Page 4 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

I breathe in. Breathe out. The concrete against my skin feels more honest than all the silk and satin above.

My pulse slows. The vise around my chest loosens its grip.

A door slams somewhere above, the sound ricocheting down the stairwell.

Reality rushes back in. I will have to return.

My absence has already been noted. There will be consequences in the form of my father's disapproval, my sister's cutting remarks.

But for these stolen moments, the price seems small.

I gather my shoes, stand, smooth my dress, leave my hair loose.

My mask slides back into place, piece by piece, as I climb the stairs toward duty.

The gala is winding down when I reenter the ballroom.

The orchestra plays a slower arrangement now, something soft and sentimental to ease the transition from champagne to cognac.

A few guests linger over crystal tumblers and whispered conversations.

Others filter out with murmured goodbyes, kissed cheeks, business cards discreetly exchanged.

Ekaterina flashes me a tight smile as I pass, the kind that says well-played and you'll pay for this in the same breath.

My father doesn't speak to me. Once the final guest has left, I retreat to my wing of the house, aching at the spine and temples.

In the quiet of my room, I slip out of the gown, drape it carefully across a velvet hanger, and trade diamonds for a cotton robe.

The warmth of the fire already waiting in the hearth is a silent gift from Galina.

So is the tray left on the carved table beside the window.

I smile down at the bowl of thick, steaming solyanka .

The scent rises in curls of brine and lemon, smoked meats and sweet-sour broth.

I sit cross-legged in my chair and eat slowly, letting the warmth spread through me like something holy.

Chunks of sausage and tender beef melt between my teeth.

The broth is rich with tomato, pickled cucumber, black olives.

A slice of lemon floats at the surface like a coin in a wishing bowl.

I dip dark rye bread into the bowl, watch it drink.

After finishing the meal, I get into bed with a book and wait.

The summons arrives at midnight, delivered by Galina in the old-fashioned way.

I comb my hair into a ponytail and wrap my robe tightly against the invading cold before heading to my father's study, which lies beyond the open corridor, past the old conservatory where the windows never quite hold in the heat.

I walk slowly, my slippers soundless against the mosaic tile.

The night beyond the arches is a black sky stretched tightly over the city, punctured by frost-glinting stars.

Wind hisses through the ivy-strangled balustrades, catching the hem of my robe as though trying to pull me back.

The cold seeps through the stone and licks at my ankles, sharp as a knife's edge.

Upon reaching, my hand is poised to knock when his voice cuts through the oak door.

"Enter." The single word drips with displeasure.

I smooth my face into neutrality before turning the handle.

The study swallows me in atmosphere, heavy with the scents of cognac, leather-bound books, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil.

A single lamp burns on the massive desk, casting shadows across Papa's face.

The door whispers shut behind me, sealing us in together.

He doesn't look up. His fingers manipulate chess pieces on a board of polished stone, black against white.

The fire in the hearth has burned down to embers, but heat remains trapped in the room, even though it is freezing just outside his study.

"Do you know how many questions I fielded after your little disappearing act? " His voice is quiet.

"I apologize for any inconvenience," I say.

"Inconvenience." He moves a knight with force. "Is that what you call humiliating your family in front of our most valuable potential allies?"

I stand before his desk, hands clasped at my waist. My spine is straight, my chin level.

The perfect posture of a penitent. I wait, silent.

Years of experience have taught me when speech is required and when it will only fuel his anger.

Finally, he looks up. His eyes reflect nothing.

"Alessandro Conti spoke highly of you. Said you were charming before you were struck with a convenient migraine. "

I don't flinch at the accusation in his tone.

"Matteo Ricci," he continues, "didn't speak of you at all. Because you never spoke to him." He sets the knight down with a distinct thud. "Explain yourself."

"The room is crowded. I'm on my way to introduce myself when?—"

"Lies don't become you." His hand slams down, rattling the chess pieces. "I watched you avoid him for an hour before your theatrical exit."

I revise my strategy. "I felt ill."

