Page 48 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

"They're getting lazy," I grunt, rubbing my temple. The bandage on my shoulder is itching, a dull sting under my shirt. "With Russo quiet at the border, they think they can take three-hour lunch breaks. I want them sharp."

"You want to prove you’re still the boss," Dmitri corrects, a faint, dry amusement in his voice. "Because you spent the entire morning watching your wife dig in the dirt."

I glare at him, my jaw clenching. "She’s a captive, Dmitri. Don't start."

"She’s a captive who has you buying tomato seeds," he says, stepping away from the cabinet and pulling a small, glossy catalog from his jacket pocket. He tosses it onto the desk. "Yara told me you wanted to buy her something. Since you don't know anything about jewelry that doesn't involve laundering money, I thought I’d help. The emerald necklace was nice, but it’s a bit formal for a girl who likes to wear your oversized sweaters."

I pick up the catalog, my thumb flipping through the pages of diamonds, sapphires, and platinum bands. They look useless. Thin, fragile things that would break the first time she tried to throw a shoe at my head.

"These are stupid," I say, tossing the booklet back. "She has enough diamonds. Her father gave her boxes of them."

"Then what do you want to get her?" Dmitri scratches his jaw, his brow furrowing. "Perfume? Silk? A car she can't drive because she’s not allowed past the gates?"

"A gun," I say, my voice flat.

Dmitri freezes, his hand dropping to his side. He stares at me for three long seconds, waiting for the punchline, but my face doesn't change. "A gun. You want to buy your kidnapped Bratva bride... a weapon."

"She needs to know how to protect herself," I say, leaning back in my chair. "If someone gets past the perimeter, if I’m not there, I want her to be able to put a bullet in a man's chest without flinching. She has the stomach for it. She watched Grigori flayed and didn't even blink."

"Ilya, she’s a Denisov," Dmitri says, a low, skeptical rumble in his throat. "If you give her a loaded weapon, the first person she’s going to shoot is you."

"She won't," I say, though a sudden, dark amusement flares in my chest at the thought. "She’s too smart to ruin her only protector. What do you have in the armory?"

Dmitri sighs, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He scrolls through the digital inventory, his face shadowed with a mixture of disbelief and genuine amusement. "We have the standard Glocks. The Walther PPK is light, but the recoil is snappy for someone with small hands. Or I can call the custom shop in Munich."

"Call Munich," I direct, my index finger tapping the desk. "I want something customized. Small caliber. Nine-millimeter, but with a titanium frame to keep it light. The grip needs to be smaller. She has tiny hands. And tell them to engrave the slide."

"With what?" Dmitri looks up, his thumb pausing on the screen. "Your initials? 'Property of Kovalevskii'?"

"No," I growl, my eyes narrowing. "Just her name. Viallentinka. In cursive. And make the grip walnut wood."

"Walnut wood," Dmitri repeats, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm as he types. "Very romantic, Pakhan. I’m sure she’ll cherish it forever."

"Get out," I grunt.

He walks toward the door but stops before he opens it, looking back over his shoulder. "If she shoots you, I’m taking the Mercedes."

The box arrives the next afternoon. It’s a sleek, velvet-lined case made of dark cherry wood, the brass hinges polished to a high shine. I take it up to the master suite, my boots silent on the plush carpet.

Via is sitting on the window bench, a book open in her lap, her golden hair tied up in a loose, messy bun. She’s wearing another one of my grey shirts, the hem falling over her bare knees. She looks up when I enter, her eyes instantly tracking the heavy box in my hands.

"If that’s another formal gown, you can leave it by the door," she says, her voice light, though her shoulders tense slightly as I walk closer. "I’m not dressing up tonight unless we’re expecting a visit from the governor."

I stop in front of the bench, setting the cherry wood box on her knees. "It’s not a dress."

She looks at the box, her brow furrowing as she traces the brass latch with her finger. She slides the lock back, the brass clicking softly, and lifts the lid.

She freezes.

The custom Sig Sauer P365 rests on the dark red velvet. The titanium slide is polished to a dull, silver-grey sheen, her name, Viallentinka, engraved in elegant, clean script along the side. The custom walnut grip is rich and dark, carved with fine, cross-hatched lines to prevent slipping.

She stares at it for a long time, her mouth opening slightly, her eyes shifting from the gun to my face. "Ilya... is this..."

"It’s a nine-millimeter," I say, my voice flat. "Ten-round capacity. The safety is manual, right by the thumb. I had the grip shaved down to fit your hand."

She lets out a short, incredulous laugh, her fingers hovering over the steel but not touching it. "You bought me a gun. You…You didn't think flowers or chocolate were appropriate?"

"Flowers die," I say, my arms crossed over my chest. "And chocolate won't stop a Russo enforcer or Mikhail from dragging you out of your bed. Pick it up."