Irina's face goes pale, her carefully maintained composure cracking for just a moment before she masks it with a tight smile. "Congratulations," she says, her voice slightly strained. "That's… sudden."
"It's necessary," I reply, watching her reaction carefully. There's something in her green eyes I don't quite trust, a calculation that makes my instincts prickle with warning.
Lev leans forward, his dark eyes serious. "Roman, we need to talk about this. Eva is a complication you can't afford right now. With everything happening, you need focus. A wife, especially one who resents you, is a weakness enemies will exploit."
"The discussion is closed," I say, my tone making it clear that I won't tolerate further argument.
Lev's jaw tightens, but he nods. He knows when to push and when to accept my decisions, even when he disagrees. Irina, however, looks like she wants to say something. Her hands clench on her glass, her expression flickering between anger and something darker before she smooths it away.
"Irina," I say, my voice polite but firm. "Thank you for coming, but Lev and I need to discuss business. Privately."
It's a dismissal, and she knows it. She stands with forced grace, her smile brittle. "Of course. Lev, I'll see you at home?"
Lev nods, and I watch Irina leave, her designer heels clicking against the marble floor. When the elevator doors close behind her, I turn to mysovietnik.
"Eva is pregnant," I tell him, the words coming easier now. "That's why the marriage is happening so quickly."
Lev's expression shifts from concern to grim acceptance. He drains his vodka, then meets my gaze with the honesty that's defined our friendship for two decades. "Then we protect her. And the child. Whatever it takes." He pauses, his dark eyes troubled. "But Roman, you're making yourself vulnerable inways you've never been before. I hope you understand what that means."
"I understand," I say, though I'm not sure I do. Not fully. All I know is that the thought of anything happening to Eva or our child makes something primitive and violent surge in my chest. I'd burn this entire city down to keep them safe.
Our conversation shifts to the escalating crisis with the Chinese. Lev pulls out his phone, swiping through intelligence reports. "The gambling operation hit wasn't isolated. The Irish are reporting similar attacks—weapons traced back to our armory, tactics that match our known methods. Someone is systematically destroying your alliances, making it look like you're breaking agreements and expanding aggressively."
"Yakovlev," I say, the name tasting like poison on my tongue.
"Has to be. But we still have no proof." Lev's frustration is evident in the tension of his shoulders. "He's too careful, too smart. Every attack is executed through intermediaries. Every piece of evidence leads to dead ends. We're running out of time before the other families unite against us."
My phone rings, cutting through our discussion. I glance at the screen and my chest tightens—Katya. I answer immediately, switching to Russian. "Sestrichka."
"Roman!" Her voice is warm, bright with happiness. "Thank you so much for the beautiful gift. The icon of Saint Catherine is exquisite. I've placed it in my bedroom, and every time I look at it, I think of you."
My blood runs cold. "What gift?"
"The icon that arrived today. It's postmarked from America, but there was no name attached. I assumed it was from you." Her voice shifts, becomes uncertain. "Roman? You did send it, didn't you?"
I don't answer her question, not wanting to alarm her. "I have to go now. I'll call you tomorrow."
I end the call and look at Lev, who's already on his feet, his expression hard with understanding. He heard enough of the conversation to know something is very wrong.
"I didn't send a gift," I say, my voice flat and cold. "Someone has discovered Katya's existence. Someone knows where she lives. Someone is sending her presents to prove they can reach her anytime they want."
Lev's jaw tightens. "Yakovlev."
"Has to be." I stand, my hands clenched into fists. "He's found my greatest weakness."
27
EVA
The apartment looks like a bomb went off. Half-packed boxes litter every surface, my meager possessions spilling out in chaotic piles that make my chest tighten with something between shame and grief. I fold another sweater—one I've mended twice, the elbows worn thin—and add it to the suitcase on my narrow bed. Everything I own fits into three boxes and two suitcases. Three years in America, and this is all I have to show for it.
Megan hovers in the doorway, her usual sunshine completely eclipsed. She's wearing one of her vintage band T-shirts and high-waisted jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, and the confusion on her face makes my stomach clench with guilt.
"I still don't understand," she says, her voice small in a way that's so unlike her it breaks my heart. "You've known him for three months, Eva. Three months. And now you're moving in with him? Getting married?"
I smooth the sweater with hands that won't quite stop shaking, buying myself time to construct another lie. "The job pays really well, Meg. Roman is… generous. It's a good opportunity."
The words taste like ash on my tongue. I can't tell her the truth—that I'm pregnant with Roman Sokolov's baby, that he's not just my boss but a Pakhan who kills without hesitation, that I'm trapped in a gilded cage of my own desperation. Telling her would put her in danger, make her a target in Roman's world of blood and bullets.
