Chapter 2 - Anton #2
Such enmity could never exist between these men, with their honeyed bonds. It’s present in how Valentin Yuri storms in like a thundercloud and comes to stand beside Trifon, their shoulders overlapping, as if he’s prepared to be a shield for his brother, his Pakhan.
“You look like the fucking executioner, Zakharov,” he sneers.
“A messenger of bad news,” I correct.
Trifon doesn’t blink twice any easier than I do. “Deliver it.”
“We have a mole on our hands.”
Trifon crooks a skeptical brow. “We?”
There is a flash of vindication in my chest. I’m quick to deduce that the brothers have no idea what I’m talking about.
I’ve sat across from both of them at a poker table before.
I can tell. I’ve got the superior brigadier on my team.
And now, at least, it puts me in a better position on the chessboard to be the one who gets to relay the bad news.
“We,” I confirm.
“Go on, Anton.”
“One of my brigadiers brought the news today. Someone’s poking a hole in this alliance, and they’re coming for the crown.”
Valentin’s shoulders are set stiffly. “Is this an accusation, Zakharov?”
“Does it feel like one?”
His eyes narrow. “It d—”
Instinctively, we all still and go silent at the click-clack of someone’s high-heeled gait approaching. My stomach lurches when the sinful, luscious scent of her perfume precedes her entrance.
“Darya,” Trifon greets, and the lines in his face immediately soften for his sister.
Valentin struts towards her and greets her with an embrace.
Yet her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, zeroed in right on me. Her stare reminds me of a cat’s, though I’ve never met a cat with eyes so painfully blue. My pulse isn’t unaffected. “Miss Yuri,” I say, chin dipping towards my chest.
“Oh, you’ve got a visitor,” she says to her brother.
I don’t trust the note of innocent surprise in her voice for a second.
When it comes to Darya Yuri, I’ve learned better.
She’s made fucking sure of it.
So, why does the instantaneous loss of her attention grate on me? “We’ve established that I’m a messenger of bad news,” I say, stealing her focus back. It works. Her impossible eyes return to me.
In a cloyingly sweet tone, Darya purrs, “Well, don’t you worry about it—little ol’ me only came to take my niece to breakfast.” Everything about her, from the docile bat of her lashes to the perfectly pearly smile curling her lips, is a performance. A beautiful one. One I don’t believe.
“Zinaida will be thrilled,” Trifon cuts in. Barbs of irritation snag inside me. “I’ll call up Delia in the nursery. Yulia had a late shift, and she’s getting some well-earned sleep.”
“Fantastic,” Darya beams at him. The nature of this smile is innately different than the one she’d aimed at me, like a weapon.
When she talks to her brother, it is with a slight crookedness and no teeth.
When she pivots towards me, the teeth have returned.
“Don’t let me interrupt.” Her words say one thing, and the way she traipses across the room and sinks meticulously into a seat on the leather couch by the window says wholly another.
It becomes quickly and glaringly obvious that this debriefing will continue beneath her spectatorship.
Her brothers see no issue with it. Intriguing, since I know for a fact that the Yuris are extremely keen on keeping their women—their wives, yes, but particularly their sisters—out of Bratva business.
As far as I know, that hasn’t changed. And yet, here Darya sits.
Valentin clears his throat, cutting a path to the tray on the sideboard, and pours out a cup of what smells like significantly potent coffee. He brings the cup to his sister. I don’t miss the two spoons of sugar he stirs in first.
Meanwhile, Trifon murmurs into the landline he’d dialed into in the periphery. It is evident that my brief upper hand was short-lived. The point is hammered home when Trifon hangs up and then commands, “You were saying?”
I blink, unamused. “I believe Valentin was about to share whether or not he sees my courtesy as an accusation.”
Valentin’s mouth presses into a hard line. “It doesn’t feel like a courtesy,” he says through grit teeth.
“Feelings are not facts. The only court they hold up in is one of your private opinions.”
“God, you’re a prick,” Valentin scoffs.
From the couch, Darya intercepts: “He came alone, Val.”
Both brows raised, Trifon looks at her.
Darya lets loose a short, breathy laugh.
“Relatively,” she amends, with a tilt of her head towards the door, beyond which my guards await.
She tells on herself in doing so. She already knew her brothers had a ‘visitor’ before she interrupted.
I’d put money on her knowing it was me, too.
“If it were an accusation, wouldn’t it make infinitely more sense to bring more people and fewer manners? ”
Trifon clears his throat. “Fair point.”
“Mmm,” Darya hums and takes a sip. She says nothing else.
“Where your intel ends, ours can begin. What do you have so far?”
