Chapter 42
Zoya
Six weeks have passed since I took the chair.
Six weeks of meticulously dismantling the codes in the ledger and getting enough dirt on every major player in this city and beyond to bury them.
Daddy was thorough. Ruthless. Brutal. He gave me everything I needed to be feared and to make it in this world as a woman.
It still rankles with me, but it is what it is.
Bratva. A Brotherhood. With a sister now running the show. It’s… interesting.
It has also brought someone to my office who scares the living crap out of me.
The older gentleman, handsome, light-haired, sits in a chair opposite my desk, staring at me with pale blue eyes.
He is a top advisor to the Kremlin. How he even got into the country at this time is a mystery best left untouched.
He speaks not a word of English, so conducting this conversation in my Mother tongue—which I am fluent in, but perhaps not so much on a formal conversational level—will be draining.
“You are stronger than you look,” he says after a minute of terse silence after our greetings, pleasantries and proffered cups of tea.
“Looks can be deceiving,” I reply. “That is why you should never judge a book by its cover.”
He smiles. I think. It’s hard to tell. “We did not expect you to survive the first hour.”
I return the smile with a slightly sinister one as my suspicions have been confirmed. “Your ambush was dramatic.”
“So was your response to it.”
“You send a giant to kill me, I will use any means necessary to stay alive.” I keep Roman and Laszlo out of this. They are not part of this conversation.
“And that is why you are an asset. Mikhail warned us. We proceeded anyway.”
“Of course. You have to test the new girl, right?”
“We have to test the girl. New, old, it makes no difference.”
I grit my teeth at the sexism. I knew what I was getting into.
“What do you plan to do with the information you are… collecting?”
Ah. There it is. The real reason for this impromptu visit. The ledger.
“I plan to use this information to ensure I stay alive and in position as head of the Antonov family.”
“Leverage.”
“Precisely. I will not use it for any other reason than to secure myself. Moscow has my word.”
His eyes darken at the M-word, but I lift my chin higher. It’s not like it’s a fucking secret.
He turns as Katya enters the room with a tray of Printsesa Nuri tea. “Katya,” he murmurs, his gaze skating over her fuller figure in a way that makes me raise my eyebrow.
“Vlad,” she snaps, trying not to eye roll. I know her too well.
The porcelain clatters softly as Katya places the tray on the desk, the sound sharp enough to slice through the tension. She doesn’t look at him, but her knuckles are white as she arranges the cups.
“It has been a long time, Ekaterina,” Vlad says, his voice dropping an octave, losing its diplomatic polish.
“Not long enough,” she replies, her tone flat enough to iron one of Roman’s shirts.
She pours the tea without spilling a drop, though I detect the tremor in her wrist she tries to hide.
She straightens, smoothing her apron, and turns on her heel.
“Sugar is in the bowl. Arsenic is in the cupboard if you overstay your welcome.”
She exits before he can respond, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
Vladimir chuckles, a dry, humourless sound, and reaches for his cup. “She always did have a sharp tongue. It will get her killed one day.”
“Not any time soon.”
“No, she is a survivor…. like her father.”
We lock gazes for a moment too long. Neither of us says anything about Sergei’s recent jailbreak.
Eventually, I break the silence, hating myself for being the one. But sitting here on the edge of a knife I’m not holding isn’t a pleasant experience. “Do you have what you came for?”
He takes a long, slow sip of his tea and then replaces the cup on the tray. “I believe so.”
“Then our business is concluded for now.”
He stands, smoothing his suit jacket with a precise, clinical movement. “Keep your leverage close, Zoya Melina. But do not mistake a shield for a weapon. One protects; the other provokes.”
“I understand the difference,” I reply, rising to meet him eye to eye. I won’t let him see me sweat, even though the back of my dress is damp against my skin.
He offers a curt nod, a predator acknowledging another’s savagery, and turns to the door. He leaves, and the air in the room instantly loses its chill. I exhale, bracing my hands on the desk to stop them from trembling.
The door opens again almost immediately, but the energy shifts from icy threat to scorching heat. Roman steps inside, his gaze sweeping the room for threats before landing on me. He looks ready to burn the city down if I give the word.