"You felt rebellious." He stands, moving around the desk. "Do you understand what you jeopardized tonight?"

I remain motionless as he circles me. "The Ricci alliance opens doors in markets we've been excluded from for decades.

Their shipping routes. Their political connections.

" He stops directly behind me. I feel his breath on my neck.

"All of which require nothing more from you than to smile and make conversation with a man who, by all accounts, is educated, handsome, and unmarried. "

"I understand," I say.

"Do you? Because I'm beginning to wonder if you're capable of understanding anything beyond your own selfish impulses." He returns to his desk, opens a drawer. "Perhaps I've been too lenient."

My heart accelerates as I watch him withdraw a thin folder.

"Three options," he says. "First, you apologize to Matteo Ricci personally and convince him of your interest. You charm him through the summit. You secure his partnership, business and otherwise."

He slides the folder toward me. I don't reach for it.

"Second option. You return to St. Petersburg. Manage the branch office there under Mikhail's supervision. No social life. No freedom. Just work until you prove your commitment to this family."

The fire cracks in the grate. A log collapses into ash.

"And the third?" I ask.

"You tell me you can't fulfill your obligations to this family. I arrange a marriage to cement the Korikov alliance instead. You'll be in Siberia within the week."

The room constricts. "Those are my choices?"

"Choice implies you have one." His eyes bore into mine. "You're twenty-seven, Zoya. I've allowed your whims for as long as I can. Now I require your obedience."

I feel a shift inside myself, like tumblers falling in a lock. This is the moment. The gambit I've waited for. I calibrate my next move carefully. "I understand my duty," I say softly. "I always have."

His eyebrow raises slightly at the change in my tone.

"Tonight was…" I allow my voice to falter, just once. "The room was overwhelming, and I may have played it wrong." I take a slow breath. "I wanted to make a good impression, not seem desperate. I thought a brief mystery would be more intriguing than throwing myself at him immediately."

Papa's eyes narrow, assessing the shift in my strategy. I take a step forward. "I'll make it right with the Riccis. I'll do whatever is required for our family." I let tears gather in my eyes, not enough to fall, just enough to glisten in the dim light. "But I ask one concession."

"You're not in a position to negotiate."

"Not a negotiation. A request." I keep my voice humble. "A few days in Paris before the summit resumes." The plea comes out as a whisper. "After that, I promise I'll settle down, fulfill my obligations. Be the daughter you need me to be."

Silence stretches between us. Papa's fingers tap against the wood. Once. Twice. Three times. "Paris," he repeats.

"Yes."

I hold my breath as he considers. My tears remain perfectly balanced, neither falling nor receding.

My hands stay loosely clasped, betraying no tension.

Papa returns to his chair. His face gives away nothing as he assesses me.

For three generations, the Baranov family has built an empire by reading lies in the flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a mouth.

He sees through most deceptions in seconds.

"You've never begged for anything before," he says finally.

"I'm not begging now." I straighten my shoulders. "I'm offering a compromise."

He pours himself another measure of cognac. The amber liquid catches the lamplight as he swirls it. "One week. Then you return and do your duty without complaint or evasion, Zoyechka . I love you, my daughter, but enough is enough."

Relief floods my chest, but I control it, allowing only a small nod.

"If you disappoint me again," he adds, "there won't be another chance. The consequences will be…" He takes a sip of his drink, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Permanent."

"I understand."

He dismisses me with a grunt and a wave. "Go. Pack. You leave tomorrow."

I turn to leave, each step tentative until I reach the door.

"Zoya." His voice stops me. "Do you imagine I don't know when you're lying to me?"

My hand freezes on the doorknob. I don't turn around.

"Perhaps I allow it because I'm curious what game you're playing," he continues. "Or perhaps I know that whatever small rebellions you indulge in, you're still my daughter. Still a Baranov."

I open the door. "Goodnight, Father."

His chuckle follows me into the hallway, entirely sounding like someone who's never lost in his whole, long life.