Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Nikolai
I pushed through the heavy black walnut double doors of my study and hung my coat on the rack by the entrance.
Afternoon sunlight poured through the tall stained glass windows in the hallway, scattering patches of color across the floor. From last night until now, dealing with my impulsively acquired "wife," I'd barely slept.
I rubbed my throbbing temples, walked to the bar, and poured myself a finger of chilled vodka. The liquor slid down my throat with that familiar burning sensation, finally jolting me awake from a night of tedious meetings and endless profit calculations.
Glass in hand, I settled behind my desk. My fingers drummed the surface before landing on the specially encrypted military-grade laptop.
Boot up. Password.
I didn't pull up Sasha's latest report on the South District cleanup. Instead, something made me type in a different command sequence. Six live feeds popped up on screen, casting a cold glow. Five showed standard security footage from around the estate.
The sixth was different.
The cursor hovered over the icon labeled "West Wing Guest Room, Second Floor." I clicked.
The screen flickered, then displayed a clear image of the woman who'd just moved in.
She wasn't unpacking. She stood in the middle of that massive four-poster bed, arms spread wide, turning in slow circles like she was measuring her new territory.
Then she did something completely unexpected—launched herself onto the mattress and started bouncing.
The same woman who'd worn that plunging green dress at the wedding, who'd looked ready to devour Derek alive, was now dressed in a faded oversized t-shirt and sweatpants, bouncing like an overgrown kid.
I leaned back in my leather chair, fingers tapping the armrest absently.
I shouldn't be watching this. This was an invasion of privacy, unethical. Logic said I should shut it down immediately, hand the monitoring over to the security team instead of lurking in the shadows like some pervert.
But I didn't close it.
On screen, she flopped face-first into the pillows, nuzzled them, then shot up and grabbed that beat-up paper notebook, scribbling frantically. Probably documenting her observations of this "gangster den."
A low chuckle escaped my throat.
The last shred of suspicion—wondering if she was a spy sent by enemies—evaporated completely. No professional assassin would bounce on a bed with such a complete lack of awareness. She was just crazy. That's all.
And I just happened to be a man who enjoyed watching her lose her mind. For security purposes, of course.
The encrypted satellite phone on my desk vibrated, interrupting the little circus on screen. Caller ID: Father.
I picked up. Said nothing.
"Nikolai." Peter Volkov's voice came through, low, barely maintaining surface calm. "I heard you sent me a very special gift."
"You received it. Good. Means delivery time was satisfactory." My tone stayed flat, eyes never leaving the screen. Vivienne was attacking the remote, jabbing buttons like she wanted to dismantle it.
"You think this is a joke?" His voice rose. "You're challenging me."
"I'm dealing with a mole," I said evenly. "That's the Pakhan's job. If anyone has a problem with it, it means they're guilty."
Two seconds of silence on the other end.
"I'm not talking about that," Peter's voice dropped again, but the darkness underneath was more obvious now. "I'm talking about that woman. Vivienne Cole. Where did you find her? Did you even check her background? She's just—"
"Clean background," I cut him off. "No political connections in Washington. Much cleaner than all those candidates you've shoved at me over the years."
"She's a civilian! Some nobody poor girl!" The disdain in his voice was unstoppable. "Is she worthy? You're the Pakhan of the Volkov family. Your wife should be someone who matches your status."
"My life doesn't need anyone's input, including yours, dear Father." I leaned back, fingers stroking the black onyx cufflink at my wrist. "Vivienne Cole is my woman now. In three days, I'll formally introduce her. As for those puppets the Council sent over, you can keep them as mistresses."
"You're testing my limits."
"No," my attention was drawn back to the feed. Vivienne was closing the heavy curtains. Maybe I should tell her they're motorized, remote's in the first drawer of the nightstand. "I'm exercising a Pakhan's rightful authority. If you think that's a challenge, you've misjudged your current position."
Deadly silence on the other end. Then a massive crash mixed with a roar as he slammed down the phone.
I looked at the disconnected screen, raised an eyebrow, and tossed the phone back on the desk. Same old bastard. Hangs up every time he can't win an argument. No growth whatsoever.
