17. Anastasia
17
ANASTASIA
"T he Romanov Suite at the Metropol is available for the reception, though securing it requires certain... accommodations with the hotel management." My father's event coordinator—a severe woman named Irina who specializes in Bratva social occasions—taps her tablet with manicured fingers, each click of her blood-red nail against the screen like a tiny gunshot in the silent room. "The guest list currently stands at three hundred seventy-two. Primarily business associates, political connections, and allied families."
I nod absently, fingering the heavy silk of yet another wedding gown sample brought for my approval. The fabric drapes across my lap like liquid ice—cold, heavy, suffocating. Cream-colored Valentino, hand-embroidered with seed pearls and crystal beading that catch the light and refract it like tiny prison bars across my skin. Each pearl weighs against my fingertips, a miniature ball and chain. Exquisite craftsmanship wasted on a marriage built on deception and strategy.
The air in the room feels thick with expensive perfume and unspoken threats. My chest tightens with each breath, each minute bringing me closer to a future I cannot escape.
"The Minister of Finance has confirmed attendance," Irina continues, misinterpreting my silence as consideration rather than disgust. "As have representatives from six European diplomatic missions. The governor sends regrets but will attend the evening reception."
My father watches from his position by the window, cold eyes assessing my reactions to these arrangements being made without my input or consent. Sunlight catches on his signet ring as he drums his fingers against the windowsill—a rhythmic reminder of his impatience, his power, his control. The perfect Bratva wedding to cement his alliance with the man I once knew intimately in Paris. The man who now serves as his trusted lieutenant while harboring secrets I can't begin to decode.
The man who fathered my secret child, our daughter, whom I miss more with each passing day. If I allow myself to think of my sweet baby girl for more than a moment, I feel it will tear my heart wide open. It would make me act recklessly. And that would mean my secret would be laid bare for all within my father’s circle to see.
I stifle a shudder. I must maintain my composure.
"The dress selection needs to be finalized by Friday for alterations," Irina adds, her tone making clear this is not a request but a directive. "The designer requires precise measurements."
I feel my father's gaze intensify at this subtle reminder of my body—the vessel to be adorned, displayed, and ultimately used to seal his alliance. My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat.
"Of course." I force a smile that feels like cracking porcelain, stretching muscles that want to scream instead. "Schedule the final fitting for Thursday morning. I have diplomatic commitments until then."
My father's eyebrow raises slightly at this assertion of schedule control—the smallest rebellion in a life increasingly constrained by wedding preparations. Three weeks since the arrangement was announced. Six days since my confrontation with Viktor at the Tverskaya office. Each day bringing the inescapable reality closer like the slow tightening of a garrote.
"The engagement photographs are scheduled for this afternoon, diplomatic commitments or not," my father reminds me, his tone making clear no "diplomatic commitments" will interfere with this obligation. The subtle emphasis on "diplomatic" makes my heart stutter—does he suspect something? Has Viktor shared his surveillance findings? "Baranov will meet you at the Botanical Gardens at three. The photographer has been thoroughly vetted."
For any surveillance devices or listening equipment that might capture unintended revelations, he means. The Bratva's obsession with security extends even to supposedly joyous occasions. The irony that they search for others' surveillance while I dodge their own makes me want to laugh, a desperate sound I swallow before it can escape.
"I'll be ready." Another practiced smile as I rise, the wedding dress sample sliding from my lap to pool at my feet like shed skin. I gesture for the staff to remove the wedding samples, the weight of my father's assessment pressing against my shoulder blades like physical force. "If you'll excuse me, I need to prepare."
My father nods his dismissal, already turning his attention to Irina's logistics report for the security arrangements. I exit with measured steps, maintaining perfect composure until I reach my suite and activate the signal jammers concealed in my vanity. The soft electronic hum as they engage brings the first real breath I've taken all morning, muscles loosening fractionally with the illusion of privacy.
Only then do I extract the secure phone hidden in a hollowed-out copy of Tolstoy on my bookshelf—a hiding place deliberately obvious enough that my father's security team would find it if they searched, believing they'd discovered my secret. The actual secure line rests in a custom compartment beneath my bathroom tiles, accessible only through pressure points known exclusively to me.
My fingers tremble as I press the ceramic tile in the precise pattern—second from the left, bottom corner, center diagonal, a millimeter-perfect sequence that triggers the hidden mechanism with a soft click. The compartment slides open, revealing the matte black device nestled in custom foam. My heart pounds against my ribs as I activate it, the familiar surge of fear and longing making my hands shake.
