Page 51 of The King's Pawn
The world outside the window feels stripped down to its bones.
Inside the car, everything is controlled. The leather seats hold the warmth of the heater. The interior hums with the muted purr of the engine, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the radio. Roman sits in the passenger seat, facing forward, posture relaxed. Our driver’s hands are steady on the wheel.
No one speaks.
My mind wanders despite myself.
I think of Alina.
Of the way her shoulders trembled last night and how she pressed her palm flat to the glass as if she expected it to shatter under the storm’s rage. How small she felt in my arms when she finally fell asleep and when the panic drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion and grief behind.
Whatever it is about her that keeps dragging me back, I cannot even begin to fathom. These feelings, this pull… it is an anomaly. A weakness. A misstep I am somehow making again and again without learning.
It replays with vicious clarity, looping again and again no matter how hard I try to focus on what waits for me at the end of this road.
I have no doubt that when I get there, Nikolai will already be seated at the head of his table, his dark eyes calculating even as he pretends with the formalities. Volkov will posture as he always does, and Kuznetsov will observe in silence, filing away every word for later leverage. They will speak of strategy and containment and necessary sacrifices.
Somewhere between those discussions, Alina’s name will surface, indirectly or not, as a problem.
My jaw tightens.
I force myself to draw in a slow breath, steadying myself.
Whatever decisions Nikolai intends to formalize today, I already know one thing with absolute certainty. I will not let him take her from me.
When we finally arrive, the difference is immediate and unmistakable.
This place is not like mine in the slightest.
My estate was designed to suggest power. To imply it through discretion, restraint, through the quiet confidence of a man who does not need to announce himself to be feared. Nikolai’s estate does not bother with implication at all. It embodies power in its most literal form.
High stone walls rise from the earth like ramparts, their surfaces scarred with age and intention. Guard towers loom at measured intervals, silhouettes bristling against the dim sky, each one positioned with guns pressed to their fronts. The iron gate at the perimeter is a brutal thing, reinforced and engineered to withstand a siege.
It is not decorative.
It is not symbolic.
It is a statement.
The Malyshko estate is a place you do not approach unless you have already been invited. And even then, you approach carefully.
We are waved through without delay, the gate grinding open with a sound like something ancient waking reluctantly from sleep. The car rolls forward onto a long, curved drive. Winter-bare trees line the path, their branches clawing at the sky, stripped and skeletal. Patches of snow cling stubbornly to the ground, neither fully melting nor fully freezing, caught in the same limbo that seems to define everything lately.
The closer we get to the main structure, the more oppressive it feels. Nikolai’s home does not welcome visitors. Stone and steelrise in sharp angles, placed for defense before comfort. Even the architecture feels rigid.
The car comes to a smooth stop near the entrance.
Two of Nikolai’s men stand waiting by the door, their shoulders squared, posture tight. Their guns are concealed just badly enough to be intentional—a reminder, not a mistake. They don’t greet us with smiles, though their eyes do flick over Roman when he steps out of the car and linger on him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
I step out of the car slowly, straightening my coat, meeting their gazes without acknowledgment. This is not my territory, so stirring up trouble is the last thing I’m interested in.
As the doors to Nikolai Malyshko’s fortress open to admit us inside, one thought settles heavily in my chest. Whatever is decided here today will affect not only me and my syndicate, but most likely my entire territory as well.
Inside, the air is warm, oppressively so after coming in from the cold outside, and layered with the faint scent of cigars. It clings to the back of my throat. Even the atmosphere here has been curated to unsettle.
Every step echoes softly, absorbed by thick rugs that do nothing to soften the tension crawling up my spine.
A young enforcer waits just inside the entrance. He looks barely old enough to shave, his uniform immaculate, his posture rigid to the point of it looking painful. He does not introduce himself, though he does not need to. I don’t care.
