Page 48 of His Contract Queen

Flaunting my status as one of the four sitting members has always been a weapon I wield with confidence. I’ve done it frequently in the past, though not out of vanity. I’m sure half of Moscow thinks it is, but in reality it’s quite the opposite.

It’s a reminder that when sitting down for a negotiation, the man in front of them isn’t simply a Pakhan of a formidable Bratva behind him. My reach extends far beyond the underground. Far beyond the ports, the warehouses, the back rooms where deals are struck and large sums are exchanged.

In reality, I have direct influence over how Moscow, and Russia in general, runs.

Wars that never make the news but change borders overnight. Foreign trade deals signed in hotel suites at three in the morning. Government shake-ups that look organic to the public but were orchestrated six months earlier over shared cigars and a stiff drink. Ally negotiations that decide who sits in which alliance for the next term.

All of it is within my command if I so will it. And I have more times than most people realize.

Katerina is watching me now with that unnerving patience she’s developed over the last week. The fire pops behind her, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The sound is the only thing louder than my own pulse in my ears.

As liberating as it may feel to finally talk to someone outside my world about the Pact and all of its inner workings, someone who isn’t one of the four men who already knows exactly how deep the water is, I don’t know if she’s ready to hear the rest.

Most intelligent people carry a healthy skepticism toward their governments. They read leaked cables, scroll throughanonymous forums, roll their eyes at official press releases that sound way too fishy to be accurate, and tell themselves they’ve figured it all out after a few hours of research.

Conspiracy theories are popular now more than ever. Half the internet runs on them. People love the idea of a secret shadow government hiding behind the puppets that have been placed at center stage. It makes the chaos in this world feel less random if there was something to blame bad policy on.

Knowing your government keeps secrets is one thing, but coming face-to-face with one of the men behind the curtain pulling the strings is another thing entirely.

My goal is to be honest with her, not scare her. I could give her the sanitized version. She’d accept it. She’d nod, file it away, and we’d move on to the next phase of planning her father’s social autopsy. No harm done. No bridges burned.

“There is an… unofficial ruling body that keeps most syndicates from tearing each other apart.” I slowly say.

Her eyes narrow slowly as she processes my words. “What’s that mean, ‘an unofficial ruling body’? Like a secret society?”

I can feel my face pinch.

The muscles around my mouth tighten involuntarily into a small grimace I can’t quite suppress. I’ve always hated that description with the kind of bone-deep irritation that comes from hearing the same lazy shorthand repeated for years by people who think they’ve glimpsed the truth from some internet forum but have barely seen past the wall of their own basement.

In a general sense, onecouldmake an argument that is exactly what we are.

Without access to the war room at Malyshko’s estate and hearing the hours of ruthless debates that decide everything that happens in the next project quarter, I would believe something similar too. Four men in expensive suits with enough money to be given the authority to decide the fate of millions with none of them being the wiser.

Any one in her position would feel the same way.

In reality, it is so, so much more.

I exhale slowly through my nose. “No.”

She tilts her head slightly, waiting. When I don’t continue immediately, she waves her hand at me in a small, impatient gesture for me to go on. “Then, what is it?”

I choose my next words carefully. “Most often it keeps the major syndicates within the city from tearing each other apart.”

The soft, absent circles she makes on the side of the glass cease. She sets the tumbler down in front of her, the clink of crystal against wood unnaturally loud in the quiet that has suddenly descended over the room.

“Most often means there are times when the focus is on other things.” She says.

Right now, a part of me is highly regretting encouraging that damn insatiable curiosity.

I suppose I should have anticipated this.

Katerina has never been content with surface answers. She digs until she reaches something worth examining. It’s one of the things I first noticed about her after she arrived at my estate.That same relentless need to understand has only sharpened since then and now it’s being turned on me.

“I suppose that’s a fair statement,” I concede.

Her expression changes subtly as the seconds tick past. Her brows pull together just enough to form the faint line between them that typically appears when she’s thinking hard. The corner of her mouth tugs down into an almost-frown. Not anger or disappointment, frustration most likely. She knows the truth is being dangled just out of reach and resents that I’m the one holding it back.

She pushes her chair back and lifts herself to her feet.