Triple authentication protocols, seventeen seconds to connection establishment. The Swiss number rings twice before connecting, each second stretching like an eternity, the sound of my own breathing harsh in the silent bathroom.
"Secure line established," Anna's voice, professionally neutral but with an undercurrent of warmth we've developed over months of shared secrets.
"Status report," I respond, my voice equally controlled despite the desperate need to hear about Sofia. I grip the edge of the marble counter, knuckles white with tension.
"Subject is developing according to schedule. Weight gain appropriate. Cognitive responses within optimal parameters." Her clinical phrasing disguises the simple truth that my daughter is healthy, growing, reaching normal baby milestones in my absence. I close my eyes, picturing Sofia's face, the tiny hands I haven't held in months.
"Any anomalies in perimeter security?" I ask, the question that begins every call since Viktor's appearance in my life. My mouth goes dry as I await her answer, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
"Negative. Standard monitoring shows no unusual activity." Anna hesitates, then adds, "However, precautionary measures have been implemented as discussed. Alternate location prepared if necessary."
The contingency we established after Viktor's appearance—a secondary safe house in northern Italy, reachable through carefully established channels if the Swiss location becomes compromised. The thought sends ice through my veins despite the necessity of such planning. I taste metal in my mouth, fear a physical flavor on my tongue.
"Visual confirmation?" I request, the protocol we established for especially stressful periods. My voice catches on the words, betraying the emotion I try so hard to control.
"Uploading now. Ten-second window."
My screen illuminates with Sofia's image—dark hair growing in thicker now, chubby legs kicking at the air as she lies on her play mat. Three months old and already more alert, more present, those silver-gray eyes—his eyes—focusing on a colorful mobile toy above her. She makes a small fist, tiny fingers curling and uncurling in a gesture so achingly familiar it steals my breath.
Ten seconds. Not nearly enough to satisfy the need for my child that consumes me daily, the physical longing to hold her, to breathe in her scent, to feel her weight against my chest. My arms actually ache with emptiness, phantom weight of her small body a constant absence I carry everywhere. I press my hand against my mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape—something between a sob and her name.
"Transmission complete," Anna announces as the image disappears, leaving a black void that mirrors the hollow space beneath my ribs. "Additional precautions implemented as discussed."
"Proceed with heightened surveillance," I instruct, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the constriction in my throat after seeing Sofia. I swallow hard against the lump that forms whenever I see her face. "Report any anomalies immediately, regardless of hour."
"Understood." Professionalism masking the human connection we've established through shared protection of my daughter. "Secure transmission ending in three, two, one."
The line goes dead. I immediately begin the seventeen-step protocol to erase all evidence of the communication—routing masks, proxy disengagement, physical reset of the device's encryption protocols. The ritual brings limited comfort—technical security measures against the gnawing fear that grows daily with each wedding arrangement finalized, each step bringing me closer to unavoidable proximity with Viktor Baranov.
The man who watches me with those silver eyes that reveal nothing while seeing everything. Eyes that Sofia inherited, that look out from my baby's face with innocent curiosity rather than skeptical assessment.
My instincts have always been sharp—honed through years in the Bratva world where survival depends on noticing details others miss. Since returning to Moscow, those instincts scream constant warning. I'm being observed beyond the standard surveillance my father maintains. Subtle patterns in security rotations. Occasional glimpses of unfamiliar faces in predictable locations. The weight of unseen eyes following my movements through the city.
Viktor's eyes. His network. His surveillance, separate from my father's established systems.
What does he suspect? What does he know? The questions plague me constantly, each interaction with him a dangerous dance of revelation and concealment. Would he use knowledge of Sofia against me? Against my father? Or would some buried human instinct recognize his own child and feel... what? Protection? Possession? Rage at being kept ignorant?
I can't risk finding out. Not when Sofia's safety hangs in the balance. There are times I want to give in to my attraction to him, but I cannot. I just can’t trust him, not yet and maybe, not ever. And so I will continue to pretend he means next to nothing to me.
My watch vibrates with a calendar alert—two hours until the engagement photo session. Two hours to prepare my body and mind for forced intimacy with the man who simultaneously represents my greatest threat and most unwelcome weakness.
