Page 44 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

I n the beginning there is only chaos. Then the order creeps in.

We spend the night in the war room, all of us, even the men who can barely stand upright.

Sokolov takes point, face set to killing, voice stripped to the bone.

He has the sniper trussed up in a boiler room beneath the garage, and for four hours he lets the guards soften him.

When the time is right, Orlov and I go down together.

The man's face is purpled and misshapen, lips torn like he chewed through glass. He spits at my shoes anyway.

Sokolov is waiting for me to ask first. He wants to see what I'm made of. I step in, pick up the wrench, and slam it down on the table an inch from the man's ear. The noise is loud enough to shake dust from the ductwork. He flinches but doesn't break. I lean close.

"Where did she take him?" I ask, voice almost sweet. "If you talk now, you'll die faster."

He shakes his head, mumbles something about Baranov's orders. Sokolov snorts. "If you love her so much, maybe she'll send you a postcard."

The next hour is a blur of teeth and blood.

The sniper holds out longer than I expect, but in the end, he breaks.

He gives us a name, a region, a target—Tver oblast, rural, outside a dead orchard.

Sokolov double-checks with a punch to the kidneys.

The man vomits and whimpers, "She said you're a coward. "

Orlov drags me upstairs before I can test the theory.

From there, the operation runs like a hangover in reverse—first pain, then confusion, then a window of bleak lucidity.

For forty-eight hours, no one leaves the main building except to piss or smoke.

The security team rakes through every byte of phone data, every digital crumb from the estate, every vehicle log from the last six months.

Orlov works without blinking, juggling a half-dozen feeds and snapping at anyone who brings him bad coffee.

Galina stares at the map of Russia tacked to the wall, her thumb moving in tight, frantic circles over the region north of Moscow.

Every time I pass the room, she is still there, eyes swimming, voice silent.

I want to tell her it will be okay, but that would make me a liar.

So I say nothing, just press her shoulder as I go by.

The guards are a skeleton crew, sleepwalking through their shifts, hands never far from their triggers. The only one who seems awake is the new hire, the one with the shrapnel scars who wears a rosary over his uniform. I catch him praying in the pantry. He sees me and doesn't stop.

By the second day, we have the car on satellite—a black van parked outside an old Baranov property, ten kilometers from anything with a living soul.

The house itself is a prefab cube with white siding and a fence that sags under the weight of its own failure.

There's a second structure behind it, long and low, the shape of a barn but wrapped in sheet metal.

Orlov confirms it's a munitions dump—one of the last things my father stashed in country before he died.

Sokolov and the rest assemble on the tarmac before dawn.

They dress for war but try to look like businessmen.

Orlov runs through the approach a dozen times, every possible angle, every mistake that could turn us into corpses.

I memorize the plan, then ignore it. In the end, these things always come down to a handful of seconds, a single bad choice or a single good one.

Konstantin appears on the landing just as we are about to leave.

His face is ashen, bandages crisscrossing the wound at his shoulder.

I tell him he is out of his mind. He tells me he is the Pakhan and this is about his family, and if I try to leave him behind, he'll shoot himself again just to prove a point.

We ride out in three cars, all with double armor, none with plates. Sokolov drives the lead, his hand steady on the wheel. I am sandwiched in the back seat between Konstantin and the youngest of the guards. The boy's hands tremble, but his eyes do not.

The snow along the road is ribbed with old tire marks, some recent, some ancient. Every kilometer, the sky grows brighter and the land flatter. When we finally make the turn onto the dirt lane, the van is already in sight, its black paint slick with frost.

The convoy fans out just like in the plan. The guards move silently, gloved hands on their pieces, faces hidden by masks. I see the barn first, its doors gaping like a hungry mouth, but the car is not parked near it. The car is by the house, which is shut and dark, no sign of life.

We approach slowly. Sokolov is first to the porch.

He checks the lock, signals all clear. I wait, fists clenched inside my coat, breath steaming in the air.

The wind is so sharp, it flays the skin off your cheeks, but I don't feel it.

We enter as a group. The front room is bare, just a couch and a single lamp.

The carpet is threadbare, the color of cigarette ash.

There are footprints—child's size and adult—crisscrossing the hall, but no sign of violence.

