Page 36 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"Is that so?" Elena pipes up, her eyes wide. "We heard the western docks were having... issues with labor unions."

Elena I know from the comprehensive list Yara made for me about all I need to know about the Mafia wives.

"Oh, it was nothing." I wave a hand dismissively, laughing. "Just a few people who didn't understand who they were working for. It’s been resolved."

I spend the next hour weaving through the room, dropping small, curated pieces of information, listening to them complain about their husbands, their homes, their boredom. It’s exhausting, but I can see the gears turning in their heads. They’re sizing me up, deciding whether I’m just a pretty face or someone they need to worry about.

I’m reaching for another glass of champagne when I feel him.

My father.

My father finds me near the edge of the dance floor. He doesn't say a word, just pulls me into a hug that feels like it’s trying to hold me together. For a few seconds, I forget where we are. I forget the dress, the cameras, and the monster standing ten feet away. I just bury my face in the wool of my father’s coat and breathe, his familiar scent, cedar and old paper, the only thing that feels real.

"I’m going to kill him," my father whispers into my hair. His voice is a low, shaking rasp, and I can feel the hard shape of a pistol holstered under his jacket against my ribs. "I have men at every exit. We don't have to leave this room with him alive."

"Don't," I choke out, pulling back to look at his face. He’s white, his eyes burning with a desperate, self-destructive rage. "Papa, look at me. He’s not a man you can just shoot. He’s a monster. If you pull that trigger, you won't leave this building. And he’ll make sure I’m the last thing you see before you die."

The air pressure in the room shifts. Ilya is there. He moves into my father’s line of sight without a sound.

My father’s hand snaps to his jacket, dragging the pistol out. He levels it directly at Ilya’s forehead, his finger white on the trigger. Ilya doesn't blink. He clears his holster in a blur, his own weapon leveled at my father’s skull.

The ballroom goes dead silent. The music keeps playing, but the world has narrowed down to the three of us and the twin circles of black steel staring each other down.

I don't think. I just move.

I throw myself between them, my hands splayed against Ilya’s chest, my back pressed hard against my father’s gun.

"If you want to kill him, you have to go through me!" I scream, the sound raw and tearing. I look up at Ilya, then back at my father, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Papa, stop! I’m with him because I want to be!"

My father stares at me, his eyes wide. "Via, don't lie for him. He’s holding you hostage."

"He isn't!" I turn to Ilya, grab the lapels of his tuxedo, and pull him down. I kiss him, hard and desperate, pouring every ounce of the "perfect wife" performance I have into the touch. My heart is screaming in terror, but I keep my eyes open, looking over Ilya’s shoulder at my father, pleading with him to believe the lie.

Ilya doesn't pull away. He leans into it, his hand clamping onto the back of my neck, his gun arm lowering just an inch.

My father’s shoulders slump. The gun in his hand wavers, then slowly lowers toward the floor. He looks at me, his face a mask of grief and confusion. "If you think this is a game, Kovalevskii... if you think you can play with her heart like it’s some trophy... I will come for you. I don't care if I die for it. I will see you in the ground."

Ilya’s gun clicks back into its holster. "I don't play with what is mine, Petr. You have my word."

I let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension in my limbs turning to water. Danger solved. Just get him out of here, and I can survive the night.

But the silence doesn't last.

A rhythmic pop of suppressed gunfire erupts from the lobby. The sound is muffled, but unmistakable. Then, a scream.

My head snaps toward the balcony.

There, standing in the shadows of the velvet curtains, is a man in a charcoal suit. He’s looking down at the ballroom, his gaze shifting from group to group, his movements slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly familiar.

Mikhail.

The air leaves my lungs in a violent rush. The room begins to tilt, the lights blurring into bright, dizzying streaks. He’s dead. I saw him die. My hand slips from the stem of my champagne glass. It hits the marble floor with a sharp, shattering sound. I’m falling, the world pulling the rug out from under me, the darkness rushing up to swallow me whole.

Then, two hands are there.

They’re solid, massive, and rough, catching me before I can hit the ground. A steel band of an arm wraps around my waist, pulling me hard against a chest that feels like a stone wall.

"Via."