I nodded. Small. Deliberate. Meant only for him. And something like approval crossed his bruised face before his guards moved him toward a different entrance.
We were being kept separated. Made sense tactically—prevent communication, prevent coordination, keep the hostages isolated so they couldn't form plans. But seeing Mikhail disappear through the cathedral's north entrance while Antonsteered me toward the south made my chest tight with anxiety I couldn't breathe through.
Inside, the cathedral was even more overwhelming than the exterior had promised. The narthex opened into a nave that soared three stories high, vaulted ceilings painted with icons in gold and blue and red. Saints stared down at us with expressions ranging from benevolent to judgmental. The smell of incense was stronger here, mixing with beeswax candles and the particular scent old religious buildings had—stone and time and the accumulated prayers of generations.
The main nave had been arranged with five tables in a semicircle facing the central altar. Heavy wooden tables that looked original to the cathedral, ornate carving in the old Russian style. Each table had five chairs—space for each Pakhan and their key advisors. The setup was formal, ritualized, weighted with tradition that predated my great-grandparents.
This was sacred ground where sacred rules applied. Where violence was cosmically impossible according to Anton. Where the old codes held and the modern brutality of bratva operations had to yield to something older, something more fundamental.
I wanted to believe that. Wanted to trust that the incense and icons and centuries of prayer had built protections that even men like Anton couldn't violate.
But my churning stomach suggested otherwise. Suggested that when enough was at stake, when power and blood and succession were being contested, even sacred ground might not be sacred enough.
Anton's guards positioned me in the front row of observers. Not at the tables where the Pakhans would sit, but close enough to be visible. To be displayed. The disputed bloodline made flesh, sitting in a white dress that screamed symbolism I didn't want to embody.
Mikhail was across the aisle with Volkov security surrounding him. When our eyes met again, he nodded. That same deliberate gesture. We're in this together. Hold on.
ThefivePakhanssatat the central table like judges at an inquisition. Like men who'd been granted the authority to determine fates and didn't take that responsibility lightly despite being criminals by every legal definition.
Alexei Volkov sat on the far left—my first cousin, though we'd barely spoken before the warehouse meeting yesterday. Ice-blue eyes identical to my father's, identical to mine, scanning the assembled crowd with rigid control. His three-piece suit was immaculate despite the circumstances. His posture suggested military training, the kind of bearing that came from decades of command. He looked like a man who'd never made an impulsive decision in his life.
Pakhan Kozlov was next to him, older and scarred in ways that told stories I didn't want to hear. His knuckles rested on the mahogany table like threats waiting to be deployed—thick, misshapen, the kind of damage that came from hitting people repeatedly without gloves. His suit was expensive but he wore it like armor, like he was more comfortable in tactical gear but understood the need for formality.
Viktor Sokolov looked like he'd witnessed horrors that should have killed him. White hair and dead eyes that tracked movement without seeming to care what they saw. When he shifted position, I caught the outline of a weapon under his jacket. Probably not the only one he was carrying. He had the look of someone who'd survived by being more dangerous than anyone expected from his appearance.
Ivan Morozov's severe face carried weight that came from old Moscow brutality, from operations that predated American involvement. He was younger than the others—maybe early forties—but his expression suggested he'd seen more violence than men twice his age. His eyes were dark, almost black in the cathedral lighting, and when they passed over me there was assessment without sympathy.
And Nikolai.
My Nikolai, except he didn't look like mine right now. Didn't look like the man who'd held me yesterday while I cried about Mikhail being taken. Didn't look like Daddy who read me stories and made sure I had juice boxes and taught me four-count breathing for panic attacks.
He looked like the Pakhan.
Pressed black suit. No emotion visible on his face—just strategic assessment, grey eyes scanning the cathedral with the kind of calculation that saw seventeen moves ahead. He sat with perfect posture, hands folded on the table in front of him, and he looked decades older than thirty-three. Looked like someone who'd been born to authority instead of someone who'd been thrown into it six months ago when Mikhail retired.
My chest did something complicated. Pride and fear mixed together until I couldn't separate them. This was who Nikolai was when the mask was fully on. When being Pakhan mattered more than being human. And it was devastating to witness because it proved what I'd always known—that he was capable of being someone I barely recognized when circumstances demanded it.
I sat in the front row with Anton's guards flanking me, hands twisted in the white dress that felt more like a shroud. Mikhail was across the aisle with Volkov security, and when our eyes met he nodded again. Small. Deliberate. That gesture that wasbecoming our only communication. Hold on. Stay strong. Trust the plan.
Nikolai stood, and the cathedral went silent.
Not the kind of silence that came from people choosing not to talk. The kind that came from collective held breath, from everyone present understanding that whatever came next mattered. That history was being made in this moment, in this sacred space, under icons that had witnessed centuries of human drama but probably nothing quite like this.
"I invoke ancient protocols regarding bloodline succession disputes," Nikolai said, and his voice carried to the vaulted ceiling with authority that made Anton shift in his seat three rows behind me. "Anton Belyaev's claim to the Belyaev pakhanate is contested. I present evidence that Konstantin Belyaev fathered a daughter—Sophie Katerina Volkov—whose legitimate bloodline gives her equal or greater claim to leadership."
The words landed like grenades. Murmurs rippled through the observers, Russian and English mixing in a wave of commentary that the Pakhans silenced with coordinated looks. Anton's hand found my shoulder from behind, his grip turning painful enough that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
Nikolai continued like he hadn't just declared war using my genetics as the weapon.
Maks appeared from somewhere behind the iconostasis, carrying a leather folder that he placed on the table in front of Nikolai with careful precision. Documentation. Evidence. The kind of proof that would be needed to challenge something as fundamental as succession.
Nikolai opened the folder, extracting papers that he displayed to the assembled Pakhans with methodical efficiency. Hospital records from my birth—I could see the letterhead even fromtwenty feet away, the distinct logo of the San Francisco medical center where I'd been born. My photographic memory captured every visible detail even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
"Konstantin Belyaev is listed as father," Nikolai said, and his voice stayed level despite what he was revealing. Despite that he was publicly discussing my illegitimacy, my mother's affair, the genetics that had determined everything about my current situation. "Medical records don't lie. Blood type markers confirm paternity with ninety-nine point nine percent certainty."
More papers. Photographs this time, displayed on a screen that Maks had set up with technical efficiency. My mother—younger than I'd ever seen her, maybe twenty-five, beautiful in ways the cancer had stolen before I was old enough to remember. And Konstantin Belyaev, his arm around her waist in a photograph dated nine months before my birth. Both of them smiling. Both of them looking happy in ways that made my chest ache because I'd never known my mother when she looked like that.
This was the play. He was using my legitimacy to destroy Anton's position. Making me the rightful heir instead of Anton. Creating a succession crisis that would force the Council to make a ruling that would—what? Save me? Destroy me? Turn me into a Pakhan I had no interest in being?
