11. Sasha #3
The question is deceptively simple. I frown despite myself. “And me, what?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite into a smile but close enough to make my skin prickle with unease.
“Your opinion, Sasha,” he clarifies. “What is it?”
My lips part slightly, more from surprise than any real lack of words.
He almost never asks for my opinion outright. Not like this, at least. Not without already having his own conclusions firmly in place. When Nikolai solicits input, it’s usually to test alignment or to see who will contradict him and how boldly they’ll do it.
I feel the weight of Volkov’s attention sharpen from across the table. Kuznetsov’s gaze flicks between us, cautious and curious in equal measure.
I straighten subtly in my chair, choosing my words with care.
“My opinion,” I begin slowly, “is that whoever orchestrated these attacks knows the city well. They’re not acting blindly. The timing, the locations, the execution… it all points to someone who understands how to apply pressure without drawing too much attention all at once.”
I pause, just long enough to let that settle over them.
Then, I continue. “They want disruption, not collapse. Chaos creates opportunity, but only if it’s tightly controlled. Whoever this is seems to be testing boundaries, seeing how far they can push the narrative before someone else pushes back.”
My eyes meet Nikolai’s fully now. “And if that’s the case, then the question isn’t whether Moscow is coming under attack or not. It’s who benefits most from making it look that way.”
The silence that follows is immediate and dense.
Nikolai studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, his gaze sharp with interest rather than displeasure. I can’t tell whether I’ve given him exactly what he wanted or walked straight into a trap he’s been setting since the first moment I sat down.
So, I wait.
It is something I learned how to do very young, how to sit still beneath scrutiny, how to keep my face neutral while men with far more power than me have decided to weigh my worth and decide whether I was useful or expendable.
Waiting is a discipline. A weapon, even.
It allows others to reveal themselves first.
So, I wait for the verdict.
When it doesn’t come, the silence stretches enough to become uncomfortable.
The longer it drags on, the more effort it takes to keep my impulses leashed.
Every instinct in me wants to press, to force the issue forward, to seize control of the narrative before it turns against me.
But that would be a mistake, and I know it.
Only when Kuznetsov finally speaks do I allow myself to break eye contact with Nikolai.
“Who are the suspects?” he asks, his voice curious rather than accusatory.
It’s a reasonable question. A safe one. The kind meant to move the conversation along without lighting any fires.
I draw in a breath, ready to answer?—
But Nikolai cuts in smoothly before I can say a word.
“I believe one of them is Viktor Morozov.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it, the muscle locking hard enough that I feel the faint ache of it travel up toward my temple.
Had I anticipated this turn? Yes. Absolutely.
Nikolai has never hidden his distaste for Morozov, nor his irritation with my continued association with that family.
From the moment Alina arrived under my roof, the tension has been there, simmering beneath the surface of every interaction, every carefully worded message passed through intermediaries.
But was I expecting him to place Morozov directly on the table like this? To name him openly this early in the discussion?
No. Not entirely.
That, more than anything, tells me this meeting was never meant to be collaborative. This is not a discussion. It’s a confrontation.
I clear my throat, forcing myself back into equilibrium before speaking. “Nothing is confirmed.”
The words are measured and deliberately neutral. They are also true, at least in the strictest sense of the word.
Nikolai’s eyes snap to mine immediately. There it is—the fire. Sharp, bright, and unmistakable. He’s finally shifted to feeling displeased.
“Really?” he says.
The single word is a blade.
It isn’t curiosity or skepticism. It is a direct challenge issued without ceremony. His way of daring me to lie not just to the table, but to his face directly. To see whether I will flinch or bend and cave instead to choose our allegiance over self-preservation when forced into a corner.
The room seems to contract around us.
Volkov shifts in his seat, a faint smile tugging at his mouth while he’s enjoying the show. Kuznetsov goes still, watching us both with the careful attention of a man who knows when to keep his mouth shut.
I hold Nikolai’s gaze.
Since the night Alina arrived at my estate, our disagreement over her presence has never been addressed directly between us again.