I share what I can, what Anastasia gave me: trade routes, contacts, and shipment schedules being compromised. The two-week window she’s confirmed. A smokescreen theory that the noise of rumors circulating in our world may likely be a cover for a singular, targeted breach.
When I’m finished, there is silence.
Until Trifon says, “The theory has merit.”
“Do you suspect anyone on your end?” Valentin brusquely asks.
“Not yet. My brigadier is—”
“Your brigadier,” Darya intones. “That would be Anastasia Zakharov, yes? Your paternal cousin, daughter of your advisor?”
I stare at her.
It’s confirmation enough for her, apparently.
Darya continues, “She’s made a reputation of excellence for herself.
It precedes her.” She looks down at her hand, the one not holding the saucer, balancing her teacup, and examines her immaculate manicure.
My vision threatens to turn the brilliant red of her polish.
“She’s earned her rank, yes.”
“Was she still holding it throughout the three years your brother was operating behind your back, right under your nose?”
The molecules of air in the room harden to pebbles and bear their weight down. Heavy. Merciless.
Darya’s eyes are wide, an imitation of the guileless.
“I only ask because—well, and forgive me, I’m just a woman and this is way, way above my pay grade—but if the systems didn’t catch Viktor’s erecting an entire empire behind your back, in a different city, for over two years, does it make sense to rely on them to hunt this mole? ”
“Darya.” Trifon’s voice carries a note of warning. It’s useless.
Doe-eyed sweetness is Darya’s weapon of choice now.
She aims it at her brother and excuses herself, “I apologize, Trif. It’s a genuine question.
And I’m positive such a high-level, cool-headed leader like Anton appreciates transparency.
He isn’t a man who respects silly platitudes.
” Her gaze cuts back to me. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Zakharov? ”
That strike was just for me. I don’t look at her brothers to check whether they understood it; I’m sure they look fucking confused. But I’m not. I see her. I see her game. I only wish the heat that rises within me were pure, uncomplicated wrath.
“Yes,” I say. “The systems in place have failed before. I’ve acknowledged as much.”
“Have you?”
“That’s what the frivolous parties have been, haven’t they?”
There’s undeniable vindication in watching her eyes flash at me. Did that sting? Mine taunt.
She responds aloud: “Frivolity is a weapon someone in your position can’t afford to scoff at.”
“My position,” I echo.
“Do you have better weapons than frivolity at your disposal?” she counters.
“A changed methodology. We’ll run blind tests. False information can be systematically planted. The breach will surface.” It’s an idea I pull out of my ass, but I don’t let a line in my fucking face betray this.
Valentin grunts, reminding me he exists. “And what, we’re meant to lie to our own men? What right do we have to demand loyalty when we test theirs like that?”
“If the loyalty was so bulletproof, there would be no mole. That’s actually clever,” Trifon cuts in. “Whose idea’s that?”
I scoff. “Mine,” I say sharply. “As your sister so kindly complimented, I’m a high-level leader, Trifon. You Yuris would do well to remember it.”
“Do the Zakharovs?” Valentin jeers.
“Is Viktor aware of the situation?” Darya switches gears.
“He is in New York.”
Her laughter puffs past her lips again. “That isn’t an answer.”
“Sure it is. If you can read between the lines, Darya.”
Impatiently, Valentin interrupts. “Why not?”
I shoot him an annoyed look. “Because I’m careful about who I trust with sensitive information. I’d recommend you do the same.”
“Even with your brother,” Darya says, and I swear it sounds like a question. And a test, for that matter.
I nod.
She’s silent for a pause no one else fills. Aware of her brothers, I can feel their eyes on me. I’m being watched. It’s all I can do to moderate what they see, splayed out in all its glory, all over my fucking face.
Darya sets the saucer down on the coffee table and rises to her feet. Pleasantly, unfettered, she announces, “Well, that’s terribly lonely, isn’t it?” This time, it isn’t a question. “I’ll leave you, men to your dire Bratva machinations. I’ve kept Zina waiting long enough.”
She drops a kiss on each of her brothers’ cheeks.
She passes me by without stopping—without hesitation or a look back.
The parting inhale of her perfume burns in my lungs in an unquenchable fire. At least I’ve grown used to it. There are some fires one can’t put out, apparently.
Darya Yuri has taught me this, too.
“If you’re done staring at our sister—” Valentin snaps his fingers in front of my face. “—we’re going to need more of a fucking debrief than ‘someone’s poking a hole in the alliance’.”
Picking up where Valentin leaves off, “For instance, how are you so sure it’s just one person? Aren’t rebellions typically a group effort?” Trifon asks.