Vadim
Baron’s front door opens before I reach it. Gregor stands to the side to let us in, giving Taisiya a subtle once-over before he decides she is acceptable enough to walk these halls.
For now.
One word from Baron and we will both be thrown from these grounds without ceremony if the mood strikes him.
My uncle doesn’t believe in warmth unless it comes from loyalty or firepower. Everything else is weakness dressed up as comfort.
Bogdan stays behind us as we go through the hallway to Baron’s study. Not too close, but close enough to stop anyone from approaching us without losing teeth.
Taisiya walks beside me, quiet enough that I glance down to check her face. She has gone pale, but her chin stays up. Good. Baron respects fear only when it doesn’t rule the room.
“Remember what I said,” I murmur.
“Don’t lie. Don’t be stupid. Try not to get myself murdered before breakfast.”
“That’s close enough.”
“Dining room, Mr Voronov,” Gregor murmurs, passing us in the hallway to direct us.
Baron sits at the head of a twenty-seat table, fully dressed despite the hour, with a glass of vodka in front of him while he eats… dear God… lasagne.
Tai stops dead and stifles a noise that I’m not sure is a laugh or a croak.
Baron looks up. He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t need to. The entire room belongs to him because he decided it does.
“Vadim,” Baron says.
“Baron.”
His attention moves to Taisiya. He takes in the coat, the pale face, the stubborn chin, the hands she keeps still at her sides through sheer will.
“This is Taisiya Korotayeva.”
“Taisiya,” he repeats. “Sit.”
She looks at me for the smallest fraction of a second.
I pull out the chair to Baron’s left. She sits without comment, which is either a miracle or proof that she has decided survival outweighs sarcasm for now.
I take the seat beside her, boxing her in. Bogdan remains near the door. Gregor stands behind Baron’s chair, silent, hands in front of him.
Baron cuts into the lasagne with precise movements. “Do you cook?”
Her eyes flick to the lasagne. “Well enough.”
“Can you make lasagne?”
“Why do I get the feeling you already know I can?”
He smiles. It’s not cold. It’s not warm. It’ll do.
For now.
“I have a birdie who tells me lots of things about you,” he says. “No, it’s not Vadim. He has been tight-lipped. Not unusual for him. Are you sharing his bed yet?”
I make a noise that relays my disapproval as Tai chokes on her saliva.
“Baron,” I warn.
He ignores me. Of course he does.
Tai’s cheeks are practically on fire.
Baron sets down his cutlery. Gregor’s expression remains blank, but I know amusement when I see it repressed within an inch of its life.
I place my hand on Tai’s knee under the table. Not to silence her. To remind her I’m here. She doesn’t push me away.
Baron studies her for a few seconds, then looks at me. “Why are you here before dawn?”
“We needed this meeting, face-to-face. I need you involved by having laid eyes on her and hopefully have your approval of her. Ruslan Tarasov came to my gate tonight and demanded I hand her over.”
The atmosphere changes.
Baron picks up his vodka and drinks. “And what did you do about that?”
“Killed four of his men, but not before I got this off one of them.” I hand over the phone with the text message.
Baron leans over and takes it, glancing at the screen. When he sees his name, his face tightens. “Oh really,” he drawls, handing the phone back to me. “Well, consider me involved.”
I smile. I knew it. Baron is the most obstinate man alive. He will do the opposite of what anyone wants him to do just because he can. If someone doesn’t want him involved in a situation, he will make it his life’s mission to be as involved as he can.
He turns his head slightly, and Gregor steps up. “Let it be known that Taisiya Korotayeva is now under Voronov protection by my order.”
“Yes, sir,” he murmurs.
“Just like that?” Tai asks.
“Just like that,” Baron says.
Tai looks at him, then at me. “That seems too easy.”
“It isn’t easy,” Baron replies. “It is simple. There is a difference.”
She goes quiet, but I feel the tension in her leg beneath my hand. I keep my palm there. She allows it, which tells me more than she probably wants it to.
A plate of lasagne appears in front of her first and then me.
“Eat,” Baron says, picking up his cutlery again.
Tai stares at the plate. “Do you always eat lasagne for breakfast?”
Baron cuts another neat piece. “I am a man who has survived many attempts on my life. I will eat what I want when I want.”
Tai picks up her fork. “Honestly, I respect that.”
“Good. Respect keeps people alive in this family.”
Her hand stills for a fraction before she forces herself to take a bite. She chews, swallows, and keeps her face neutral.
Baron notices anyway. “Not as good as yours?”
She hesitates.
“Don’t lie,” I remind her.
She sets the fork down with care. “No.”
Gregor makes a small sound behind Baron’s chair.
Baron turns his head slightly. “Did you just laugh in my dining room?”
“No, sir.”
“You did.”
“No, sir.”
Baron’s attention returns to Tai. “Good. You have courage.”
“She insulted your lasagne,” I point out.
“She answered truthfully.”
“You made this?” she croaks, her face ashen, eyes wide with terror.
“I did. Clearly, I have something to learn.”
