Chapter 07
Anya
I catch a glimpse of the property as the car pulls forward. It seems far too big for one man.
I arrived last night and only saw what the headlights revealed. Today, in the morning light, the entire house stands in full view—gray, angular, expensive, and stark. It looks like a fortress, not a home.
Maksim gets out first and heads toward the entrance. He doesn't walk around to open my door, and no, I wasn't expecting that kind of chivalry from him, but I noticed anyway. As we approach the front door, though, he slows his pace to let me catch up—without admitting that's what he's doing.
Olga is at the door. It would be arrogant of me to say she's waiting for us. She's waiting for him, her Maksimka. The maternal care she shows my new husband is foreign to me—I don't remember ever having that in my life.
“Did you eat?” she asks, just like yesterday.
“Olga.” His tone is more weary than scolding. “Later.”
She makes a disapproving sound and looks at me again, as if it's my fault he hasn't eaten.
Or maybe as if I could somehow force him to.
I almost laugh. The woman hates me, and all because she wants to protect her adult son—the Pakhan of the Bratva, mind you.
But I don't really care. There are worse things to deal with than an overprotective mother-in-law.
My husband crosses the hall at a steady pace.
Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough for me to keep up.
By his side. After passing through a few more spacious rooms, he stops in front of a double door.
With his hand on the handle, he turns his face slightly toward me.
I stare at his skull mask, which with every passing minute grows less intimidating and more familiar.
“There are some people you should meet.”
I don't miss the command in his words. Though I'm silently grateful for the warning.
“How many?”
“Only the ones that matter,” he says dryly, then opens the door.
Four people are inside. Strangers. Ready to scrutinize every detail about me.
This is when I feel an emotion that rarely visits me: fear. Out of nowhere, I've gone from my personal hell to this world of dangerous people. People who do things I don't even dare imagine. What am I supposed to do here?
What do they expect from me?
I look around, cataloging each face.
Vladimir and Igor, who came from the registry office in a separate car. I wonder if they took a shortcut or if Maksim deliberately chose the longer route. But it's a pointless question. I'll never know the answer.
The woman leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, studies me.
She's blonde, hair pulled back, with a face that at first glance seems kind, sweet, youthful.
But her eyes… There's no warmth in them.
Just raw judgment. As if she's trying to read my entire life from my appearance alone.
You can tell she's not the type you trust right away.
She watches me for a long time, unhurried, not bothering to hide it.
It's disconcerting, but not enough to intimidate me.
Dealing with difficult audiences is what I do best.
The last person in the room looks almost like a boy.
He's slouched in an armchair, hood pulled up, eyes fixed on the laptop in his lap.
Maybe Maksim has a teenage brother. He's quite tall.
But then, everyone here is. Even without lifting his head to look at me, I catch a glimpse of his chin, full lips, sharp cheekbones, and the tip of his nose.
Maksim closes the door behind him. The click echoes in the quiet, watchful room.
Vladimir moves first, approaching me without hurry.
I stay motionless for a moment, unsure how to respond.
I'm not afraid of them, but they're still complete strangers.
Bratva members, on top of that. You can't be too careful.
But he simply stops in front of me, inclines his head slightly, takes my hand, and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“Mrs. Nikiforova,” he greets me, using my new surname. My husband's surname.
His gesture, though, is completely out of place.
Out of time. Still, I understand the symbolism behind it.
This man, whoever he is, is officially recognizing me as the Pakhan's wife.
I'm not being treated the way a purchased woman would be.
He's giving me the status of a real wife. The lady of this house.
My thanks is silent. Just a slight nod, which he catches before the corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly.
Igor comes right after. I don't know if he actually meant to do it or if he's just mocking Vladimir's old-fashioned gesture, but when he stops in front of me, he bows.
A full bow. Six-plus feet of massive man, all muscle, long hair, and thick beard, bowing to me—it's even more ridiculous than it sounds.
Before I can respond, I hear a tongue click from Maksim beside me, who grumbles irritably.
“Get up, Igor. You look like a building tilting.”
If it was a test, I think I passed. Because his small smile is just a bit more visible than Vladimir's was.
The woman on the opposite wall still hasn't moved.
Her hair is pulled back with the same discipline as mine—not a strand out of place, the care of someone who refuses to give the world anything to grab onto.
