7. Power Plays and Pominki #2
My sedan pulled to a stop just as another car did the same a few paces away.
Mikhail stepped out almost simultaneously.
For a beat, we simply stood there, looking at each other across the cold gravel.
He was the first to speak. “I expected you’d be at the hospital.”
I glanced down at the fresh linen bandaged around my palm. “It wasn’t necessary.”
“No?”
“The cut is superficial. Besides, we already have one Romanov in a hospital bed—we hardly need another, don’t you think?”
He frowned. His eyes lingered on the white cloth before shifting back to my face. “A shame.”
“It’ll heal.”
“I wasn’t referring to your hand.”
“Neither was I.”
I closed the distance until barely a single step separated us.
“You chose an interesting place to test your luck.”
“The cemetery?”
“The funeral.”
“It wasn’t me who brought a knife,” he murmured.
“No,” I replied evenly. “It wasn’t.”
A heavy silence settled between us, the cold wind cutting across the drive, before Mikhail leaned in just far enough for my ears alone.
“I’ll admit…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “…I didn’t think he’d break quite that easily.”
I held his gaze without flinching. “You made one mistake.”
“Only one?”
“You assumed today’s performance was to break him.”
For the first time all day, his faint, arrogant smile faltered.
I stepped past him, then paused, speaking softly without bothering to turn around.
“The performance begins now.”
I continued toward the grand entrance. Behind me, the driveway remained completely silent—which meant, Mikhail was actually forced to think.
* * *
Seven Romanovs sat around the long dining table inside the Manor.
Father occupied the head of the table, as he always had. To his right sat Irina, with Mikhail and Svetlana beside her. Mother sat opposite Father, Anka to her left, and finally… me.
One chair remained empty: Vladimir’s. He still hadn’t regained consciousness, and though the doctors remained optimistic, I didn’t share their faith.
The dining room itself had changed little over the years.
White marble floors reflected the afternoon light spilling through tall windows, while crystal chandeliers hung motionless above us, their silence almost reverent.
The table, carved from a single slab of dark walnut, had seated generations of Romanovs before us. Today, it seated seven.
Seven Romanovs: one grieving, one plotting, one waiting, and the rest simply watching.
Pominki was never meant to be loud. It wasn’t a celebration, nor was it even a funeral; it was remembrance—the meal shared after the burial, a final invitation for the living to speak kindly of the dead before returning to lives that inevitably moved forward.
Olga and the household staff moved quietly around us, setting out bowl after bowl: kutya, blini, pirozhki, borscht, salted fish, and fresh fruit. No one reached for the food yet.
Father folded his hands before him. “The priest asked that we begin with a moment of silence.”
No one objected, and for one full minute, White Manor became perfectly still. No phones, no conversation. The only sound was the faint ticking of the grandfather clock against the far wall.
When the minute ended, Father crossed himself. “May her memory be eternal.”
“May her memory be eternal,” the rest of us echoed.
The meal began quietly—far too quietly. Forks scraped porcelain and glasses touched polished wood, but no one seemed particularly interested in eating. Everyone was waiting for someone else to break the ice.
I allowed the silence to linger just a little longer. Timing was everything.
Mikhail beat me to it. “So,” he began, setting his fork neatly beside his plate. “Why is the boy absent?”
Every conversation that had threatened to begin died immediately. No one looked at him; they stared at their plates, their glasses—anywhere except at the source of the question.
I reached for the fruit bowl instead, selecting an apple that Olga had polished until it reflected the chandelier above. I turned it once in my hand before taking a slow bite, the crisp snap echoing far louder than it should have in the quiet room.
I took a second to swallow, letting the quiet pool around us before finally speaking.
“He needed rest.”
Mikhail smiled faintly. “Convenient.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response.
Irina glanced at my untouched plate. “You’re not eating?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Your hand?”
“It’ll heal.”
“You should eat regardless.”
Silence returned, thicker this time, until three knocks sounded against the dining room doors. Every head turned as Lev entered, his posture as immaculate as ever, stopping just beside the doorway.
“Sir.”
I looked up.
“She’s here.”
The room frowned in unison. Father looked between the two of us. “Who?”
I folded my napkin neatly onto the table. “Send her in.”
Lev inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
He stepped aside, and a heartbeat later, Inessa crossed the threshold.
