Page 34 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

She turns away, her bare feet padding softly on the stairs.

I watch her go, my chest expanding as I take a deep, ragged breath. The silence of the basement returns, but everything feels different now. Hotter. Heavy with the scent of her.

"Boss," a voice calls from the corridor.

Oleg, one of the newer enforcers standing guard at the bottom of the stairs, steps into the light. He’s staring up the stairwell where Via just disappeared, his eyes fixed on the tight curve of her black leggings, a slow, greasy smile spreading across his lips. "I have to admit, the Bratva princess has a very nice⁠—"

In a flash of movement, I’m across the room.

I grab Oleg by the throat with my bloody hand, my fingers squeezing his windpipe until his breath leaves him in a sharp, choking gasp. I slam his head back against the stone wall, the impact cracking the plaster behind his skull.

"What did you say?" I rasp, my face inches from his.

Oleg’s eyes go wide with a sudden, wild terror. He tries to claw at my forearm, his legs twitching as he struggles for air. "Ilya... please... I didn't..."

"You look at her again, and I will gouge your eyes out with my bare fingers. You speak her name again, and I will rip your tongue out of your skull and feed it to the dogs. She is your Pakhan’s wife. She is a Kovalevskii. You do not look. You do not speak. You do not exist in her presence. Do you understand me?"

He nods, his face turning a dangerous shade of blue.

I release him, letting him collapse onto the concrete floor in a gasping, coughing heap. I turn to Dmitri, who is standing by the table, his face perfectly blank.

"Remove him from the estate. Send him to the docks. If I see his face in this house again, put him in the river."

"Yes, Boss." Dmitri gestures to two other enforcers, who grab Oleg by the arms and drag him up the stairs, his boots scraping loudly against the stone.

I look back at the table of tools, my hand still shaking slightly from the sudden, violent spike.

I walk back to Grigori, picking up the chisel from the tray. I don't use the hammer. I think of her words—the nerve bundle under the arm.

I slide the iron under his armpit, putting just enough pressure to make his body shake.

"Pavel," Grigori gasps immediately, his eyes bulging as he spits up a fresh wave of pink foam. "Pavel has the ledger! It’s in the safe at the dock office! The combination is twenty-four, twelve, eighty-six!"

I pull the iron back.

"Thank you, Via," I murmur, a cold, dark smile spreading across my lips as I raise my gun.

Grigori goes limp, his head hanging down his chest, his blood dripping silently into the pool on the floor.

I turn and walk out, my boots heavy on the concrete. I need a shower. I need to wash the blood off my hands.

And then, I’m going to find my wife.

I head up the stairs, the cool air of the main floor hitting my face, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the basement. I strip off my blood-stained shirt and leather apron, throwing them into the laundry chute, and step into the master bath. The hot water washes the crimson off my skin, turning the drain water a dark, muddy pink before it clears.

I dress in a fresh black button-down shirt, not bothering to button the collar, and slide my Glock back into its shoulder holster.

She’s in the library.

I find her sitting under the high glass skylight, the pale afternoon sun throwing long, silver bars of light across her face. She has a heavy leather-bound book open in her lap, her fingers slowly tracing the edge of the page. She doesn't look up when I enter, but the sudden tension in her shoulders tells me she knows I’m here.

I stop at the edge of the rug, my hands resting in my pockets. "Ekaterina’s finger is patched?"

"She’s fine. Yara had the antiseptic. It was just a scratch."

"And you?" I step closer, the scent of her vanilla instantly wrapping around me. "How is your head, Via?"

She slowly closes the book, the heavy paper making a dull thud in the quiet room. She looks up at me, her hazel eyes completely steady, though her lower lip has a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor. "My head is perfectly fine, Ilya. I’ve seen my father's men clean the drains before. It takes more than a little red water to make me lose my appetite."