I move to the bathroom, stripping efficiently for the shower that will remove all traces of perspiration from this morning's secure call. As steam fills the marble enclosure, I catch my reflection in the mirror—body different in subtle ways since Sofia's birth. Fuller breasts despite rigorous exercise to regain my pre-pregnancy figure. The faint pink stretch marks across my abdomen, nearly invisible now but testament to the life I carried.
My fingers trace the fine lines, memories of my swelling belly holding Sofia safe within me. So much has changed in such a short time—the woman in Paris who sought one night of freedom transformed into a mother who would burn the world to protect her child.
Would Viktor notice these changes if given the opportunity? Would he connect them to the timing of our night in Paris? The possibility sends fresh fear through me as I step under scalding water, as if heat alone might burn away evidence of motherhood from my skin.
I scrub until my skin turns red, washing away any trace of vulnerability, any evidence of tears or fear or longing. The water temperature shocks my system, forces my mind into clarity, to the cold calculations necessary for survival. By the time I step out, wrapped in thick towels, I've rebuilt the armor needed to face what comes next.
* * *
The Moscow Botanical Gardens provide an appropriately romantic backdrop for engagement photographs to be distributed through official channels—the public face of a private Bratva alliance. Cherry blossoms create a perfect pink-and-white canopy above manicured paths, their sweet fragrance cloyingly thick in the spring air. Statue gardens offer classical elegance, and carefully positioned security personnel ensure no unwanted observers intrude on the performance.
I feel them watching as my car approaches—my father's men in their obvious positions, and the more subtle presence I've come to recognize as Viktor's separate surveillance. The weight of their gazes crawls across my skin like insects.
Viktor awaits at our designated meeting point, his tailored charcoal suit emphasizing broad shoulders and lean strength. The spring sunlight catches on his dark hair, highlighting the perfect grooming that complements his controlled power. Something tightens in my chest at the sight of him—an unwelcome physical response I ruthlessly suppress. Heat blooms low in my belly, a visceral memory of Paris that my body refuses to forget despite every rational objection.
Today is performance, nothing more. A convincing show of romantic connection for photographs that will cement our engagement in the public eye.
"Anastasia." He greets me with practiced warmth, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips in a gesture designed for watching security personnel. His mouth against my skin sends an electric current racing up my arm, unwanted heat following in its wake. His eyes, however, hold something entirely different—calculation, assessment, the predatory focus of a man hunting secrets. "You look beautiful."
I am beautiful today—deliberately so. The blue dress chosen to complement my eyes, subtle makeup enhancing rather than concealing, hair arranged in soft waves rather than my usual severe chignon. Every detail selected to project the image of a woman in love rather than a Bratva asset deployed for political advantage.
"The gardens are lovely this time of year," I respond with equally practiced warmth, aware of watching eyes and the potential for listening devices. My voice reveals nothing of the turmoil beneath or the thundering of my heart against my ribs. "Perfect setting for remembering such a special occasion."
The photographer—an anxious man clearly aware of exactly who he's working for—approaches with professional enthusiasm that barely masks his fear. Sweat beads at his temples despite the mild temperature, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusts his equipment. "If you'll follow me, I've selected several locations with optimal lighting and composition."
What follows is exquisitely choreographed torture—Viktor's hand at the small of my back, guiding me between locations. The heat of his palm burns through the thin silk of my dress, each point of contact between his fingers and my spine a separate point of fire. His arm around my waist for carefully composed shots, his warmth seeping through silk to brand my skin. His fingers entwined with mine, thumb occasionally stroking my wrist in a gesture invisible to cameras but sending unwelcome electricity racing up my arm.
"Look at each other," the photographer instructs, positioning us beneath flowering cherry trees, pale petals drifting down around us like snow. "Like you're sharing a private moment."
Viktor turns to me, those silver eyes suddenly intensely focused. His hand rises to brush a strand of hair from my face, fingertips lingering against my cheek in a touch that appears loving to observers while feeling like deliberate provocation to me. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, distinctly masculine—envelops me, triggering visceral memories of Paris that make my pulse race and my mouth go dry.
"Beautiful," the photographer murmurs, capturing the moment. "The connection between you is palpable."
If only he knew the true nature of that "connection"—the rage and fear and unwanted desire creating a volatile mixture beneath carefully controlled expressions. Viktor's thumb traces my lower lip in another calculated touch, his eyes never leaving mine. My body betrays me, lips parting slightly under his touch, breath catching audibly in my throat.
"Anastasia," he murmurs, voice pitched for my ears alone. "Your pulse is racing."