I called Sophia to show Vivienne around her room, then shut down the computer and started on paperwork.
Sophia knocked at six sharp.
"Sir, dinner is ready," she came in and collected the glass from my desk corner. "Ms. Cole is waiting downstairs."
I capped my pen, stood. "Got it."
"One more thing," Sophia paused. "Ms. Cole spent the afternoon wandering the estate. Sir, is that permitted?"
Well, well. One curious little firecracker.
I was in a good mood. "Of course. Let her explore."
Surprise flickered in Sophia's eyes, but she said nothing more.
The dining room table tonight was set for two, facing each other at a comfortable distance—not so far you'd have to shout like at a formal banquet. Sophia's arrangement. Eighteen years as head housekeeper, she knew how to handle these details seamlessly.
Vivienne was already there.
She'd changed into something simple—dark sweater, hair half-up, sitting in her chair flipping through that Moleskine, still adding notes while waiting for the food. She didn't look up, but I noticed her ear twitch the moment I entered.
I took the seat across from her and spread my napkin. Said nothing.
Servers began bringing dishes.
First course was zakuski—cold appetizers including pickled herring and rye bread, with a small dish of caviar on the side. Second course was steaming borscht, dark red broth with a dollop of sour cream floating on top.
Vivienne set down her pen, looked at her plate, picked up something golden with her fork, and took a bite.
Her eyes lit up.
"What is this?" She looked up at me directly, fork still raised.
"Varenyky," I said. "Ukrainian dumplings. This one's potato and cheese, pan-fried in butter."
"This is incredible." She took another one, voice carrying uncontrollable satisfaction. "I've had Polish pierogi, but this is different. This is more... substantial."
"Different preparation," I said. "Pierogi are usually boiled. Varenyky are boiled then fried in butter."
She paused a second, looked at me with an unexpectedly serious expression, like she was reassessing something. Then she glanced at the bowl of dark red soup. "And this?"
"Borscht. Beet soup. This is the Ukrainian version—sweeter than Russian, less acidic."
"Is there a big difference between Ukrainian and Russian food?"
I set down my fork, considered for a second. "There's a difference, but a lot of overlap. In places where borders have been blurred for centuries, culinary cultures bleed into each other. Borscht is a perfect example—both sides claim it's theirs, each with a hundred different recipes."
"Like immigrant culture," she murmured thoughtfully, taking another varenyky. "I ate at this Polish restaurant in New York once. The owner could curse in five languages, but her pierogi only came one way—the way her mother taught her."
I didn't respond, but I kept listening.
"My dad used to cook," she paused. "He was Italian, but he didn't make Italian food at all. He'd mix everything together—tomato meat sauce with rice, pasta with mac and cheese. Totally inauthentic, but thinking back, that was still the best food."
I didn't pick up that thread. "There's a restaurant in Moscow, on a street most maps miss.
You have to go through the kitchen to get in.
They only make one dish—Pelmeni, Siberian dumplings, pork and beef filling with a bit of wild garlic, served in vinegar broth.
That place has been open for sixty years. Never changed the recipe."
Vivienne's fork froze mid-air, eyes fixed on my face, listening intently.
"How cold does Moscow get?" she asked.
"Minus twenty-five Celsius is normal," I said. "Leave a bottle of vodka outside, it'll freeze solid in no time."
"That's so—" she suddenly looked down. "Oh! My food's getting cold."
I glanced at her, said nothing, but my mouth twitched.
She dove back into her food, then muttered something clearly meant to cover her embarrassment. "Your fault for being so distracting."
I picked up my fork again and pushed the borscht bowl an inch closer to her. "How's it taste?"
"Good," she took a sip, looked up. "But sweeter than I expected."
"Next time I'll have the chef add half a spoon of lemon juice. Balances the acid."
She looked at me with those blue eyes for a moment, then ducked her head and quietly scribbled something in her notebook.
I raised my glass, hiding the smile at my lips.
When she finally set down her napkin with satisfaction, I put down my knife and fork, dropped the relaxed air, and resumed the Pakhan's coldness.