Everything since has come through side channels, comments delivered by seconds and warnings disguised as advice, pressure applied subtly enough to allow plausible deniability if I were to ever openly question him on it.
This is different. This is Nikolai stepping out from behind the curtain and forcing the issue into the open.
I speak evenly, refusing to rise to his provocation.
“Really. Suspicion is not proof, no matter how tempting it is to want to lay blame on someone’s shoulders.
Morozov is not the only man with motive to enact a terroristic threat, nor the only one reckless enough to try and manufacture sympathy through violence. ”
Nikolai studies me in silence, his expression unreadable.
I don’t know yet whether he believes me. What I do know, and what settles into my bones with an uncomfortable certainty, is that belief is no longer the point.
Nikolai Malyshko has already decided Viktor Morozov’s guilt in his own mind.
That is the real problem.
I have no confirmation that Viktor set off the first bomb, let alone the second.
No recordings, no paper trail pointing the finger directly at him with unshakable certainty.
My theories about his motivations—his slipping approval ratings, his desperation to remain relevant, his need to manufacture tragedy into political capital—are just that.
Theories . Educated ones, perhaps, but still speculation.
Even his delivering Alina to my estate cannot be used as evidence, not in any way that would stand up to scrutiny within the Pact.
Plausible deniability is Viktor’s greatest talent, a politician’s shield honed to perfection.
Wanting to protect his only child after a bombing at her university is not suspicious on the surface.
It is expected. Admirable, even. If anything, it paints him as a devoted father acting out of fear and love.
Only three people know the real truth. Viktor, Alina, and me.
Only we know that she had been promised to me long before any explosion tore through her university. That the bomb didn’t create the deal. It merely accelerated it, forcing Viktor’s hand far sooner than he would have preferred.
Alina was always going to be handed over to me eventually.
I made sure of that.
The night we met at that gala still sits sharply in my memory.
Chandeliers glittering overhead, orchestral music swelling just loud enough to disguise whispered negotiations, politicians and criminals mingling freely under the illusion of civility.
Viktor had paraded her at his side like an accessory, too young, too unguarded, smiling politely while men twice her age evaluated her like livestock.
I remember the way my attention had snagged on her without permission when she’d approached me. The way something ugly and protective twisted low in my gut when I realized exactly what her father was doing once he dragged her away again.
Selling her, shopping her to anyone with enough power and enough money and influence to make his problems disappear.
I approached Viktor that same night.
The conversation was short. The contract was finalized not long after, etched into permanence with signatures and favors and blood-deep obligations. She was officially promised to me. Not immediately, and not publicly. But exclusively.
In doing so, I had effectively removed her from the open market, protected what little dignity she had left in a world that would have devoured her whole otherwise.
No one else would get their hands on her.
No one else would tear her apart, piece by piece, for their amusement or ambition because they wanted exactly what they paid for.
At least, that was the justification I told myself at the time.
It became obvious soon after she arrived at my estate that Viktor had never told her anything regarding the contract.
He had kept her deliberately ignorant of the arrangement for reasons I still don’t fully understand.
Guilt, perhaps, or cowardice. Maybe even a misguided belief that sparing her the truth was an act of mercy.
Then again, I don’t have answers for myself, either.
I don’t know why I went out of my way to intervene at all.
I am not a bleeding heart. I do not lose sleep over collateral damage, nor do I concern myself with the fates of people outside my inner circle.
Compassion is a liability and sentimentality gets lesser men killed.
And yet…
Seeing her that night, barely out of high school, smiling because she had been taught to, standing beside a father who saw her as nothing more than a show pig ready to be given to the highest bidder…
It angered me.
Deeply. Viscerally. More than I have ever cared to admit.
Even my sister had been bewildered when she discovered the contract buried in my files a year later. She’d stared at it for a long time, silent, then looked at me like she was seeing a stranger.
“You don’t do this,” she had said quietly. “You don’t… rescue people, Sashenka.”
She wasn’t wrong.