The observation—accurate and infuriating—reveals he's monitoring my physical responses, noting the betrayal of a body that remembers his touch despite every rational reason to reject it. I feel exposed, as if he can see through fabric and skin to the traitorous response beneath.
Before I can respond, he leans closer, lips brushing my ear under pretense of an affectionate whisper, his breath warm against sensitive skin.
"Who were you calling this morning? Three minutes, seventeen seconds. Encrypted channel through Swiss proxy servers."
Ice floods my veins, momentarily stopping my heart before it resumes hammering against my ribs. He knows about the call. He has been monitoring my communications, my movements. How much does he know? How close has he come to discovering Sofia? The question steals my breath, makes the world spin momentarily around me.
I maintain perfect composure despite internal panic, years of Bratva training preventing visible reaction. "Diplomatic contacts require secure communication," I respond, matching his intimate tone while keeping my expression appropriately affectionate for watching eyes. My nails dig into my palm, pain grounding me in the moment. "Standard protocol."
"Diplomatic contacts." His arm tightens around my waist, a gesture that appears loving while communicating clear warning. The pressure of his fingers against my ribs feels like a vise. "Requiring triple-encrypted channels and seventeen-step authentication protocols? Interesting diplomatic standards."
He knows the exact security procedures. He’s been monitoring far more closely than I anticipated. Panic claws at my throat, contained only through years of discipline. His closeness becomes suffocating, his body pressed against mine a threat rather than an intimacy.
"Security concerns surrounding my calls are my business, not yours," I counter, forcing a smile as the photographer repositions us beside a classical fountain. Water splashes behind us, the sound a counterpoint to the rushing blood in my ears. "As my father's lieutenant, surely you understand precaution."
"I understand secrets," he responds, voice dropping lower as his hand splays possessively across my lower back. "And you, Anastasia Markova, are keeping many."
The photographer instructs us to look toward the fountain, capturing our profile against sunlight glinting off water. Viktor uses the repositioning to pull me closer against him, his body hard and warm against mine. The contrast between his gentle public handling and the threatening tension in his muscles sends confused signals through my nervous system—danger and desire inextricably tangled.
"Perhaps we share that tendency," I suggest, fighting both fear and unwelcome heat spreading through me at his proximity. "The capacity for secrets."
Something shifts in his expression—satisfaction, perhaps, at engaging me in this dangerous exchange. "Then we're well-matched, after all," he murmurs. "A marriage of equals in deception."
The photo session continues for another excruciating hour—Viktor finding every legitimate excuse to touch me, each contact sending dual waves of alarm and treacherous response through my body. By the time the photographer declares himself satisfied with the results, my nerves feel flayed raw, every sense heightened to painful awareness.
"I'll have preliminary selections ready tomorrow," the photographer promises, packing his equipment quickly. "Mr. Markov requested expedited processing for the announcement."
"Thank you." Viktor's hand remains at my waist as the photographer departs, maintaining our loving couple facade until security personnel indicate the area is clear of potential observers.
Only then does his expression change, mask of affection dropping to reveal calculating assessment. The transformation is jarring—tender lover to cold predator in the space of a heartbeat. "We should discuss wedding preparations more privately," he suggests, guiding me toward a secluded garden path. "Certain details require... personal attention."
I allow the direction while maintaining proper distance between us, aware that while the photographer has left, my father's security remains at discreet perimeter positions. "I have another appointment this afternoon," I deflect smoothly, though my stomach tightens with anxiety. "Perhaps tomorrow during the scheduled meeting."
"Another secure call, perhaps?" His question lands with the weight of the world attached to it. "Your Swiss connections seem to require frequent consultation."
Before I can formulate response, voices approach from a neighboring path—Dmitri and another of my father's security captains, discussing rotation schedules. Viktor shifts seamlessly back into devoted fiancé role, though his eyes never lose their predatory focus.
"—monitoring pattern established," Dmitri's voice carries clearly as they pass nearby, unaware of our presence around a hedge corner. "Subject maintains consistent schedule. Surveillance continues as instructed."
"Baranov wants daily reports?" the second man asks, voice lower but still audible.
"Direct to him only," Dmitri confirms. "Separate from standard Markov protocols."
Their voices fade as they continue down the path, leaving devastating confirmation in their wake. Viktor has established his own surveillance network specifically targeting me, separate from my father's security systems. Monitoring my movements, my communications, potentially threatening everything I've built to protect Sofia.
