Page 11 of Marrying the Savage

“That is not an answer I enjoy.”

“I know.”

“Then give me what you have.”

“Sofia Antonova. Twenty-four.

I still. “I didn’t know Sergei had a child,” I say.

“He doesn’t.”

“No,” I murmur. “Apparently not.”

“She is Pavel Antonov’s daughter.”

The name enters the car like smoke from an old fire. For a moment, the city outside disappears behind memory.

Pavel Antonov had charm. That was always the most dangerous thing about him. Cruel men announce themselves eventually. Stupid men reveal themselves quickly. But charming men can stand close enough to place a hand on your shoulder while someone else draws the knife.

I was twenty-five when Pavel promised peace between our families.

By midnight, my brother was dead.

Yuri had been twenty-six. Too young, too trusting, too ready to believe a table could be used for negotiation instead of slaughter. He laughed easily. Forgave quickly. Thought my suspicion was bitterness rather than instinct.

The meeting took place in an old warehouse near the river, where damp concrete held the cold and every sound came back twice. Pavel shook my hand. Sergei stood behind him, silent and watchful even then. Ten minutes after the doors were locked, Sokolov gunmen came through the east entrance.

By dawn, Yuri was dead, three of my captains were gone, and the Antonovs had chosen the side that bought them the longest future.

They called it failed diplomacy.

I called it a debt.

Some debts take years to collect properly.

“Pavel had a daughter,” I say.

“Yes.”

“How did I not know that?”

“She was kept away from the business. After Pavel and his wife died, Sergei became her guardian. Private tutors first. Then school abroad. She has only returned to Moscow visibly in the last year.”

“Visibly enough to be married off.”

“Yes.”

The driver glances once in the mirror, waiting for instruction. I give a small nod, and the car pulls away from the curb. The restaurant disappears behind us.

The girl does not.

I see her again too clearly. Pale blue dress. Dark hair loose around her shoulders. Pearl earrings. A mouth that doesn’t know how to stay obedient. She looked wrong beside Sokolov, not because innocence belongs untouched—innocence is a fragile myth, and our world breaks it early—but because he looked at her as though she had already been filed under his name.

“Her parents,” I say. “You said they died.”

“Car accident, officially.”

“And unofficially?”