I nearly choke on my coffee. Matvey rarely speaks, and when he does, it's usually one or two words. For him to offer an opinion, especially one that goes against what I want, is significant.
"You think it's a good idea?" I demand.
He nods once. "Best we have."
Mariya's face lights up with vindication. "See? Even Matvey agrees."
I glare at my sovietnik, but he just shrugs and goes back to eating. Traitor.
"Fine," I say, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "We'll do it. But we do it my way."
Mariya's smile is brilliant, and despite my fear, I feel something warm settle in my chest. She's happy. Relieved. And fuck if that doesn't make me want to give her anything she asks for.
"Thank you," she says softly.
I grunt in response and finish my coffee. My mind is already working through logistics and how to keep her as safe as possible while still making the trap believable. It's going to take careful planning. Precise execution. And a whole lot of fucking luck.
After breakfast, I lead Mariya down to the basement. Not to the interrogation room, but to another section she hasn't seen yet. The shooting range.
It's a long room with concrete walls and soundproofing. Targets are set up at various distances, and a gun cabinet lines one wall. I unlock it and pull out a Glock 19, checking the magazine before handing it to her.
"If you're going to be bait, you need to know how to protect yourself," I say. "Have you ever fired a gun?"
She takes the weapon, her fingers wrapping around the grip with surprising confidence. "My father taught me."
Of course he did. Yegor Pushkin wouldn't send his daughter into the world without making sure she could defend herself. But knowing how to hold a gun and actually being able to hit a target are two different things.
"Show me," I say, gesturing to the range.
She moves to the firing line, her stance perfect, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, and arms extended. She sights down the barrel, her breathing steady, and then she fires.
The shot echoes through the room, and I watch as the target at the far end jerks. Dead center. Right in the chest.
She fires again. And again. Five shots, five perfect hits. All center mass.
I stare at her, my mouth slightly open. "Fuck."
She lowers the gun and turns to me with a smirk. "My father was very thorough."
"I can see that." I move closer, taking the gun from her and setting it on the counter. "You're better than half my men."
"I had a good teacher." Her expression softens. "He wanted to make sure I could take care of myself. That I'd never have to rely on anyone else for protection."
The irony isn't lost on me. Yegor trained his daughter to be independent and strong, and now she's married to a Bratva boss who wants nothing more than to keep her locked away where she's safe.
"Come on," I say, taking her hand. "There's something else I want to show you."
The gym is on the main floor, a large room with weights, machines, and a matted area for sparring. I've been looking forward to this since the moment she stabbed me in that alley. I want to see what she can really do. I want to test her skills against mine.
"We're going to spar," I tell her, moving to the center of the mat.
Her eyes light up, and she grins. Actually grins, like I've just offered her a present. "Really?"
"Really." I pull off my shirt, tossing it aside. "Show me what you've got."
She strips off her sweater, leaving her in just a sports bra and leggings that hug her ass so perfectly, I have to force myself to focus. This is about fighting. About seeing her skills. Not about how fucking incredible her body looks.
We circle each other, both of us assessing, looking for weaknesses. She moves with the grace of someone who's trained extensively, her body balanced and ready.
