7. Aleksandr #2
For me to punish her? Make an example out of her so thoroughly she never forgets where she stands again?
Or do I do something far worse—do I do nothing?
Let her think she got away with it. Let the silence stretch long enough between us to suffocate her.
For anticipation to do the work punishment never could and convince her that every passing footstep outside her door is me coming to finally collect the debt she owes just like I did with her father.
Fear matures beautifully when given time.
Or perhaps this is the time I test her instead. See how far she’s willing to go now that she’s crossed the line. It would intrigue me more to see whether tonight was her lashing out in desperation to try and gain control again or something else entirely.
Part of me doesn’t want her submission. It wants to see how far she’ll go before she realizes she’s standing up against a man who has never once lost control of any situation. How would my caged bird react then?
A slow pulse of heat settles low in my gut at the idea.
“Aleksandr.”
Malyshko’s voice slices cleanly through the haze.
I blink once as the world slams back into place around me.
The long oak table stretches before me like an execution block.
Low amber light pools across its surface, turning crystal glasses into fractured mirrors that reflect pieces of every man seated here.
Condensation slides slowly down the sides of the untouched drinks, the only movement in a room that has suddenly gone utterly still.
I realize within seconds that I am already seated inside the war room. Both hands rest where they always do on the arms of the chair I’ve always occupied for the last decade as three men watch me.
I have absolutely no memory of sitting down, let alone the meeting starting at all. The realization irritates me more than it should. Katerina has become far more of a distraction than I’ve realized.
My spine straightens almost imperceptibly, a reflex older than pride at this point.
Even someone like me recognizes the hierarchy that stands before them.
Authority bleeds from Malyshko in the same suffocating way it did from his father.
His pale eyes rest on me, unblinking, as if he has all the time in the world to force my realignment.
Across from me, Sokolov leans back in his seat, fingers steepled beneath his chin, elbows resting comfortably on the armrests. His expression is neutral, but I’ve known him long enough to recognize the faint shift of delight in his eyes.
For once, it isn’t him being dissected beneath Malyshko’s unwavering gaze.
“Care to join us?” Malyshko asks, his voice soft and almost polite.
Anyone else might mistake it for a gentle nudge back into the conversation, but all I hear is the reprimand simmering beneath it. This is not a request for participation. It is a reminder of hierarchy that has had us all in a chokehold these last few years.
Malyshko does not raise his voice to command a room the way most men in his position would.
He has never needed to. All three of us are acutely aware of what happens to those he deems discardable.
This circle tolerates many things—violence, greed, ambition to name a few—but it does not tolerate weakness.
Getting distracted like this is the first symptom of it, and Malyshko has always been far too eager to enforce that silent agreement.
I open my mouth to answer with something smooth, a half-sincere apology wrapped in charm to deflect from the unexpected attention I’ve accidentally captured. It’s a game of tight rope I’ve walked for years, deflecting until his attention is finally turned on someone else.
But he doesn’t give me the chance.
He leans back in his chair instead and continues in that same deceptively casual tone that has never failed to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When his eyes fixate on my bruised cheek, he says, “I heard you’ve recently made an addition to your household.”
My smile tightens automatically, suspicion coiling in my gut.
How does he know?
I haven’t announced anything. There has been no formal declaration to the Pact of any kind.
The contract has been locked away in my safe, still unfiled.
Katerina remains trapped inside my estate with no access to the outside world.
The only people who’ve seen her are my staff and my enforcers, all of whom understand with brutal clarity what happens to loose tongues.
And yet Nikolai Malyshko knows she’s under my roof.
Which means one of three things—someone talked, someone saw something they weren’t supposed to see when coming to my estate for trade deals, or one option that is objectively much worse than the other two. Nikolai has eyes on me from inside my own residence.
The last possibility settles in my gut uncomfortably.
I’ve always suspected he keeps tabs on the Pact in ways none of us can fully trace.
You do not orchestrate a coup inside your own Bratva and execute men who once swore loyalty to your father indefinitely and remain alive without developing some kind of pathological relationship with those still remaining.
He trusts no one.
Not fully.
Not even the men who helped him climb to power or the generals who pledged their undying loyalty to him after his coup. Not even the ones who now sit at this table with him and rule over Moscow as a collective.
Trust in his world is unthinkable.
Stupidly, I allowed myself to believe my history with his father carried more weight than it apparently does. Years of service and loyalty mean nothing. I thought that bought me an exception from this level of scrutiny.
Apparently not.
The son does not inherit his father’s sentiment.
Across the table, Malyshko continues to watch me with that infuriating stillness, waiting to see if I ask how he knows.
I won’t. I refuse to. Asking gives him leverage over me that I would otherwise prefer not to subject myself to.
It implies that he unsettled me enough to demand clarification.
Instead, I lean back slightly in my chair, mirroring his relaxed posture with deliberate ease.
If he wants to test whether I feel cornered or not, he will end up feeling disappointed.
I’m not the one to use as a play toy when he needs to exercise his grip of control.
That position is reserved for Kuznetsov.
“I’m surprised you’ve had the time to invest in knowing the guests coming and going from my home,” I say after a minute.
His brow twitches.
It’s subtle. So subtle that most men in this room would miss it entirely if they weren’t staring at him the way I am.
It follows with a fractional tightening at the edge of his eye and a minute shift in the angle of his head.
I’ve spent too many years sitting across tables from him not to notice the hairline fractures cracking through the apathy.
Interesting.
Have I unexpectedly hit a nerve?
It’s always been difficult to read him. Malyshko conducts himself like a man who has already calculated every possible ending before the first word of a conversation has even been spoken.
There is no scrambling with him, only carefully measured responses delivered in that low, almost soothing tone that makes most men lean closer without realizing they’re being drawn toward the edge of a blade.
It lulls opponents into believing they’re being granted grace when in reality he’s simply deciding whether the execution will be quick or excruciating.
His father wielded authority in a similar fashion.
However, the one stark difference between them is that the old man could never keep the rage contained.
It erupted without warning at Pact meetings as shouted accusations and crystal tumblers shattered against marble floors.
I still remember the metallic scent of blood after one particularly disastrous vote had quickly shifted into a brawl between us.
Nikolai Malyshko had learned from that spectacle. Instead, his displeasure comes in colder forms. Not once in the three years since he took the throne have I seen him truly angry.
Until that twitch.
It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, smoothed away by the same immaculate composure he wears like tailored armor.
His expression resets into an expression that looks almost amused.
But I know what I saw. If I’ve unsettled him, then this isn’t simply a passing interest he’s decided to indulge in by scrutinizing what I’m doing outside of these meetings.
If he knows about Katerina before I’ve uttered her name within Pact walls, then eyes have been on my estate far longer than I realized.
“It isn’t so much as me investing interests in your guests. It’s about reminding you all not to indulge in certain attachments,” he says evenly.
Then, deliberately, he shifts his eyes to Sokolov.