16. Vicktor
16
VICKTOR
T he vodka burns against my palm, amber liquid swirling in crystal as I stand at the window of my Moscow apartment. My fingers tighten around the glass until my knuckles ache. Dawn bleeds across the skyline, painting Soviet-era architecture in deceptive gold, light glinting off windows like distant fires. A beautiful facade for a brutal reality—much like the Bratva world I've infiltrated.
Much like the woman who will soon be my wife.
Anastasia Markova. Mikhail Markov's daughter. My means to final vengeance.
The woman from Paris… the woman I knew better than to involve myself with emotionally. I shouldn’t have slept with her, or even if I did sleep with her, I shouldn’t have let myself feel anything.
"Fuck." The word escapes before I can catch it, echoing in the sparse, tactical emptiness of my apartment. I drain the glass, welcoming the burn down my throat, the heat spreading through my chest like liquid fire. The alcohol does nothing to dull the shock still reverberating through my system. My hands shake—actually shake—as I pour another measure, spilling expensive vodka across my knuckles.
Of all the variables, all the potential complications in five years of meticulous planning, this was the one I never fully anticipated—what it meant that the woman I touched in Paris darkness, the only genuine connection I'd permitted myself in my years of deception, was the daughter of the man I've sworn to destroy.
I think I never thought an outsider like me would be welcome in Markov’s inner circle, that I would get my revenge from the outside… not from the inside. How wrong I was.
The moment replays in my mind with visceral clarity: her standing across that dining table, blue eyes widening in recognition before her perfect Bratva mask locked into place. The jolt of recognition that shot through my body like electric current. The surge of something dangerously close to desire beneath the shock.
My phone vibrates on the desk, the sound harsh against the polished wood. Anton. I ignore it, pouring another measure of Zhiguli instead. My mouth tastes of ashes and expensive vodka. He'll demand reassessment, tactical adjustment. The mission shifting in light of this development.
He doesn't understand that my mind has been doing nothing else since the moment I saw her across that dining table.
She's changed—harder edges where Paris showed vulnerability, cold calculation where I once glimpsed genuine warmth. Inevitable, perhaps, for a woman raised in Markov's world. I saw her at the start of what she called her week of freedom, but here she is fully under her father’s rule. It shows in every set of her lips, every hardening of her gaze.
Yet something else has shifted in her too, something fundamental I can't quite identify. The subtle changes in her body—fuller curves despite her slenderness, a new maturity in her face, something guarded in her eyes that wasn't there before.
I close my eyes, and Paris floods back unbidden, memories so vivid I can almost taste them:
The Parisian lights filtering through gauzy curtains, painting her skin gold as she lay on the bed, wrapped in nothing but a hotel sheet. Her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, smelling faintly of jasmine and sex, defenses down in the quiet aftermath. The taste of her still lingering on my tongue, the heat of her body imprinted on my skin.
"Tell me something true," she'd said, tracing idle patterns on my chest, her fingertips cool against my overheated skin. "Something you've never told anyone else."
I should have lied. Maintained my distance. Instead, I'd found myself answering honestly, words pulled from someplace I thought had died with my family.
"I hate violence," I admitted, the confession dangerous even in that seemingly private moment. "I'm good at it. Trained for it. Built for it. But every time..."
She hadn't laughed or dismissed it. Just nodded, understanding in those blue eyes that saw too much, that penetrated defenses I'd spent years constructing.
"We become what we pretend to be," she'd whispered, her breath warm against my chest. "Until the mask and the person beneath are indistinguishable." Her fingers found the scar along my ribs, touch gentle as revelation, tracing the raised ridge of tissue. "Is that what you're afraid of?"
No one had ever asked what I feared. No one had ever seen past the carefully constructed exterior to the question beneath.
"Yes," I'd answered, truth hanging dangerous between us. "What about you? What does Anastasia fear when no one's watching?"
Her smile had faltered then, something vulnerable and genuine replacing it. "Living my father's version of my life instead of my own. Becoming a possession instead of a person."
In that moment, I'd almost told her everything. Almost abandoned my years of planning to confess who I really was, what I was really doing in Paris… and that I knew all about her father.