"In three days," I began, "there's a charity gala. Fundraiser for Washington Children's Hospital. Attendees include local business and political figures, plus core members from several families. At that event, I'll formally introduce you."
Vivienne's hand froze.
"Before then," I continued, "you need to master several things.
First, etiquette. How to hold a glass, seating order, greeting people of different ranks, positioning and guidance.
Second, dancing. There'll be an opening ballroom dance.
You need to handle basic waltz and Viennese waltz steps.
Third, background intel. Every power player there, major figures, networks, taboos, sensitive points in family histories—you need to remember all of it. "
I paused, waiting for her to complain or negotiate.
She set down her napkin with sharp efficiency, looked up, expression unexpectedly calm.
"No problem, boss." She said, then reached for her notebook, flipped to a fresh page, uncapped her pen. "Where do we start? Etiquette or intel?"
She sat motionless under the crystal chandelier, face tight with determination, ready to pounce—paired with a large smear of dark red venison sauce at the corner of her mouth from eating too fast. The combination looked ridiculous yet damnably charming.
I couldn't help the smile tugging at my lips.
I'll admit, I'd prepared a softening strategy. If she complained, I'd cut the requirements in half, keep only what was truly necessary. I'd deliberately built in flexibility, giving her an out while testing her response under pressure.
But she skipped that entire phase, pulled out her notebook, and asked where to start.
"Tomorrow morning at eight, the etiquette instructor arrives," I said. "Afternoon is dance lessons. Sasha will deliver the intel packet to your room tonight. Read through it first, questions tomorrow at dinner."
"Okay," she wrote without looking up. "Who's teaching dance?"
"A retired diplomatic protocol officer. Last name Patrick. Specializes in these intensive crash courses."
"Sounds terrifying." Her mouth twitched, still writing. "The etiquette teacher?"
"Worse."
Her pen stopped. She looked up with that familiar expression I'd first seen on the plane—the one that tried to see straight through you, full of challenge.
"You're trying to scare me."
"I'm giving you the facts," I said. "That's how they work. You'll get used to it."
"Or," she looked back down, kept writing, "I'll make you regret hiring them."
I didn't respond.
But I noticed the sauce at her mouth corner was still there. The entire conversation, she hadn't noticed.
I stood.
She looked up, confused. Before she could react, I was beside her.
I reached out, thumb brushing her lip. The touch was warm, slightly sweet from the food. Her skin turned scorching instantly.
I ruffled the messy chestnut curls on top of her head.
"It's late. Put away your little notebook, author." I looked down at her, eyes flickering with teasing heat. "Get some rest. Tomorrow morning at eight, the strictest etiquette dragon lady in all of Washington will be knocking at your door."
I watched the woman before me, the instant my fingers withdrew, turn red from neck to ears at a visible speed. That brilliant flush spread across her pale skin, more intoxicating than the finest liquor.
But those bright blue eyes held absolutely no shyness or retreat.
This spicy little wildcat, after a brief daze, didn't flee like an ordinary girl. Instead, with that flushed face, she raised her chin defiantly. Under my gaze, her pink tongue traced her lower lip with deliberate slowness, as if intentionally savoring where my thumb had been.
"If you're this obsessed with my lips and hair tonight, Mr. Pakhan," she leaned forward an inch, curves nearly brushing my chest, voice husky from the intense blush but eyes damnably wet and sultry, "I'm afraid before the etiquette teacher knocks tomorrow morning, you won't be able to stop yourself from locking me in bed first. After all, your self-control in that airplane bathroom didn't look nearly as perfect as it does now. "
My body visibly tensed for a second.
I stared hard at that flushed face full of reckless audacity, my Adam's apple bobbing sharply. I had to admit, I'd underestimated this little wildcat's ability to bite back when embarrassed. Her blushing counter-attack was ten thousand times more lethal than her usual claws-out attitude.
"Seems you can't wait to fulfill your fiancée's 'duties' early." I lowered my voice, lips curling teasingly. "Be grateful you have class tomorrow, little firecracker. See you then."
Then I turned and left, taking my time.
"See you tomorrow, egomaniac!"
I didn't look back, but in the darkness, my smile stretched impossibly wide.
Life ahead definitely wouldn't be boring.