“I—I’m not an expert,” she blurts out. “What do I know?”
“You have opinions on what tastes good and doesn’t. Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“Baron,” I warn him as he sits back with a smirk.
“Show me how to cook lasagne.”
“No,” I say, putting my hand on Tai’s arm. “You can’t ask her that and, Tai, you don’t need to do anything of the sort.”
“But I want to,” she says carefully. “Now?”
Baron gestures with his hands in a ‘why not’ gesture.
I stare at her.
She looks back, calm in a way I don’t trust.
“You want to cook lasagne for my uncle at dawn?” I ask.
“I’ve made worse decisions in the last twenty-four hours.”
Baron laughs once. “I like her.”
“That should worry me,” I say.
Baron’s amusement deepens. “Come.”
He stands, and everyone in the room adjusts without thinking. Gregor moves first, opening the dining room door. Bogdan glances at me. I give him a small nod. He follows, eyes on Baron, an expression on his face that borders on curiosity from the man.
I move with Tai, keeping close enough to stop her if this proves too much. She doesn’t look at me for help. She would rather walk into a Bratva pakhan’s kitchen and critique his cooking than admit she needs steadying.
Baron leads us through a short passage into an immaculate kitchen that looks unused despite clearly being used often.
Steel, marble, knives lined with an exactness that makes me wonder if any of these have been used to stab a man in the neck.
Clearly, Tai is thinking the same as she gulps and looks anywhere else.
“What exactly are you testing her for?” I ask as Baron hands her an apron before putting one on himself.
“To see if she will make you a good wife.”
Tai stifles the noise that came out of her throat like a growl.
We all heard it anyway.
“I’ve already told her she will be my wife. Whether she cooks or not isn’t really something I’m interested in.”
“It should be,” he says, his gaze boring into mine. “You told her?”
“I’m standing right here,” Tai snaps and then presses her lips together when Baron shoots her a glance.
“Yes, you are standing there not doing anything,” he says.
That gets her arse moving. She crosses to the fridge first. “A little help finding the ingredients? Or do you expect me to ransack your pristine kitchen to find it all?”
Gregor moves before Baron answers, opening a tall pantry door and then the fridge.
Tai points at him. “No. If I’m doing this, he isn’t hovering like I’m going to steal the parmesan.”
Gregor looks to Baron.
Baron looks delighted. “Let her work.”
Gregor steps back, but not far. His loyalty outweighs his manners.
Tai washes her hands, then stands in front of the open fridge with a focus that pulls the room toward her despite the company she’s in.
She takes out mince, milk, butter, cheese, carrots, celery, and an onion, setting everything on the counter with more confidence than I expected after the last forty-eight hours she’s had.
“What’s wrong with mine?” Baron asks.
She pauses with one hand on the onion. “Do you want the polite answer?”
“No.”
“You rushed the sauce. You didn’t season the meat properly. Your cheese sauce was too thick, and I suspect you used dried herbs that have been sitting in a cupboard since the Soviet Union.”
She did not just say…
Silence.
Bogdan looks at the ceiling.
Gregor looks at the floor.
I stare at her because this woman is going to get herself killed over a tray of pasta.
Baron’s face gives nothing away. “Anything else?”
She hesitates.
“Speak, girl. You’ve come this far.”
“She’s right about the herbs,” I say before Tai can dig the grave deeper.
Baron’s eyes move to me. “Did I ask you?”
“No.”
“Then shut up.”
Tai draws in a breath and looks at the ingredients. “Your pasta sheets were marginally overcooked.”
Gregor’s control breaks for half a second. He turns away.
Baron points a finger at him without looking. “You are very close to unemployment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You cannot fire him,” I say. “He’d never leave anyway.”
“He can live in the gatehouse and think about his failures.”
Tai mutters, “This family is insane,” and starts peeling the onion.
Baron watches her hands. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I worked in a pub kitchen for a while before I changed jobs to the bar. The cook was a drunk, and I had to learn quickly or be fired. It was too stressful, and the pay sucked.”
“And yet you said earlier you cook ‘well enough’. Was that being modest, Miss Korotayeva?”
Tai glances at him, then keeps chopping. “It was being Russian. If I say I cook well, someone’s aunt appears from nowhere and tells me I’ve brought shame to my ancestors by not using enough dill.”
Baron’s mouth doesn’t move, but something in his eyes shifts. “Sounds like Aunt Yulia.”
I snort. I’ve never met the woman, but she was apparently the fiercest Russian woman known to man. Died childless and alone and was miserable till her last.
Tai’s hands move through the routine. Onion, carrot, celery. She handles the knife well. Not expertly, but with confidence. She avoids looking at the blade too long, but she keeps going anyway.
Baron makes a small sound of approval and reaches for the bottle of vodka from the cupboard.
“It’s too early for that,” I comment.
“I already told you to shut up,” he says and pours out a measure for himself and no one else.
Not a single person complains even when they don’t want it.
I pull out a stool and settle back to watch this spectacle, growing more impressed with this woman as the minutes tick by.