Instead, I'd kissed her, silencing truth with desire, drowning dangerous honesty in the safer waters of physical connection. I'd rolled her beneath me, tasting the salt of her skin, losing myself in her heat, her scent, the soft sounds she made when I?—
The memory burns hotter than the vodka. My body responds with embarrassing immediacy, desire coiling tight and low in my gut. I hurl the empty glass against the wall, the crystal shattering with satisfying violence. The sound breaks through the memory, brings me back to the stark reality of my apartment, my mission, my purpose.
I force myself back to tactical analysis. Feelings are irrelevant. The mission is everything. The vengeance I've spent years engineering.
Yet questions persist like physical aches. Did she know who I was in Paris? Was it coincidence or calculation that brought us together that night? The vulnerability, the connection—was any of it genuine, or merely another performance from a woman raised in Bratva deception? I can’t imagine how or why she would have singled me out, or what her father would have hoped to gain by her doing so.
My secure phone chimes with Anton's emergency signal—three short tones, impossible to ignore. I answer with a curt "Da."
"We need to meet. Now." His voice tight with controlled urgency. "Unexpected variables require immediate assessment."
"The safe house on Tverskaya. One hour." I disconnect without waiting for response, already moving to secure my weapons, the familiar ritual of checking each piece grounding me in purpose rather than memory.
Anton's concern is justified. Anastasia's presence fundamentally alters the dynamics. The woman I'll be expected to marry—to share intimate space with, to perform the role of devoted husband for—is also the most dangerous potential witness to any move against her father. The daughter who, if my intelligence is accurate, Markov genuinely values despite his use of her as a dynastic asset.
A complication, certainly. But potentially a devastating advantage—if played correctly.
***
"You're distracted." Anton paces the perimeter of the safe house, checking surveillance equipment. His normally steady hands betray tension, fumbling slightly with the calibration tools. His left eye twitches—the subtle tell he's developed when truly concerned. "Years of discipline, and now you're compromised by what? Sentiment?"
"Tactical reassessment," I correct coldly, studying the intelligence files spread across the table. The images of Anastasia swim before my eyes—surveillance photos tracking her movements since her return to Moscow. "Anastasia's presence creates both vulnerabilities and opportunities."
"It's a disaster." He stops pacing, fixing me with rare direct challenge, arms crossed over his chest. I can smell the faint scent of cigarettes on him—he's been smoking again, a habit he only returns to when stressed. "Your... history with her creates unacceptable exposure. If Markov discovers?—"
"He won't." My tone ends further discussion on that point, the words tight through clenched teeth. "What concerns me is why Anastasia maintains the pretense. She recognized me instantly yet played along with the charade of first introduction."
Anton's expression shifts subtly, his perpetual frown deepening. "Self-preservation, perhaps. Admitting prior acquaintance with her father's lieutenant would raise uncomfortable questions."
"Perhaps." I tap the surveillance photographs showing Anastasia entering her father's Moscow compound yesterday. Her face in profile, expression unreadable, the sunlight catching in her hair. My finger lingers longer than necessary on the image. "Or she has her own agenda we haven't identified."
Something about her behavior nags at my instincts—the controlled perfection of her performance at dinner, yes, but also subtle tells my years of tactical training won't allow me to dismiss. The way her hand occasionally drifted to her throat during conversation, as if touching something beneath her clothes. The carefully measured responses that revealed nothing while appearing to share information. The care within her movements, as if every gesture had been choreographed to create specific impression.
Not just Bratva princess conditioning. Something more deliberate.
"Dmitri reports she's made three secure calls since returning to Moscow," Anton notes, sliding a data chip across the table. The metal catches the light, gleaming dully against the scarred wood. "Encrypted communications through channels his team can't penetrate."
"To whom?" I insert the chip, scanning call metadata. Duration, frequency, routing protocols. My pulse quickens against my will.
"Unknown. Bounced through six proxy servers. Professional-grade security." Anton watches my reaction carefully, eyes narrowed with assessment. "Beyond standard Bratva protocols."
Interesting. Markov's precious daughter, maintaining communication channels her father can't monitor. The perfect Bratva princess with secrets of her own.
"Expand surveillance," I decide, already calculating probabilities. "Full spectrum on all her movements. I want to know who she's communicating with."
"Already initiated." Anton hesitates, then adds with uncharacteristic caution, one hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck—a gesture I've only seen him make when truly concerned. "Viktor, your judgment regarding the Markov woman?—"
"Is perfectly clear," I interrupt, steel entering my voice. "The mission remains unchanged. Anastasia's presence simply adds another variable to be managed."