The realization hits me with physical force, a blow to the solar plexus that nearly doubles me over. Only years of training keep me upright, keep my face composed while inside I scream.
"Your security team is thorough," I observe, keeping my tone light despite the fear constricting my chest. "Separate reporting channels. Impressive organizational structure."
Viktor studies me with unnerving intensity, searching for reaction beyond my controlled response. "Protection of valuable assets requires comprehensive measures," he responds finally. "Particularly those with... independent tendencies."
The threat hangs between us, clear despite diplomatic phrasing. I've been categorized as security risk requiring specialized monitoring. How close has he come to discovering Sofia? How much time remains before his surveillance network traces my communications to Switzerland?
"Perhaps I should ask my father to return the favor,” I say coolly, pleased by the flicker of confusion that passes through his eyes. “Any potential asset to my father’s name deserves the correct scrutiny.”
I turn and add quickly, “My car is waiting." I extract myself from his proximity with practiced grace. "Wedding preparations, as you noted, require attention."
"Of course." He releases me without resistance, though his eyes communicate the clear message that this conversation is merely postponed, not concluded. "Until tomorrow, Anastasia."
I maintain perfect composure until safely inside my car, privacy glass raised between myself and my father's trusted driver. Only then do I allow trembling hands to extract my secondary secure phone—the emergency line established for critical security breaches.
My fingers can barely operate the device, cold sweat breaking across my skin as I initiate the emergency protocol. The weight of what I'm about to do settles heavy across my shoulders—uprooting Sofia from her stable environment, risking movement when stillness has been our primary defense.
Anna answers immediately, abandoning protocol in response to emergency signal. "What's happened?"
"Implement Protocol Seven," I instruct, voice steady despite the fear choking me. "Surveillance detected. Potential compromise imminent."
Protocol Seven—immediate relocation of Sofia and Anna to our secondary safe house, using prearranged channels designed to leave no electronic or physical trace. The most extreme contingency we established, meant for only the gravest security threats.
"Understood." Anna's voice remains calm despite the severity of the instruction. "Estimated completion time eight hours. Communication blackout until confirmation of secure relocation."
"Proceed with maximum security." I swallow against the thickness in my throat, desperate need to hear Sofia's voice, to know she's safe, battling against security requirements. My throat constricts around the words, making them painful to push out. "Trust no one. Verify everything."
"I will protect her with my life," Anna promises—the only time she's broken professional distance to acknowledge the human reality behind our security protocols. "Confirmation will follow established channels when secure."
The line disconnects, leaving me alone with the knowledge that my daughter is now in transit to an unknown location—safer from Viktor's surveillance but facing new risks in the movement itself. The necessity of the decision does nothing to ease the cold fear spreading through me.
To think my child’s own father has pushed me to this extreme security measure. It’s unthinkable. But after his words to me today, I know without a doubt it is best not to trust him in any way. He even went so far as to throw the very “independence” he praised me for in Paris in my face today as if it makes me a liability to him.
In the privacy of the car, I allow myself thirty seconds of genuine emotion—hand pressed against my mouth to muffle the sound of ragged breathing, eyes closed against threatening tears. Thirty seconds to feel the terror and grief and rage that define my existence. The leather seat beneath me fades away, the world narrowing to the overwhelming panic that threatens to consume me. Sofia moving through the world without me, vulnerable despite Anna's protections, so far from my arms that could shield her.
Then I straighten, composure settling back into place like armor. The driver will report my behavior to my father. Viktor's separate surveillance may be monitoring even this supposedly private space. Nothing is truly secure except the iron will that has kept Sofia protected these long months.
I press my hand to my throat, feeling Sofia's locket beneath my blouse. The small silver oval contains a tiny lock of her hair—the only physical piece of my daughter I can safely keep. The metal warms against my skin, a talisman of what I'm fighting for.
Viktor Baranov may have established his surveillance network, but he's hunting secrets without understanding exactly what he's tracking. He seeks information, leverage, tactical advantage in whatever game he's playing within my father's organization.
What he doesn't know—what he cannot be allowed to discover—is that I'm not merely protecting diplomatic contacts or Bratva business connections.
I'm protecting our daughter.
And there is nothing I won't do, no line I won't cross, to keep Sofia safe from both my father's world and whatever dangerous game Viktor Baranov is playing within it.
Even if that means destroying him before he can destroy everything I've sacrificed to protect.