She wore the black dress Lev had arranged.
Elegant, and entirely appropriate for mourning.
She looked nothing like the broken woman I’d seen days ago, her face was still pale.
The fading bruises on her wrists hadn’t escaped my notice, nor had the raw fear she struggled to hide.
The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Forks froze mid-air, Irina’s wine glass remained suspended halfway to her lips, and Father’s brows drew tight. Svetlana looked openly confused.
Mikhail didn’t move—not even a blink. Only the slightest locking of his jaw betrayed him.
Beside me, Mother leaned closer, her gaze locked on Inessa, her voice barely a whisper.
“…Zhenya. What exactly is going on?”
Without taking my eyes off Inessa, I answered Mother in a quiet voice.
“Just watch, Mother.”
She studied me for a second, then nodded as the realization set in. She leaned back, saying nothing more.
Lev pulled out a chair, and Inessa sat down carefully, murmuring a barely audible thank you before lowering her gaze to the polished wood.
No one moved. No one offered small talk.
Then, she reached for the kutya—not cautiously, but with an unmistakable hunger. She had barely finished the first spoonful before reaching for a second, then a serving of blini, then more kutya.
The table watched in complete silence. She wasn’t eating crudely; she was eating like someone who had forgotten what it felt like to have a full stomach. The sheer urgency of it made the room uncomfortable, prompting even Irina to slowly lower her fork.
Father’s gaze shifted from Inessa to me, his expression hardening.
“Zhenya.”
I looked up.
“You really don’t learn, do you?” His voice was perfectly controlled, which somehow made it land heavier. “You insist on turning every family gathering into a spectacle.”
I dabbed the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “Relax, Father.” I glanced toward Inessa. “She simply wished to pay her respects.”
Father held my gaze for a beat before looking away. He knew better than to push the argument in front of the rest of the family.
Silence settled back over the table. I let it stretch, waiting until Inessa had forced herself to slow her pace before I finally spoke.
“When did you return to Russia?”
Her hand froze halfway to her glass. “I…” She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes glued to the tablecloth. “…about three weeks ago.”
I drifted a glance toward Mikhail. He was still—far too still.
“And where were you staying?”
Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. “I moved around.”
“Moved around?”
“Hotels.”
“Which ones?”
She blinked. “I… I don’t remember all the names.”
“No? Most people remember where they sleep.”
A bead of sweat ran down her temple despite the chill in the room. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I see.”
The quiet dragged on as she fidgeted beneath the table, her breathing growing noticeably shallow.
I leaned back, tossing out the next question as casually as if I were bringing up the weather. “How were you supporting yourself?”
Silence.
She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “I…”
Across the table, Mikhail adjusted his tie—once, then again. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible, but laced with impatience.
I caught it. So did Mother.
Inessa caught it too; her eyes darted to Mikhail before shifting back to me. Every single person at the table saw the connection.
I let a faint smile touch my lips and tilted my head. “Last I heard, your family had relocated to the Netherlands due to financial issues…” I folded my hands on the table. “Yet somehow…”
Her breathing turned ragged. “I…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
The room had grown suffocatingly still. Father hadn’t touched his plate in minutes, and Irina was watching Inessa with open suspicion. No one interrupted; no one stepped in to rescue her.
Suddenly, Inessa pushed her chair back, the legs scraping loudly across the marble floor.
“I…” She couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact. “…I’d like to leave.”
I gave a single nod. “As you wish.”
I glanced at Lev. “Escort her out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lev stepped forward immediately. Inessa stood so quickly her chair nearly toppled, mumbling a fractured apology to the room before following Lev through the heavy double doors.
The doors clicked shut behind them.
No one picked up their fork. Every Romanov sitting at that table was asking the exact same question, even if not a single one dared to voice it aloud.
I gave them five minutes.
Five minutes to return to their meals, to convince themselves the worst of the discomfort had passed, to believe that was the end of it.
I picked up my water glass and tapped my fork once against the crystal.
The soft ringing cut straight through the room. Conversations snapped shut, every head turning toward me at once.
Good. The first move had landed exactly where it needed to. Time for the second.
I set the fork down. “I have one final family matter to discuss.”
Father leaned back in his chair. Irina’s face hardened instantly, while Mikhail attempted a look of bored indifference—and failed.