Page 84 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
"Others what?" I press gently.
"They're arguing that they need access to you. To find out where your father is." Her voice cracks slightly. "They think you know something. That you're hiding information."
Ice slides down my spine. I knew the bratva families were restless, knew that my presence here complicated things for Andrey. But hearing it confirmed, knowing that some of them are actively pushing to break the rules that protect me, makes it real in a way that terrifies me.
"How many?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
Sophia shakes her head. "I don't know exactly. But enough that my father thinks he can use it. He's been making calls, trying to build support."
Fuck. This is worse than I thought.
I stand and move to the window, looking out over the estate grounds. Guards patrol the perimeter, their movements precise and coordinated. Andrey has tripled security since the attack, but will it be enough if half the bratva families decide I'm fair game?
"I'm sorry," Sophia whispers behind me. "I should have told you sooner. I just… I didn't know how."
I turn back to face her, seeing the guilt written across her features. "You're telling me now. That's what matters."
She nods, but the tension doesn't leave her shoulders. I cross back to the bed and sit beside her again, this time taking her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold, trembling slightly.
"Have you ever had a good friend?" I ask. The question surprises even me.
Sophia blinks, clearly caught off guard by the change in subject. "I… not really. My father kept me pretty isolated. Said it was safer that way."
"Same," I admit. "I've been on the run for so long, protecting myself, that I never took the chance. Never let anyone get close enough."
Her eyes search mine, something vulnerable and hopeful flickering there. "Do you think… could we be friends?"
The question makes my chest ache. I've been so focused on survival, on staying one step ahead of the people hunting me, that I forgot what it feels like to want connection, to want someone who understands.
"Yeah," I say, squeezing her hand. "I think we could."
A small smile breaks across her face, the first genuine one I've seen since she arrived. It transforms her features, making her look younger, less burdened. We sit like that for a while, just talking. She tells me about growing up in her father's house, the constant pressure to be perfect and never show weakness. I tell her about the years spent moving from place to place, always looking over my shoulder.
It feels good. Normal, even. Like for just a few minutes, we're not caught in the middle of a Bratva war. We're just two women who've been through hell and found each other on the other side.
Eventually, Sophia's eyes start to droop, exhaustion finally catching up with her. I help her get settled under the covers, making sure she has everything she needs before slipping out of the room.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs. Most of the guards are outside, and the few I pass nod respectfully as I head toward Andrey's office. I find him behind his desk, his phone pressed to his ear and his expression hard.
"Enough is enough," he says in Russian, his voice sharp with authority. "Set up a meeting with all the Pakhans. I don't care what it takes. Make it happen."
He listens for a moment, then nods. "Tomorrow. I want this handled before it gets worse."
He ends the call and sets the phone down, his eyes finding mine immediately. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly when he sees me, but the hard edge doesn't leave his expression.
I move around the desk, my gaze dropping to his shoulder. The bandage is visible beneath his shirt, a stark reminder of how close I came to losing him. "How's your shoulder?"
"Fine."
"Liar." I reach for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers working them open despite his protest. "Let me check it."
"Mariya—"
"Don't argue with me." I carefully push the fabric aside, revealing the bandage underneath. It needs changing. I can see the edges starting to lift, and there's a faint discoloration that makes me nervous.
I disappear into the attached bathroom and return with fresh supplies, setting them on the desk beside him. Andrey watches me with those intense eyes as I carefully peel away the old bandage, checking the wound beneath.
It looks better than I expected. The stitches are holding, and there's no sign of infection. But it's still angry and red, a brutal reminder of the bullet that tore through his flesh.
