She smiles, and I notice how her curves fill out the modest dress she's wearing. She's an attractive woman, there's no denying that. But attraction isn't enough. It's never been enough.
"I was thinking we might attend the charity gala next month," she continues. "It would be good for our families to be seen together. Father thinks it would send the right message to the other families."
Of course he does. Bogdan Belyaev has been pushing for this union for years now, ever since I made the mistake of telling him I'd "think about it" when he first proposed the match. That was three years ago, and I'm still thinking. Or at least, that's what I tell him.
The truth is, I've already made up my mind. Sophia is nice enough. She's intelligent, though she hides it well, trained from birth to be the perfect Bratva wife. She believes in family and tradition, all the things a Pakhan should want in a wife. On paper, she's perfect.
In reality, she bores me to tears.
"Perhaps," I say noncommittally, setting down my coffee cup. "We'll see what my schedule looks like."
She nods, accepting my non-answer with the grace she's been taught. "Of course. I understand you're very busy."
We sit in silence for a moment, and I resist the urge to check my watch. It's only been twenty minutes since she arrived, but it feels like hours. I search for something, anything, to talk about that might make this less painful.
"How is your father?" I ask, immediately regretting it when her face lights up.
"Oh, he's well. Very well. He was just saying the other day how much he's looking forward to…" She trails off, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Well, to future developments."
Future developments. Right. Like a wedding that's never going to happen.
I'm saved from having to respond when the library door opens and Matvey steps inside. Mysovietnikis an imposing figureat six-foot-three, his long black hair pulled back in its usual ponytail, the scar on his right cheek a reminder of battles past. His dark eyes meet mine, and I see something there that makes my pulse quicken. News. Important news. A chance to get out of this boring ass meeting with Sophia.
"Pakhan," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "Business."
I'm on my feet before he finishes the word. "Excuse me, Sophia. I'm afraid duty calls."
She stands as well, smoothing down her dress. "Of course. I understand. Perhaps we can continue our conversation another time?"
"Perhaps," I say, already moving toward the door. I feel a twinge of guilt at my eagerness to escape, but not enough to slow me down.
Matvey and I walk down the hallway toward my office, our footsteps echoing on the marble floors. I don't ask him what this is about. Not here, where anyone might overhear. The estate is secure, but I didn't become Pakhan by being careless.
Once we're inside my office with the door closed behind us, I turn to face him. "What is it?"
"Informant," Matvey says, getting straight to the point as always. He's never been one for unnecessary words. "At the warehouse. He might know about Pushkin."
My heart slams against my ribs. "Yegor Pushkin?"
Matvey nods once.
I move to the window, looking out over the grounds of my estate. Nine years. It's been nine years since that bastard testifiedagainst several Bratva families and then vanished like smoke. My family wasn't one of the ones he testified against, but that doesn't matter. What matters is what he did before that. What matters is the massacre.
I close my eyes and I'm seventeen again, standing in my mother's bedroom, staring at her body. At my sister's body. Both of them gunned down in what everyone said was retaliation, a war between families that got out of hand. But I've never believed that. The massacre twelve years ago was too organized, too thorough, entire families wiped out in a single night. That kind of coordination takes planning. It takes someone with connections, with knowledge of security systems and guard rotations.
Someone like Yegor Pushkin.
And then there are my family's heirlooms. Icons and jewelry that had been passed down through generations, worth a fortune, both financially and sentimentally. They disappeared around the same time as the massacre. Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidences.
"How reliable is this informant?" I ask, turning back to Matvey.
He shrugs, a slight movement of his massive shoulders. "Unknown, but I think he's worth checking."
He's right. Even the smallest lead is worth following when it comes to Pushkin. I've had men searching for him for years, chasing shadows and rumors across two continents. Every lead has gone cold. Every trail has ended in nothing.
But maybe this time will be different.
"Let's go," I say, grabbing my jacket from the back of my chair.
