The sixth was different.
The cursor hovered over the icon labeled "West Wing Guest Room, Second Floor." I clicked.
The screen flickered, then displayed a clear image of the woman who'd just moved in.
She wasn't unpacking. She stood in the middle of that massive four-poster bed, arms spread wide, turning in slow circles like she was measuring her new territory. Then she did something completely unexpected—launched herself onto the mattress and started bouncing. The same woman who'd worn that plunging green dress at the wedding, who'd looked ready to devour Derek alive, was now dressed in a faded oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, bouncing like an overgrown kid.
I leaned back in my leather chair, fingers tapping the armrest absently.
I shouldn't be watching this. This was an invasion of privacy, unethical. Logic said I should shut it down immediately, hand the monitoring over to the security team instead of lurking in the shadows like some pervert.
But I didn't close it.
On screen, she flopped face-first into the pillows, nuzzled them, then shot up and grabbed that beat-up paper notebook, scribbling frantically. Probably documenting her observations of this "gangster den."
A low chuckle escaped my throat.
The last shred of suspicion—wondering if she was a spy sent by enemies—evaporated completely. No professional assassin would bounce on a bed with such a complete lack of awareness. She was just crazy. That's all.
And I just happened to be a man who enjoyed watching her lose her mind. For security purposes, of course.
The encrypted satellite phone on my desk vibrated, interrupting the little circus on screen. Caller ID: Father.
I picked up. Said nothing.
"Nikolai." Peter Volkov's voice came through, low, barely maintaining surface calm. "I heard you sent me a veryspecial gift."
"You received it. Good. Means delivery time was satisfactory." My tone stayed flat, eyes never leaving the screen. Vivienne was attacking the remote, jabbing buttons like she wanted to dismantle it.
"You think this is a joke?" His voice rose. "You're challenging me."
"I'm dealing with a mole," I said evenly. "That's the Pakhan's job. If anyone has a problem with it, it means they're guilty."
Two seconds of silence on the other end.
"I'm not talking about that," Peter's voice dropped again, but the darkness underneath was more obvious now. "I'm talking about that woman. Vivienne Cole. Where did you find her? Did you even check her background? She's just—"
"Clean background," I cut him off. "No political connections in Washington. Much cleaner than all those candidates you've shoved at me over the years."
"She's a civilian! Some nobody poor girl!" The disdain in his voice was unstoppable. "Is she worthy? You're the Pakhan of the Volkov family. Your wife should be someone who matches your status."
"My life doesn't need anyone's input, including yours, dear Father." I leaned back, fingers stroking the black onyx cufflink at my wrist. "Vivienne Cole is my woman now. In three days, I'll formally introduce her. As for those puppets the Council sent over, you can keep them as mistresses."
"You're testing my limits."
"No," my attention was drawn back to the feed. Vivienne was closing the heavy curtains. Maybe I should tell her they're motorized, remote's in the first drawer of the nightstand. "I'm exercising a Pakhan's rightful authority. If you think that's a challenge, you've misjudged your current position."
Deadly silence on the other end. Then a massive crash mixed with a roar as he slammed down the phone.
I looked at the disconnected screen, raised an eyebrow, and tossed the phone back on the desk. Same old bastard. Hangs up every time he can't win an argument. No growth whatsoever.
I called Sophia to show Vivienne around her room, then shut down the computer and started on paperwork.
Sophia knocked at six sharp.
"Sir, dinner is ready," she came in and collected the glass from my desk corner. "Ms. Cole is waiting downstairs."
I capped my pen, stood. "Got it."