He studies me with uncomfortable perception, eyes narrowing slightly. Something too close to pity flashes across his features. "And that's all she is? A variable?"
The question strikes too close to uncomfortable truth. I deflect. "She's Markov's daughter. His greatest vulnerability. The perfect access point to his inner circle."
"And if controlling that access point requires... personal involvement?" Anton's implication hangs in the air between us.
"Then I'll do what's necessary." My voice remains perfectly controlled despite the heat that flares at the thought of touching Anastasia again, of feeling her skin beneath my hands, of tasting her again. "The end justifies the means."
Anton nods, seemingly satisfied with my response, though something in his expression suggests he sees more than I've intended to reveal. He turns away, giving me a moment to compose myself, to force away the unwelcome physical response to thoughts I shouldn't be having.
"The Tverskaya meeting is scheduled for noon. Markov's security will conduct standard protocol until twelve-fifteen, then withdraw to perimeter positions."
"Creating our 'accidental' privacy." I review the building schematics one final time, memorizing exit routes, surveillance blind spots, security rotation schedules. "Perfect."
"Your objective?" Anton asks, professional mask back in place.
"Assessment." I gather my weapons, checking each automatically, the familiar weight of metal against my palm grounding me in reality rather than memory. "Determining what Anastasia knows, what she wants, whether she represents threat or opportunity to our primary mission."
Or whether the connection I felt in Paris was real or merely another Bratva deception—a question I refuse to acknowledge even to myself.
***
The Tverskaya office complex represents Markov's legitimate business facade—twelve floors of architectural glass and steel housing his import-export corporation, financial services division, and private meeting facilities. The building smells of money and power—expensive leather, subtle cologne, the faint electronic hum of security systems hidden behind tasteful design. I arrive exactly seventeen minutes early, enough time to assess security positioning, identify surveillance weaknesses, and prepare for Anastasia's arrival.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I step through security, though nothing in my exterior betrays the internal chaos. The thought of seeing her again, alone, sends adrenaline coursing through my system. I control my breathing with practiced discipline, forcing my mind back to tactical assessment rather than anticipation.
Dmitri conducts the expected security sweep, his deference to my position now formalized by Markov's arrangement. "The diplomatic files are prepared in Conference Room Three," he reports with professional detachment. "Miss Markova's car is five minutes out."
"I'll conduct personal inspection before her arrival," I inform him, the perfect image of security-conscious lieutenant. "Standard protocol."
He nods, accepting the transparent excuse without question. My rapid advancement has created its own mythology among Markov's men—stories of ruthlessness, tactical brilliance, and unwavering loyalty. Useful cover for my true purpose.
Alone in the elevator, I allow myself one moment of weakness. I close my eyes, pressing my palm against the cool metal wall, remembering my parents' faces before Markov's men killed them. Remembering my brother's screams. Remembering why I'm really here, why nothing—not even Anastasia—can be allowed to interfere with vengeance five years in the making.
Conference Room Three offers exactly what I need—a space designed for secure negotiations, its surveillance systems sophisticated yet known to me through months of careful intelligence gathering. The room's southeast corner provides the only camera blind spot, created by an architectural quirk Markov's security team has never corrected.
Perfect for what follows.
I sense Anastasia's arrival before she appears—the subtle shift in security posture, the momentary elevation in radio chatter. My body responds with embarrassing immediacy—pulse elevating, muscles tensing, heat flooding my system. I force control with practiced discipline, positioning myself at the window, back to the door, creating the illusion of being absorbed in documents while maintaining perfect awareness of my surroundings.
The door opens. Her scent reaches me first—something floral yet subtle, undercut with notes that remind me of Paris. Deliberately different from the perfume she wore last night, perhaps attempting to minimize sensory triggers. The subtle sound of her breathing, the soft click of her heels on the polished floor, the rustling of silk as she moves.
"Mr. Baranov." Her voice is perfectly modulated, professional courtesy layered over cold distance. "I wasn't expecting you to arrive before me."
I turn, allowing myself to truly look at her in the unforgiving daylight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The blue silk blouse and tailored skirt project business professional while accentuating curves that seem subtly fuller than I remember from Paris. Her face thinner, cheekbones more pronounced, eyes holding shadows that speak of secrets and private battles. A thin gold chain disappears beneath her blouse—something she didn't wear in Paris.
