Page 58 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

The table is set, the silver gleaming under the low chandelier. Via is already sitting in her chair, her hair tied up in a loose bun, a simple grey sweater falling over her shoulders. She’s picking at her salad, her fork moving the lettuce around the plate in small, distracted circles.

I sit down across from her, my movements stiff. I reach for the water pitcher, my jaw locked.

I want to tell her. I want to tell her that her father’s world is currently being dismantled by the man she saw on the balcony, but I can't. I look at her face, the soft curve of her jaw, the relaxed slope of her shoulders. She finally looks peaceful today. The dark purple mark I left on her neck is still visible, a quiet statement of who she belongs to, and I don't want to ruin that peace with another war.

She sets her fork down with a quiet clink against the porcelain. "Are you planning to eat that steak, or are you just going to stare at it until it confesses to a crime?"

I blink, looking down at my untouched plate, then back up at her. "I’m eating."

"You've been staring at the salt shaker for five minutes, Ilya." She leans back, her hazel eyes narrowing as she scans my face, tracing the tight line of my mouth. "Your jaw is so tight I’m worried you’re going to crack a tooth. What’s going on?"

"Nothing," I say, my voice flat as I pick up my knife. "Just logistics at the docks. Some cargo delays."

"I know what dock business looks like," she says, her tone dipping into that sharp, stubborn register I know so well. "This isn't dock business. You look like you’re trying to decide where to bury a body."

"I’m always deciding where to bury a body, Via," I say, a faint, dry attempt at humor that doesn't quite land. "Eat your dinner. It’s fine."

She stares at me for another long second, her eyes searching mine, but she slowly picks her fork back up, letting out a small, frustrated sigh. "You're a very bad liar, Kovalevskii."

"And you're a very nosy wife," I reply, my chest expanding as I take a slow breath, keeping my eyes on my plate.

She doesn't need to know. The thought is a solid, unyielding decision in my head. I will handle the bank. I will handle Sokolov, the investigator who signed the freeze order. I will pay Petr’s men, and I will keep her father breathing, but she is staying in the dark until the threat is in the ground. I’ll play the cold, silent monster again if it means she gets to sleep through the night.

After dinner, I walk out into the foyer. Dmitri is already waiting by the door, his leather gloves on, his car idling in the wet driveway outside.

"Is the money cleared?" I ask, my voice losing every drop of the awkwardness from the dining room, turning back into the flat, lethal tone of the Pakhan.

"Five million is in the transit vault," Dmitri says, holding the door open. "Petr’s courier is on his way to collect the codes now."

"Good," I growl, pulling my Glock from its holster under my arm to check the chamber. "Now let’s go find this investigator, Sokolov. I want to have a very long, very quiet conversation with him about why he thought it was a good idea to touch Denisov assets."

Dmitri smirks, his boots clicking as we walk out into the pouring rain. "For a guy who hates his father-in-law, you’re a very generous benefactor, Boss."

"Shut up, Dmitri," I say, stepping into the back of the car.

23

VIA

My stomach is mercifully quiet this morning, but my head is a complete disaster.

I’m standing at the top of the grand staircase, my hand resting on the polished banister as I look down into the empty foyer. The house is silent, save for the faint, rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock near the door. I’m wearing a pair of old wool socks, my steps completely silent on the cold marble stairs as I head toward the kitchen to find another mug of Yara's ginger tea.

I pass the half-open door of Ilya’s private study, and the sound of his voice stops me cold.

"I don't care about the risk, Dmitri." His tone is low, gravelly, and carrying that flat, icy weight he uses when he's planning to erase someone from the grid. "The federal freeze is already public. If we don't get the cash to Petr’s courier by noon, his safety detail is going to walk. He’s completely exposed."

I press my back flat against the cold hallway wall, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my oversized black sweater. I hold my breath, my heart hitting my ribs in a fast, uneven rhythm.

"The treasury agents are watching the Zurich accounts." Dmitri’s voice comes through the gap, muffled but clear enough to make my stomach tighten. "If we push five million through the transit route, they’re going to trace the wire straight back to the northern docks. You’re putting a giant red GPS tracker on the old man's head, Ilya. And for what? He’s not even our ally."

"He is her father," Ilya says, the finality in his voice ending the argument before it can even start. "And she doesn't find out about the freeze. If she asks, tell her the lines are down because of the storm. I want her head clear."

I hear the squeak of his leather chair as he stands up, followed by the heavy, familiar thump of his boots heading toward the private side door that leads to the courtyard.

I slide back into the shadows of the arched corridor, my chest tight with a hot, stinging anger that makes my teeth grind.

He lied to my face. Last night at dinner, he sat across from me, chewed his steak, and told me it was just "cargo delays" at the docks. He looked me in the eye and treated me like some fragile little doll he had to keep in a velvet box so I wouldn't shatter. He thinks my father is a liability, and he thinks I’m just a pretty face he can distract with a few fancy kisses and a custom gun.