Page 22 of Ruthless Bratva's Forced Virgin
“That it was not his business and that he should consider carefully what sort of business he made it,” he answered, arching an eyebrow. “He took the suggestion.”
“Good.”
“Petrov’s former second also made an appearance.” Viktor’s voice remained entirely level. “He was in the lobby. He didn’t come inside. He saw what the evening was and left.”
Petrov’s former second was a man named Bykov. His presence at the periphery of the manor tonight was a message—not from Bykov, who lacked that kind of initiative. From Volkov. Delivered deliberately, timed to land on the first night of the marriage.
I had expected it. The expected version of a threat was manageable.
“Double the exterior detail tonight,” I said. “Quiet. I don’t want it visible from inside.”
Viktor nodded once and disappeared.
I looked at Elena across the room. I had released her to Anya for a few minutes, which was the safest place I could put her while I handled the Vasin brothers’ financial questions. I could see that she was standing with my youngest sister in conversation that appeared, from the outside, nearly natural. Anya was talking. Elena was listening with that quality of attention she had, the one that made you feel the information was actually landing somewhere rather than being processed and discarded.
She glanced up and found me watching. Something crossed her face–not the anger I expected, or not only that. Something more complicated. She held the look for a moment and then turned back to Anya.
I moved back toward her.
“The man in the grey suit,” she said quietly, when I reached her side and Anya had been drawn away by Alexei. “He’s been watching us since we arrived.”
I looked. She was right. Lev Morin, who controlled three of the smaller casino operations on the east side of the Strip and who had been navigating his relationship with the Golovin structure with the careful ambiguity of someone who hadn’t fully committed to an alliance. He was watching us with the calculating attention of a man revising an estimate.
“That’s Lev Morin,” I said. “He is deciding whether the marriage changes his position.”
“Does it?”
“It tells him that I have something to protect,” I said. “Men like Morin view that as either a weakness to exploit or a warning not to try. He will decide which in the next few weeks.” I paused. “Tonight we are making the decision easier for him.”
She was quiet, absorbing this. Then she went on, “And the woman he’s with? She hasn’t looked at us once.”
I looked. Morin’s companion for the evening was deliberately engaged with a conversation across the room—overly engaged, with the focused avoidance of someone who had been told not to look at something specific.
“She works for Katerina,” I said. “She is almost certainly reporting Morin’s reactions back to her.”
Elena turned to look at me. “Your sister put a spy in his companion for the evening.”
“My sister puts information gathering systems into everything she considers relevant,” I said.
Elena processed this. “Your family is—” She paused, choosing the word with visible care. “Thorough.”
“Yes.”
I turned slightly to see her reaction to my affirmation. Instead of the disapproval, disappointment, anger, fear, or even sanctimonious hatred I expected, her expression gave nothing away. She looked around the room like I just confirmed an ordinary fact about my family.
*****************
The toast came at 9:40pm.
Gregor Vasin stood with his glass and said the words that were said at these gatherings—loyalty and strength and blood, the Bratva liturgy delivered with the rough sincerity of a man for whom the words were not metaphor but operational code. He looked at me when he said them and at Elena once, briefly, with the assessing quality he’d brought to all his looks tonight.
I looked at Elena.
She was looking at me. Had been since Vasin began speaking. The lamplight was in her hair. She held my gaze without flinching and without the performance of someone pretending—there was no excess in her expression, no manufactured warmth for the room’s benefit. Just the direct, undecorated quality of attention she gave to things she was actually looking at.
I raised my glass when Vasin finished. The room drank. Morin, at the edge of the room, watched and then looked away. In my peripheral vision, Viktor tracked the movement.
The weight of the evening shifted. Not dramatically—these things never moved dramatically. But the room’s orientation, the collective understanding of the assembled guests about what had changed in the Golovin structure and what it meant, settled into place with the quiet finality of something that had finished being constructed.