Beautiful in a way that transcends physical attributes—dangerous in ways that extend far beyond her father's protection.
"Security protocols require advance assessment," I respond, watching her reaction as she realizes we're momentarily alone. "Standard procedure for high-value meetings."
"High-value." Something flashes behind her composed expression—anger, perhaps, or something darker. Her pulse visibly quickens at her throat. "Is that how you categorize this... arrangement? An asset to be secured?"
I move toward her with deliberate casualness, maintaining professional distance while positioning us gradually toward the surveillance blind spot. "Value is determined by strategic importance. This alliance represents significant organizational advantage."
"How calculating." She places her portfolio on the conference table. Nothing in her demeanor betrays our Paris connection or our confrontation in the garden last night. "Entirely appropriate for a Bratva transaction."
"Precisely what this is." I study her with professional detachment despite the heat building beneath my skin at her proximity, the scent of her perfume making my mouth go dry. "A mutually beneficial arrangement between organizations."
"Organizations." She nearly laughs, though no humor reaches her eyes. "Such a sanitized term for what we both represent."
Her gaze meets mine directly, challenge evident beneath perfect composure. This close, I notice details missed last night—the slight shadows beneath carefully applied makeup, the tension in her shoulders beneath silk, the way her fingers occasionally clench and release as if controlling some deeper emotion.
"Let's be perfectly clear, Mr. Baranov." My surname from her lips carries disdainful emphasis. "This arrangement serves my father's objectives. Nothing more."
"We're in agreement, then." I take another casual step, bringing us closer to the blind spot while maintaining conversation volume for any listening devices. The space between us charges with dangerous electricity. "Professional collaboration for mutual advantage."
"Professional." Now bitterness tinges her perfect control. Her scent envelops me—something floral and distinctly feminine, making my head swim with memories of Paris. "Is that what you consider your behavior in Paris? Professional?"
The direct acknowledgment of our shared history creates momentary opportunity. I take it, moving with sudden speed to guide her into the surveillance blind spot, hand at her elbow applying just enough pressure to communicate intention without force. Her skin burns hot through the silk of her blouse.
"Careful, Anastasia," I murmur, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. "Some conversations are best conducted without audience."
She jerks away from my touch, controlled fury replacing diplomatic reserve. "Don't touch me. Don't ever?—"
"What game are you playing?" I interrupt, voice low but intensity undisguised. "The perfect Bratva princess agreeing to this arrangement? Following your father's orders without question? That's not the woman I met in Paris."
Color floods her cheeks, the first genuine reaction breaking through her mask. "You know nothing about me. Nothing about who I really am or what I want."
"I know more than you think." I step closer, invading her space deliberately. Testing boundaries, assessing responses—searching for leverage points beneath her perfect facade. Her breathing quickens, pupils dilating despite her anger. "I know how you respond when truly touched. I know the sounds you make when?—"
The slap catches me by surprise—not the act itself, but the strength behind it. Her palm connects with my cheek with enough force to snap my head sideways, the sting immediate and sharp, metallic taste blooming in my mouth.
Instinct takes over. I catch her wrist before she can withdraw, my other hand capturing her second wrist as it rises for another strike. In one fluid movement, I press her against the wall, pinning both hands beside her head, bodies aligned from chest to thigh. Her heat sears through the layers of our clothing, her heartbeat thundering against my chest.
"Not professional at all," I murmur, close enough to feel her breath against my lips, to count the gold flecks in her blue eyes. "But certainly illuminating."
Her pupils dilate, breath catching audibly as anger and something else—something far more dangerous—flares between us. For three heartbeats, we remain frozen in this position, the air charged with violence and unwanted desire in equal measure. Her body soft yet unyielding against mine, the scent of her perfume mingling with something more primal, the taste of adrenaline sharp on my tongue.
"Let. Me. Go." Each word precisely controlled despite the rapid pulse I can feel beneath my fingers at her wrists.
"Give me one reason why I should," I challenge, searching her face for answers to questions I shouldn't be asking. "One truth, Anastasia. Just one."
For a moment—brief but unmistakable—something shifts in her expression. Vulnerability bleeds through perfect control, a glimpse of the woman behind the Bratva princess mask. Her lips part slightly, eyes holding mine with unexpected directness. The gold chain at her throat gleams in the sunlight streaming through the windows, drawing my attention to a shadow beneath her blouse—something hanging from the chain, hidden from view.
