Page 7 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

“That’s what the frivolous parties have been, haven’t they?”

There’s undeniable vindication in watching her eyes flash at me. Did that sting? Mine taunt.

She responds aloud: “Frivolity is a weapon someone in your position can’t afford to scoff at.”

“My position,” I echo.

“Do you have better weapons than frivolity at your disposal?” she counters.

“A changed methodology. We’ll run blind tests. False information can be systematically planted. The breach will surface.” It’s an idea I pull out of my ass, but I don’t let a line in my fucking face betray this.

Valentin grunts, reminding me he exists. “And what, we’re meant to lie to our own men? What right do we have to demand loyalty when we test theirs like that?”

“If the loyalty was so bulletproof, there would be no mole. That’s actually clever,” Trifon cuts in. “Whose idea’s that?”

I scoff. “Mine,” I say sharply. “As your sister so kindly complimented, I’m a high-level leader, Trifon. You Yuris would do well to remember it.”

“Do the Zakharovs?” Valentin jeers.

“Is Viktor aware of the situation?” Darya switches gears.

“He is in New York.”

Her laughter puffs past her lips again. “That isn’t an answer.”

“Sure it is. If you can read between the lines, Darya.”

Impatiently, Valentin interrupts. “Why not?”

I shoot him an annoyed look. “Because I’m careful about who I trust with sensitive information. I’d recommend you do the same.”

“Even with your brother,” Darya says, and I swear it sounds like a question. And a test, for that matter.

I nod.

She’s silent for a pause no one else fills. Aware of her brothers, I can feel their eyes on me. I’m being watched. It’s all I can do to moderate what they see, splayed out in all its glory, all over my fucking face.

Darya sets the saucer down on the coffee table and rises to her feet. Pleasantly, unfettered, she announces, “Well, that’s terribly lonely, isn’t it?” This time, it isn’t a question. “I’ll leave you, men to your dire Bratva machinations. I’ve kept Zina waiting long enough.”

She drops a kiss on each of her brothers’ cheeks.

She passes me by without stopping—without hesitation or a look back.

The parting inhale of her perfume burns in my lungs in an unquenchable fire. At least I’ve grown used to it. There are some fires one can’t put out, apparently.

Darya Yuri has taught me this, too.

“If you’re done staring at our sister—” Valentin snaps his fingers in front of my face. “—we’re going to need more of a fucking debrief than ‘someone’s poking a hole in the alliance’.”

Picking up where Valentin leaves off, “For instance, how are you so sure it’s just one person? Aren’t rebellions typically a group effort?” Trifon asks.

Jesus. The back of my neck heats, the crisp collar of my shirt scraping against it abrasively. “I don’t.”

“How long has it been going on?” Valentin asks.

“My brigadier—”

“Your cousin.”