Vadim
Idon’t like taking her to Arseny.
I do it anyway.
That is marriage, apparently. Compromise. A list of things I don’t like doing but do because my wife looks at me with those stubborn eyes and makes my refusal feel like cowardice.
Tai sits beside me with her hands in her lap. The sapphire looks obscene against the casual clothes she chose. A family stone on a woman who still hasn’t decided whether she wants a father, a lawyer, a criminal empire, or breakfast.
She watches London through the passenger window without speaking. Her jaw is set. Her face gives away too much and not enough. Fear, determination, exhaustion, curiosity, and anger at herself for having any of the others.
I keep one hand on the wheel and one on the gearshift because touching her right now will either calm her or make her bolt out of the moving car to prove a point.
“You can change your mind,” I say. “You can tell me to turn around at any point.”
“I know.”
“If you go quiet one more time, I’m going to start assuming things, and you hate when I do that.”
She looks at me then. “What are you assuming?”
“That you’re preparing a speech,” I say. “Or a knife. Possibly both.”
Her lips press together. “I don’t have a knife.”
“Not the point.”
“I’m not preparing anything. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him.”
“Start with hello.”
“That feels inadequate for meeting a man who may have provided half my DNA.”
“Then start with, ‘Where the fuck have you been?’”
She turns back to the window. “Tempting.”
“I can hold him down if you want to hit him.”
“Very generous.”
“I’m a generous husband.”
“You’re a violent husband.” She lets out a quiet breath.
Not a laugh, but close enough that I take the win.
The tension eases by one fraction and no more.
I still don’t like this. I don’t like driving her across London into Kaverin territory.
I don’t like the way Arseny looked at Bogdan.
I don’t like the way Baron gave up the address too fast, like he expected this turn before I did.
I especially don’t like that Tai asked and I said okay.
This is why men used to keep wives locked in towers. Not because of virtue, but because it was easier on the nerves.
When we pull up to the gates, they slide open before I’ve even come to a full stop. “Oh, I don’t like that,” I murmur.
“What?” Tai asks.
“They opened the gates without even checking.”
“Maybe he is expecting me? Baron might’ve told him.”
“Or he saw us approaching from down the road, knows my car by sight and opened up the gate on the very big assumption that you aren’t going to bolt.”
“I’m not bolting,” she says as I drive forward, despite every instinct telling me to turn around and drive home.
“You sure?” I ask, looking up at the Georgian house with more than a little trepidation.
“I am.”
I park the car next to a black SUV and cut the engine. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Tai places her hand on my arm to stop me from climbing out. “No,” she says. “I’m going in alone.”
“Like fuck you are,” I growl, turning to face her fully. “Not a fucking chance in hell.”
“Vadim—”
“No. Absolutely fucking not.”
“Absolutely fucking yes.”
“You are insane.”
“That’s my line,” she says with a soft smirk. “Guess the Voronov is rubbing off on me.”
“Taisiya—”
She grips my face and leans forward to kiss me quiet. “I’m going in alone.”
For one dangerous second, I consider locking the doors.
Her thumb strokes once along my jaw. It is not gentle enough to be soothing. It is a warning.
“Don’t make me fight you before I have to fight him,” she says.
My hand tightens on the gearshift. “You think this is bravery. It isn’t. It’s stupidity.”
“Maybe. But it’s mine.”
That stops me because she knows exactly where to strike now. Choice. Baron’s stupid advice has become a weapon in her hand.
I look at the house again. The curtains are half drawn on the ground floor. There are two cameras visible. One man at the side gate pretending not to exist, while another shadow moves behind glass near the front door. Kaverin’s men are present but controlled. No theatre. No show of force.
Still, I hate it.
“If anything feels wrong, you walk out,” I say. “You don’t drink anything.”
She gives me a look. “He’s possibly my father, not a weirdo offering me sweets from a van.”
“I don’t care.”
“I gathered.”
“I’m coming in if you’re gone longer than ten minutes.”
“Fifteen.”
“Ten.”
“Vadim.”
“Ten, take it or leave it.”
“Is this your version of compromise?”
“Yes.”
“Noted,” she murmurs. “Here’s mine. I forgot to tell Ivan that some headphones are coming to the house, so I can listen to my TV without disturbing you. Will you tell him now?”
I grind my teeth together. “You did that?”
She smiles softly. “I’m not a monster.”
I stare at her.
She gives me that look. The one that says she knows I’m angry, knows I’m worried, and has decided both are my problem.
“I’ll tell Ivan.”
“Thank you.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twelve.”
She considers it with exaggerated seriousness. “Twelve and a half.”
“Get out before I change my mind.”
She kisses me once more, quick this time, then opens the door and steps out into Kaverin’s driveway. I watch her walk up to the door and get out.
She shoots me a look, but I hold my hands up and lean against the bonnet, folding my arms as I wait for her to go inside.
The front door opens before she reaches it.
Arseny stands there himself.
No butler. No lieutenant. No bullshit display of hierarchy. Just the Kaverin pakhan in a dark shirt and trousers, his face unreadable as my wife stops two paces from him.
I can’t hear what they say.
That alone makes my blood pressure spike.
Tai’s chin lifts. Arseny steps aside.
She goes in. The door closes, and I look at my watch, starting the countdown. Twelve and a half minutes starts now.
My phone is already in my hand. I call Ivan.
He answers on the first ring. “Sir?”
“Headphones are being delivered. Tai ordered them. Make sure they go to the bedroom.”
A pause. “Very considerate of her.”
I stare at the closed front door. “Anything from Roman?”
“The Met are apparently on fire. Figuratively speaking, of course. They—ahem—were apparently hacked at 3 AM this morning and lost several caseloads of evidence.”
“Did they now?” I ask with a slow smile. “CCTV footage around Camberwell?”
“All wiped or corrupted.”
“How interesting.” And Baron complains when I use the backdoor.
“Witness statements?” I ask.
“Contradictory. One now says he saw Mr Melnikov arguing with another man after Miss Korotayeva left the bar. Another says he never saw Miss Korotayeva at all. A third has decided he was too drunk to remember his own name.”
“Roman works fast.”
“Roman works expensively.”
“Worth it.”
“Debatable,” Ivan says. “He asked that you stop answering police questions on the doorstep like an amateur.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“You won’t, but I’ll pass it along.”
I hang up and smile. Ellis will be shitting himself over losing the evidence he had and will likely blame the Voronov family, but those complaints rarely go further up the food chain.
There are too many men and women working for the Bratva from the inside to ensure our lives remain off police radar.
Putting my phone away, I stare at the door and look at my watch.