

The lamp on her desk throws gold at the walls, leaving half her face in darkness. She watches me in the glass, not directly. "What do you want, Konstantin?"

"Answers," I say.

She stands, fluid, and faces me. "At least we can agree on wanting the same things, then."

"Perhaps" I say. "But only one of us courts danger like a lover would. What are you thinking, Zoya? What's going on in that head of yours?"

Her mouth tightens, but not in anger. "What's the difference?"

I cross to the edge of the desk, pick up the file I brought.

The folder is cheap cardboard, but what's inside is worth more than anyone in the house.

I don't hand it to her. Instead, I flip the first page and hold it up—a surveillance shot of Ekaterina, taken two weeks after the massacre, in a cafe in Prague with two men from the Albani syndicate.

Sokolov retrieved this footage a few hours ago, and while I don't know where it leads, I'm not optimistic the destination is anywhere that's good for Zoya, Lev, or me.

They aren't good news. And they were working with Valentin Baranov back in the day. Zoya's eyes flick to the photo, then to me.

"She was working for them?" she asks. Even she knows how the Albani syndicate works, how deeply corrupted it is.

"She was working for herself," I answer. "Same as always."

She sits, hard, on the edge of the bed. Her robe rides up to her thigh, but she doesn't notice or care. I do but ignore the fire it ignites inside me.

I set the file on the comforter, then turn to the window. The moon paints the courtyard in gunmetal, and the roses are nothing but shadows now.

"How far are you willing to go for answers?" I ask.

She considers, then… "As far as I need to."

I face her. "Not far enough, if you're still asking me."

She laughs, sharp and brittle. "Is that a challenge?"

"It's a truth," I say. "Or what passes for it here."

I move to leave, hand on the door.

"Konstantin."

I stop.

She stands and closes the gap between us, close enough that her breath is cold on my cheek. She smells like roses, too. "I don't know what's going on," she says, "but death is probably the only way to stop me from finding out."

I study her face, memorize the lines, the bruise under her left collarbone, the way she never looks down. I want to kiss her, or shake her, or both.

Instead, I open the door. "Get some sleep," I say. I leave the room, close the door behind me, and stand in the hallway until the moon moves half a degree across the sky.

The night is quiet, but I can hear Zoya breathing on the other side of the door.