I call out Lev's name. Nothing.

We sweep the house room by room. Kitchen is empty.

Bathroom smells of bleach and ammonia, but the mirror is fogged from recent use.

There's a single mug on the counter, half full of tea gone cold.

At the top of the stairs, I hear a sound—shuffling, maybe a cough.

Sokolov signals for silence, but I push past. I take the steps two at a time.

At the end of the hallway is a closed door to what looks like an attic, painted white and still sticky. I put my hand on the knob, but before I can turn it, a voice speaks through the wood. "Zoya," it says.

The sound is unmistakable. Ekaterina. She could be dead or alive or bleeding out, and I would know the tone. "If you want the boy," she says, "come in alone."

Sokolov shakes his head, tries to intervene. Konstantin grabs my hand. I look at him, and the ice in his gaze is the only thing that makes sense in this moment.

"Give me a gun," I say.

He hesitates, then gestures to Sokolov who hands me a Makarov.

"Call my name if you…" he begins. He doesn't need to finish.

I seal his mouth with a kiss before pocketing the gun.

I look back at the men, then at the door.

"No one follows," I say. "If I'm not out in ten minutes, blow the house and start over. "

Sokolov starts to protest, but Orlov cuts him off. "Let her go. She's right."

I step to the door, hand on the knob, and feel the entire history of my life collecting in my chest like a storm.

The attic is dry, smells like the inside of a piano.

I sweep the room—no windows, two exits, one ladder to the crawlspace.

My heart is a fist in my throat. Lev is on a mattress under the eaves, knees hugged to his chest, a cocoon of wool blankets around him.

He looks up. The bruise on his cheek is old. The fear is new.

Next to him, Ekaterina, sitting cross-legged, arms folded, wearing my father's sweater. She is perfectly still, except for the twitch of one finger, running a circle on the wood floor. "Zoya," she says with a smile so small I almost miss it. "You made good time."

I ignore her and go to Lev. I crouch, pull the blankets tighter, run my hands over his scalp, his shoulders, counting fingers. He doesn't resist, just whispers, "Mama," into the hollow of my neck.

I want to kill her. I want to hug her. I want to burn the house down with all of us inside. Ekaterina sighs, as if I am late for a meeting. "He's fine. I kept him warm. I fed him. I'm not a monster."

"Could have fooled me," I say, not looking at her.

She rolls her eyes. "Please. The only thing I ever did wrong was believe you could be more than a wife to a dying king."

I don't answer. I keep my body between her and Lev. Ekaterina tilts her head. "You brought a gun?"

I don't know how she knows, but I nod. "Good," she says. "We're almost done, then."

There is a pause, brittle as a frozen wire.

Lev whispers, "Are we going home?"

I don't know. I want to promise, but Ekaterina is here, and that means nothing will ever be simple.

She says, "I knew you'd come. But the question is—did you come as his wife or as what you were meant to be?"

Lev watches my face, trying to decode the next ten seconds of his life. He's a smart kid, and he senses something old and poisonous in the air. I crouch beside him, set my hand on the top of his head. "Outside," I say, barely more than a whisper. "Papa's waiting."

He nods, eyes huge. He stumbles toward the door, steps unsteady but quick. On cue, Konstantin appears at the threshold. He doesn't say a word. He just wraps Lev in both arms and guides him away. I close the door behind them.

The attic is stripped to the ribs—two wooden chairs, a table with a kerosene lamp, a trunk under the low slope of the roof. The lamp is lit, but the flame is turned down so low it barely stains the dark. Dust floats in the light, lazy and weightless.

Ekaterina sits on the trunk, hands resting on her knees. Her posture is old-school—chin up, shoulders squared, like she's about to recite the family motto. Her hair is longer than I remember, scraped back in a knot so severe it pulls at the corners of her eyes.

She looks at the gun, then at me. "Do it if you're going to."

I stay on my feet. I am not here to give her the satisfaction of ceremony. She licks her lips, waits.

I catalog the details—the way the floor slants, the pattern in the dust, the smells of wax and metal. I draw a slow breath, force my heart to slow down.

"You always wanted it to end like this," I say.

She smiles, not unkindly. "We both did."

The attic holds its breath.

We are alone. There's no more running.