I recognize that care. I do the same. The difference is that my bun is what remains of a profession. Hers looks like training.
We stare at each other long enough to make anyone uncomfortable at a normal social event. But this isn't a normal social event. I'm clearly being introduced, judged, and evaluated by the most powerful criminals in Russia.
The hooded guy—maybe my new brother-in-law? Impossible to say. He breaks our silent standoff, drawing attention to himself by setting the laptop on a side table next to the armchair and pushing his hood back.
I see his face and confirm he’s young, but not as young as I thought.
Maybe nineteen or twenty. He has light eyes, well-defined features, and hair that’s either light brown or dark blond—hard to tell in this lighting.
Something about him reminds me of Vladimir.
They don’t look alike, but somehow they do. It’s confusing.
Are they all related?
Maksim takes a step closer to me, drawing my attention—and everyone else’s in the room. The guy has such an imposing presence, like a magnet pulling everyone toward him. It’s incredible.
“Now that you’re my wife, it’s important you meet the Circle,” he says simply.
“Circle? Like, with a capital C?” The mask moves in a brief nod, and I like to think he rolled his eyes underneath it.
I want to get some kind of reaction out of him, and I don’t even know where this insane urge came from.
“The group of people I trust most.”
I nod and wait. Trust is serious business. The rarest currency in their world, I’m sure.
“Vladimir, you’ve already met. He’s the sovietnik. My counselor.”
“Hello again,” I say—brief but not overly friendly. This whole situation is tense.
“Igor is my most important general and the official executor. Volkodav.”
“The door,” I say, and Igor makes a sound through his nose.
I can’t stop thinking about his codename, though. Volkodav… The wolf-killer. I wonder what that says about his work. But after a second, I decide it doesn’t matter. Makes no difference to me, as long as I’m not one of those wolves.
“Yelena.” Maksim gestures to the woman, who tilts her head slightly in greeting. “My cousin. Specialist in matters requiring discretion.”
I don’t ask what that means. Just like with Igor, if I’m not the target, I’m fine with it.
“And Yuri, the head of intelligence. Kurator.”
Head of intelligence at that age? The kid must be a genius. He raises two fingers in a shy wave but stays silent.
“Is he your brother?” The question slips out before I can stop it, but I don’t regret it. I genuinely want to know. So I wait for the answer.
“I don’t have siblings,” Maksim says, his voice deep and flat. “Yuri is Vladimir’s son.”
“Right. The man who kisses women’s hands like he’s seven hundred and thirteen years old.”
I force the joke—a bad habit when I’m tense. The silence in the room is awkward, making me rethink whether these are the right people for sarcastic comments.
To my complete surprise, Yelena is the first to laugh.
Her laugh is short—a yelp that escapes against her will before she even decides if she likes me. But even so, she laughs. Openly now. She’s not the type of woman who goes back on her decisions, and I respect that deeply.
Yuri smiles, making it clear he also finds his father’s behavior old-fashioned. Vladimir, for his part, doesn’t retort—just takes a deep, solemn breath, accepting my “insult.”
“I appreciate the generosity, lady. Most days, I feel older than that.” The corner of his lip curves subtly, like a half smile.
Igor lets out a full laugh. The sound is like thunder echoing through the room, and I have no idea how to react. My awkward comment actually lightened the mood. That doesn’t happen often.
I think about the way Vladimir called me lady again. I look around at these four people who have known each other for years and are now welcoming me into their Circle of trust. I study each face, saving my husband for last, because I already know what to expect: nothing. Just a plastic mask.
But even so, I make a decision that doesn’t come lightly. I decide to trust them too.
“Anya,” I say to everyone and no one in particular. “I prefer to be called Anya.”
Maksim, standing beside me—closer now—shows no reaction at all.
Or at least, he doesn’t want me to know his reaction.
But I notice. There, in that small corner near his chin where the mask doesn’t cover, there’s a slight twitch in the muscle.
A movement so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But not by me.
I saw it.
That involuntary urge I had to provoke some kind of reaction from him eases now, because I succeeded. It might have been a tightening of his lips, a dismissive tsk, or even an irritated clenching of his jaw. I don't care. Any reaction is better than the coldness of that mask.
With my mind in turmoil and my heart racing, I push down the unwelcome thought that keeps echoing inside me:
Could it have been a smile?