“He’s gone,” I say, sinking back into the leather chair that still feels too big for me. “It’s fine.”
“Did he threaten you?” Roman crosses the room in three strides, coming around the desk to grip the arms of my chair, boxing me in. His knuckles are white.
“He assessed me. There is a difference.” I reach up, tracing the line of his jaw. “He was here to make sure I don’t use the ledger to bury every last Bratva family in the UK.”
“That is not its purpose,” he murmurs.
“I agree. But we have one last box. You ready?”
“Baron’s. Box 88. Barclays Mayfair. A. I’m ready to see what he has on my old man.”
He takes my hand and helps me stand. I grab my bag and coat as he pulls me towards the door.
“Katya? We have an errand to run.”
“Go. I see you later,” she calls back from the townhouse kitchen.
Outside, the sun is attempting to make an appearance as we slide into the Evoque. Roman drives, and I don’t complain. I’m nervous. This could be deadly.
Traffic crawls along, a river of red brake lights that matches the warning signs flashing in my head. I stare out at the tourists dodging black cabs, wondering if any of them carry secrets heavy enough to sink a dynasty.
Roman’s hand leaves the steering wheel and settles on my thigh. His thumb strokes the fabric of my dress, a rhythmic anchor in the chaos.
“You’re quiet,” he says, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Always checking. Always guarding.
“It’s your father, Roman. If this destroys him...”
“Baron is made of granite and old sins,” he replies, his voice void of sentiment. “If Mikhail had dirt on him, it was likely mutual assurance. We open it, we deal with it.”
We park on a side street. Roman opens my door, and I step out, smoothing my coat. He offers his arm, and I take it, the solid heat of him seeping through the layers.
Barclays is busy, and we wait our turn impatiently.
We navigate the security protocols with the ease of people who belong in vaults.
The private viewing room smells of beeswax and silence. When the clerk places the long metal drawer on the table and retreats, the door clicks shut like a guillotine.
“Ready?” I ask.
He nods.
I flip the lid and wince, expecting it to blow up in my face.
When it doesn’t, I peer at the contents. A small black velvet ring box and a document underneath.
Roman and I exchange a glance.
He reaches for the box, picks it up, and I lift the document to read it.
“Okay. Now we know what A stands for.” I say with a wry smile.
“Oh?”
“Arranged marriage. Did you know about this?” I turn it around to show him the contract between my father and his.
Roman chuckles. “No, but I guess it makes sense.” He opens the box and turns it around to show me.
My breath catches in my throat. “My mother’s ring.”
I stare at the emerald-cut diamond nestled in the velvet. My throat tightens. The contract sits limply in my hand.
“Irony has a sick sense of humour,” I murmur, running a finger over the ink signatures. Mikhail Antonov. Baron Voronov. Dated five years ago.
Roman plucks the ring from the box. He doesn’t look at the paper. He only has eyes for me. He takes my hand and slips the ring on my finger.
“Aren’t you even going to ask?”
He smirks, but it’s tinged with that darkness that thrills me. “I take, malyshka. I don’t ask.”
The metal warms against my skin in seconds, claiming its place like it belongs there. I stare at the diamond, a prism trapping the sterile bank light. My mother wore this when she signed school forms and hosted dinner parties. Now it is mine.
“Possessive,” I murmur, but my fingers curl to keep it there.
“You know this about me already,” he says, lifting my hand to press a kiss to the pulse at my wrist. His eyes burn blue and unrepentant. “The paper means nothing. The ink is dry, but the blood is wet. We chose this.”
He is right. Our fathers traded us like cattle five years ago, unaware that we would turn into wolves and devour the herd before we let anyone else hold the leash. I crumple the document and shove it into my coat pocket. It’s a relic. The ring is a promise.
“Box eighty-eight closed,” I whisper.
“And the ledger?”
“Finished, but not forgotten.”
He nods, sharp and definitive. We step out of the vault, leaving the ghosts of arranged futures behind in the dark. The clerk offers a polite nod that we ignore. Outside, Mayfair bustles with people who think power is money.
I take Roman’s arm, the diamond flashing a warning to anyone looking. We know better. Power is the man beside me and the army waiting for my command.
They can come for my crown if they want, but my king is already beside me, and together we don’t lose.