“You look like you’re planning someone’s funeral,” Irina said, appearing at Anka’s elbow with two glasses of wine. Viktor’s sister had the same ice-blue eyes as her brother, butwhere Viktor’s could freeze blood, Irina’s sparkled with warmth and mischief.
Anka accepted the wine gratefully, using the moment to compose her expression. “Just watching the chaos. It’s nice to see everyone together like this.”
“Chaos is right. Wait until Kostya’s twins arrive next month—then we’ll really understand the meaning of pandemonium.” Irina followed Anka’s gaze toward where Viktor was speaking quietly with Mikhail, their conversation too distant to overhear. “He seems different lately. Happier, maybe.”
The observation made Anka’s chest tighten with complicated emotions. Viktor did seem different—more present, less consumed by the cold fury that had characterized their early interactions. But there was something else there now, something darker and more focused than general anger.
“Marriage suits him,” Anka said carefully, not wanting to examine too closely what Viktor’s happiness might cost.
Before Irina could respond, Viktor’s voice cut across the garden with the kind of casual authority that made conversations halt mid-sentence.
“Adrian, could I borrow you for a few minutes? There’s something I’d like to discuss privately.”
The request was phrased politely, but it carried undertones that made the hair on Anka’s arms rise. Adrian’s expression flickered—surprise, wariness, something that might have been calculation—before settling into professional neutrality.
“Of course,” Adrian replied, his voice equally measured. “Lead the way.”
Anka watched them disappear into Viktor’s study, her wine forgotten as unease coiled in her stomach. The conversation resumed around her, family members returning to their various discussions and activities, but she remained frozen by the French doors.
Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. The children were called in for lunch, their protests about leaving the gardens quickly forgotten when they saw the elaborate spread waiting in the dining room. But Viktor and Adrian remained sequestered, and Anka’s anxiety grew with each passing minute.
When they finally emerged, the change in Adrian was immediately obvious. Her brother’s face was set in lines of barely controlled fury, his hands clenched into fists that he kept carefully hidden at his sides. Viktor, by contrast, appeared completely at ease—relaxed, almost satisfied in ways that made Anka’s blood run cold.
“Everything all right?” Matvei asked, his tone carrying the kind of casual concern that suggested he’d noticed the tension but wasn’t particularly worried about its source.
“Just business,” Viktor replied smoothly. “Adrian was kind enough to provide some insights into overseas shipping routes. Very helpful perspective.”
The lie was delivered with such perfect sincerity that Anka almost believed it herself. But Adrian’s expression told a different story—this hadn’t been a friendly consultation about logistics. This had been something else entirely, something that had left her brother struggling to maintain his composure.
Lunch proceeded normally, at least on the surface. The adults discussed various business ventures while the children provided a steady soundtrack of questions, complaints, and demands for attention. Anka went through the motionsof participating, but her attention remained fixed on the undercurrents swirling between Viktor and Adrian.
Her brother ate mechanically, contributing nothing to conversations that would normally have engaged his interest. Viktor, meanwhile, was the picture of gracious hospitality, ensuring everyone’s glasses remained full and steering discussions away from topics that might cause friction.
It was a masterful performance that left Anka feeling physically ill.
When coffee was served on the terrace, she finally found her opportunity. Adrian had stepped away from the group, ostensibly to take a business call, and Anka followed him to the secluded corner of the garden where he’d sought privacy.
“What did he say to you?” she asked without preamble, keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry to the rest of the family.
Adrian’s laugh was bitter and completely humorless. “Your husband is quite the strategist. I’ll give him that.”
“Adrian, what happened in that room?”
For a moment, her brother looked older than his years, worn down by burdens she’d never fully understood. When he finally met her eyes, the defeat there made her chest constrict with dread.
“He knows about the Kozlov contracts,” Adrian said quietly. “Knows exactly how we structured the deals, knows about the off-books payments, knows about the routes we’re using to avoid certain regulatory complications.”
The words hit Anka like physical blows. The Kozlov contracts were Adrian’s masterpiece—a complex web of legitimate business dealings that concealed more questionableactivities underneath. They were also the foundation of her family’s recent expansion into European markets, worth hundreds of millions in revenue over the next decade.
“That’s impossible,” she breathed. “Those files are encrypted, compartmentalized. Only three people have access—”
“Four, apparently.” Adrian’s smile was sharp with self-recrimination. “Viktor’s intelligence network is more extensive than any of us realized. He didn’t just know about the contracts—he had copies of our correspondence with the Kozlovs, records of payments we thought were untraceable, shipping manifests that should have been destroyed months ago.”
Anka felt the world shift beneath her feet. This wasn’t about business intelligence or competitive advantage. This was about leverage, about power, about having enough ammunition to destroy everything her family had built.
“What does he want?” she asked, though she was beginning to suspect she already knew the answer.
“Compliance,” Adrian said simply. “Complete, unquestioning compliance with whatever demands he chooses to make. He was very clear about the consequences of refusal.”
