Beside me, Alina goes rigid. I feel the tension radiating from her body, see her hands curl into fists at her sides. The exhaustion that had softened her features moments ago vanishes, replaced by something harder. Colder.
"Get Katya inside," I order into my comm, my voice low and controlled. "Back entrance. Keep her away from the main house until I give the all-clear."
"Copy that, Pakhan." Borge's response is immediate. He comes to the car and carefully lifts Katya, still sleeping, out of the car and takes her to his vehicle. Through the rearview mirror, I watch as he and two other men peel off from our convoy, taking Alina's sister around the side of the estate.
Alina's breathing has changed. Shallow. Quick. I recognize the signs of an impending panic attack. I've seen enough of them in my years to know.
"Look at me." I turn in my seat, cupping her face with one hand. Her green eyes are wide, pupils dilated. "Breathe, Alina. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
She obeys, her chest rising and falling in a more controlled rhythm. Some of the color returns to her pale cheeks.
"I don't want to see her," she whispers. "I can't. Not after everything."
"You don't have to." I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone, feeling the delicate bone structure beneath soft skin. "I can handle this. You can go upstairs, be with Katya."
She closes her eyes for a moment, and I watch the war play out across her features. The girl who wants to hide, to avoid confrontation. And the woman she's becoming, the one who faced down her father and pulled the trigger without hesitation.
When her eyes open again, they're clear. Determined.
"No. She's my mother. I need to do this."
Pride swells in my chest, unexpected and fierce. This woman. My wife. She's stronger than she knows.
We exit the SUV together, and I keep my hand on the small of her back as we walk toward the main entrance. My men are already positioned around the property, weapons visible. They know the threat level has just escalated. A visit from Irina Popov, widow of the man Alina killed, is never just a social call.
The front door opens before we reach it. A maid stands in the doorway. Her face is carefully neutral, but I see the tension in her shoulders.
"She's in the main sitting room, Pakhan. She arrived twenty minutes ago and insisted on waiting."
"Did she come alone?"
"Yes, sir. No security detail that we could see."
That's interesting. And suspicious. Women like Irina Popov don't travel without protection, especially not in the current climate. Which means either she's incredibly foolish, or she's making a statement.
I nod to the maid and guide Alina through the foyer. The house is quiet, most of the staff having retreated to give us privacy. Smart. Whatever happens in the next few minutes, the fewer witnesses, the better.
The sitting room is one of the few spaces in this house that feels lived in. Comfortable leather furniture, a fireplace that actually gets used, bookshelves lined with volumes I've actually read. It's where I come when I need to think, to plan, to remember that I'm more than just the Pakhan.
Irina Popov sits in my favorite chair, a delicate teacup balanced on her knee. She's dressed impeccably in a black Chanel suit, her blonde hair styled in a perfect chignon. Mourning clothes, but expensive ones. Her makeup is flawless, though I can see the redness around her eyes that suggests recent tears.
She stands when we enter, setting the teacup down with a soft click of porcelain against porcelain. Her movements are graceful, practiced. A lifetime of playing the perfect Bratva wife.
"Alina." Her voice is warm, maternal. She moves forward with her arms outstretched. "Oh, my darling girl."
Alina stiffens as her mother embraces her, but she doesn't pull away. Not immediately. I watch the interaction carefully, cataloging every detail. The way Irina's hands grip Alina's shoulders just a fraction too tightly. The way her eyes, when they meet mine over Alina's shoulder, are calculating rather than grief-stricken.
This woman is dangerous. Not in the way Viktor was, with his ambition and his willingness to sacrifice anything for power. Irina's danger is subtler. She's a survivor, someone who's learned to navigate the Bratva world by being exactly what men expect her to be.
Until she's not.
Alina pulls back first, putting distance between herself and her mother. "What are you doing here, Mama?"
Irina's smile is sad, understanding. "I heard about your father. About the tragedy at the factory." She dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, though I don't see any actual tears. "I needed to see you. To make sure you were safe."
"Safe." Alina's voice is flat. "You're worried about my safety now?"
"Of course I am. You're my daughter."
