"Kira Nevolina," he says. "Or should I say Kira Orlova now." He chuckles. "Your father must be very proud."
"He is," Kira says. That smile again. Perfect. Rehearsed. "Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Malekonosh."
Gregor leans closer. "The council looks forward to good news," he murmurs. His gaze flicks between us. Lands on Kira's stomach for a fraction of a second. "Soon."
Then he straightens, pats my shoulder like I'm a dog that performed a trick, and walks away.
The fury I've been holding since Artem's study four days ago surges up my spine. My fist tightens under the table. My jaw locks.
Kira's hand settles on my forearm.
I go still.
Her touch is light. Barely there. Her eyes stay forward, her expression unchanged, and anyone watching would think she was simply resting her hand on her husband's arm. A natural gesture. A wifely gesture.
But her thumb presses gently against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point, and holds.
I look at her.
She doesn't look at me. But her thumb stays where it is, steady and warm, and I feel my fist loosen by a fraction.
She felt it. She felt my rage building, and instead of pulling away, she reached for me.
I don't know what to do with that, so I do nothing. I sit beside my bride, her hand on my arm, and I stare straight ahead and try to figure out how this woman I've known for three hours just read me better than anyone has in years.
The reception winds down. People leave in quiet pairs and clusters, the way they always do at Bratva events. No lingering. No drunken speeches. Just handshakes and nods and cars pulling away into the dark.
Artem stops by our table with Elena on his way out. He looks at me, then at Kira, then back at me.
"Take care of her," he says quietly.
It's not a request. But it's not an order either. It's something in between. Something that sounds almost like a plea.
I nod once.
Then it's just us. Me and my wife, sitting at a table covered in untouched food and half-empty glasses, in a room that smells like champagne and obligation.
"We should go," I say.
Kira stands. Smooths her dress. Folds her hands in front of her.
"I'm ready," she says.
And she follows me out into the night without a single question about where we're going.
Kira
His home is not what I expected.
I'm not sure what I expected. Something cold, maybe. Glass and steel and sharp edges to match the man. But the house Anton brings me to is old. Brick and dark wood, set back from the road behind iron gates that open silently as his car approaches. There are trees lining the drive, bare-branched in the late autumn cold, and warm light glowing from the downstairs windows.
Someone left the lights on for us. That small detail lodges in my chest and stays there.
Anton parks and comes around to open my door. He doesn't offer his hand this time. Just steps back and waits for me to get out, then walks toward the front entrance without checking to see if I'm following.
I follow. That's what I was taught to do.
Inside, the house smells like wood polish and something faintly herbal. Rosemary, maybe. The entryway is wide, with dark hardwood floors and a staircase that curves up to the second level. It's clean but lived in. There are books stacked on a side table, a pair of shoes by the door that someone kicked off in a hurry, a coat draped over the banister.
