I lift a brow. “Some people would call that stability.”
Tatiana leans in. “That’s my worst nightmare, Yuri. Being a bird in a golden cage. I want more for myself than being someone’s ornament.” She sets her glass down. “I want to make my ownfortune. Build something. Be someone who matters. Not just a daughter or a wife. Not just a name.”
I study her for a beat. “Is that what this is really about?”
She smiles again, and it’s almost sad. “We could be more,” she says. “You and me. King and queen of the Bratva. You know we’d be unstoppable. You’d never have to look over your shoulder again.”
I exhale through my nose. “You’ve said that before.”
She touches my wrist, caressing it gently with her fingertip. “And it’s still true.”
I pull my hand away. “Tatiana,” I say, cold and controlled, “that will never happen. You know why. We’re not a match. Not in business. Not in romance. And not in bed.”
For a moment, she’s still. Then she laughs, sharp and sinister. “Fine,” she says, standing and putting on her coat. “Reject me again. But you’ll regret this, Yuri.”
Without another word, she grabs her purse and starts toward the exit, shoving the door hard as she walks out.
Tension coils in my gut. I finish my drink, throw down some cash, and head out. I check my phone again as I step outside. Still nothing from Astrid.
The street’s darker now, the sky bruised with the evening hues. Whatever that little performance with Tatiana was, it wasn’t just about me. That much is obvious.
She’s circling something. And I don’t like not knowing what it is.
I call for a driver. Within five minutes, one of our sedans glides up to the curb, sleek and black. I slide into the back seat, tell thedriver to head to the mansion, then lean back and watch the city slip by.
Tatiana’s never been predictable, but she’s also never been desperate. Her little act felt desperate.
She’s worked beside us for years. She’s always flirted with me, but this was different. The dress. The drink. The timing. It wasn’t justseduction.
It was a distracting disruption. And the timing points straight to Astrid.
My jaw tightens.
By the time the gates open and the car turns up the long drive to the mansion, I need to see my woman. My bright, infuriating, brilliant Astrid. I want to see her face. Hear her voice. Feel her skin under my hands. Tell her everything I haven’t said yet.
Tell her I love her.
Because I do. It’s in the way she looks at me without fear. In the way she fights. In the way I see my future when I look at her—not abstract, not someday. Now.
Tonight, I’ll tell her. Tonight, we’ll become united against whatever comes our way.
The car stops and I step out. Elena’s in the hall when I enter the house, fingers smudged with ink, a half-empty mug of coffee in her hand.
I don’t waste time on pleasantries. “Where’s Astrid?”
She glances up. “Downstairs, last I knew. Still working.”
We both move toward the computer room. She taps in the code and pushes the door open.
Empty.
My pulse spikes. “Elena, something’s wrong.”
I turn back, heading for the hallway, intercepting one of the maids. “Have you seen Astrid?”
“Yes, sir,” the girl says, bright and unaware. “She went out for a walk with Miss Ibramova. They haven’t returned, so I imagine they’re still out in the garden.”
Elena’s voice cuts in behind me, taut. “Yuri, what is it?”
