The bride my half-brother threw aside.
The woman I met on a plane, fucked in Moscow, lost in blood and smoke, then spent four years thinking about like a weakness I would eventually bury.
Mikhail studies my face carefully. “Boss?”
I force myself to breathe.
Then I ask the only question left that matters in this moment.
“Does Andrei know?”
Mikhail’s answer is immediate. “No. Or if he suspects, he’s had nothing solid. The rumor stayed buried because Markov buried it. And because nobody wanted to be the man spreading gossip about Lev’s bastard children after the Moscow fallout.”
“Who the fuck invited children?” I say.
Even Mikhail frowns. “I’m not sure but I can get them to leave.”
“The children stay exactly where they are,” I say. “No one goes near them unless I do.”
Mikhail follows my line of sight.
Then, in a lower voice, “You’re sure?”
That almost earns him a look.
Almost.
Instead, I say, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
He nods and slips away into the crowd.
The room is loud again when I let myself hear it. Glasses clinking. Women laughing. Men lying through their teeth in low voices. Music from the quartet near the far wall.
All of it feels thin now. Pointless.
Across the floor, Sergei Markov sees me watching his grandson.
The old man’s expression does not change, but I see the calculation settle deeper behind his eyes. The bastard is planning something. I don’t know what, but I intend to find out.
I start walking again.
This time, there is no hesitation in me at all.
15
KATERINA
By the timethe first hour passes, I hate everyone in the room.
I know within ten minutes that bringing the children here was a mistake.
Not because anything obvious happens. No one raises a voice. No one pulls a gun. No one even looks surprised to see a four-year-old boy standing beside Sergei Markov in a little dark suit.
That’s exactly the problem.
The room takes Nikolai in too easily.
Men glance at him and then glance at my father. Women smile at Sofia because she’s bright and pretty and impossible not to notice, but their eyes always come back to Nikolai. He’s quieter. More serious. He stands close to me, one hand on my dress, his face solemn in that way people always find charming until they start imagining futures for him.
