52. Octavia
Acrisp snap echoes through the room, shifting my attention away from the syndicate leader.
“I know you,” the blond man beside him says. “You’re the ballerina.”
His face finally registers in my mind. He was at the ballet’s donor party all those months ago, standing beside Vasiliy the night we met.
“A ballerina? Well, that’s certainly not the association I have with the Siderov name,” the Pakhan responds. The little girl in his arms tugs at his chin, pulling his terrifying gaze away from me. When he looks down at his daughter, those sharp eyes soften.
It’s fascinating to witness, even if it does ache.
“Former ballerina,” I say evenly. The words taste strange in my mouth, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever expressed the sentiment. “Current highest-ranking member of the Siderov Syndicate.”
The air in the room shifts.
Guards I barely even noticed take a step closer to my exposed back, and the Pakhan’s wife looks me up and down in a silent reassessment.
Vasiliy was always the one who’d stand at my back.
“Interesting,” he finally says.
Then he lowers his head, whispering something in his daughter’s ear. She couldn’t be more than three or four, but she seems to understand whatever he tells her, because her arms twist towards the blonde man.
“Uncle Ivan!” she squeals, grabbing blindly for the man. “Daddy says we play dress up now.”
A pained groan.
“Please? I’ll let you wear blue dress this time.”
I watch in amused bewilderment as the guy scoops the little girl into his arms and tosses her over his shoulder.
“Fine. But I’m not playing Tinkerbell. Those wings don’t fit me right.”
The girl’s mother snorts behind me. “Thank you, Ivan,” she calls out as the pair leaves the room through the far door.
All the uterus-melting whimsy leaves the room with them.
“I assume condolences are in order?” the Pakhan says slowly.
I swallow hard. “Correct.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I just spoke to your father a few weeks ago. About your safety, no less.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.”
Fingers drum on the desk. Then his wife strolls past me, settling on the arm of his chair.
I see the move for what it is.
A power play.
And a message, perhaps.
Women are typically at the bottom of the totem pole in our world. But this woman didn’t leave with her child. She moved to the desk.
Her steel-grey eyes settle calmly on mine.
“Tell me, Ms. Siderov,” her husband says. “Why have you gone through all this trouble to come see me today?”
Blood, I think, to calm my racing heart. You will have your blood. You will bathe in it.
“I believe you know my husband.”
Lie.
Lies and truth. He’s mine, that’s all that really matters.
This gets the Pakhan’s attention. A fresh wave of interest paints his eyes. “Is that so? Who might that be?”
I don’t hesitate.
“Vasiliy Morozov.”
A small smile cracks his face. He’s a terrifying man, and even more so when he grins. “Not many people manage to surprise me anymore, Ms. Siderov. It’s quite a feat.”
I take a purposeful step forward, keeping my face blank. “I have a feeling it won’t be the only one today.”
“And why is that?”
My heart beats louder.
“Because I’ve come here, not as a wife, or a mourning daughter, but as a Pakhan. And we’re going to make a deal.”