Then security radio chatter in the hallway breaks the moment. I release her immediately, stepping back to professional distance as she straightens her blouse with trembling fingers. My body aches with the loss of contact, with unresolved tension.
"My father's men are protective," she says, voice steady despite the flush still coloring her cheeks. "I wouldn't recommend physical confrontation as negotiation tactic, Mr. Baranov."
"Noted." I adjust my suit jacket, watching her rebuild her composure. "Though I suspect we both prefer direct approaches over diplomatic evasion."
The door opens before she can respond, Dmitri entering with two junior security officers. His gaze flicks between us, assessing for signs of conflict and finding nothing beyond perfect professional composure.
"Security parameter reports complete," he announces. "The meeting can proceed without interruption."
"Thank you, Dmitri." Anastasia moves to the conference table, professional mask firmly in place once more. "Mr. Baranov and I were just discussing security integration for the western operations."
The meeting proceeds with emotionless discourse after that—diplomatic contacts reviewed, security protocols established, protocols defined. Throughout, we maintain perfect professional interactions, nothing in our behavior suggesting either Paris history or confrontation moments ago.
Yet beneath the surface, something fundamental has shifted. In that brief moment against the wall, I glimpsed something beneath Anastasia's facade of indifference—not just desire, not just anger, but fear. Not of me, precisely, but of something connected to our situation. A vulnerability she guards with lethal determination.
When the meeting concludes three hours later, she gathers her materials. "I'll provide additional documentation regarding the Belgian diplomatic channels tomorrow," she says, addressing Dmitri rather than me. "Please arrange secure courier protocol."
"Of course, Miss Markova." Dmitri's deference to her status remains absolute despite her father's arrangement placing her under my security authority. "Your car is waiting."
I watch her leave, studying the primness of her movements, the perfect Bratva princess performance that reveals nothing of the woman beneath. Something about her troubles me—not just our complicated history, but some unknown variable I can't identify despite years of training in threat assessment.
"Have Yuri follow her," I instruct Dmitri once she's safely distant. "Discreet surveillance only. Report any deviation from expected patterns."
He nods, accepting the command without question. "Standard protocol or enhanced parameters?"
"Enhanced." I gather my own materials, mind already calculating probabilities, identifying patterns, seeking the missing piece that nags at tactical instincts. "I want to know who she communicates with, where she goes, what she does when she believes herself unobserved."
Three hours later, positioned in an unmarked vehicle across from the exclusive spa Anastasia entered forty minutes earlier, I receive Yuri's confirmation: through security cameras, he saw another encrypted communication being sent from a secure device she retrieved from a hidden compartment in her locker. Twenty-seven seconds, routed through multiple proxy servers, content unknown.
Rain patters against the windshield, distorting my view of the spa's entrance. The air in the car grows stale and close, smelling of leather and the coffee gone cold in the cup holder. My reflection in the rearview mirror shows a man I barely recognize—eyes too intense, jaw too tight, something close to obsession in my expression.
Through binoculars, I watch her exit the spa's side entrance, phone nowhere visible, face composed in the perfect Bratva princess mask that reveals nothing of her true thoughts. Beautiful, controlled, and keeping secrets that might prove either useful leverage or dangerous complication to my primary mission.
My chest tightens with something I refuse to name. Something that feels dangerously close to the connection I felt in Paris, when she asked what I feared and actually listened to the answer.
Who are you, really, Anastasia Markova? What game are you playing beneath your father's watchful eye? And how much of what I felt in Paris was genuine connection versus Bratva deception?
Questions without answers—yet. But as she slides into her waiting car, I make silent promise to myself and to the ghosts of my family who demand vengeance: I will discover every secret Anastasia Markova keeps, use every vulnerability she possesses, exploit every opening she provides.
Even if doing so means confronting unwelcome truth—that despite the years of single-minded focus on destroying Mikhail Markov, despite tactical calculation and discipline, something about his daughter has affected me in ways that extend dangerously beyond the mission.
My hand touches the scar across my ribs—the one her fingers traced in Paris darkness, the one she asked about with genuine concern rather than calculation. The memory of her touch burns hotter than the wound that created it. And I feel tired already; tired of pretending not to care, not to want her. Tired of pushing my attraction away in service of my life’s mission: taking down her murderous father.
It makes me wonder, for the first time in five years of planning, whether vengeance is truly worth the cost it demands.