Page 13 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“It’s family custom,” I say. “Next of kin looks after the deceased’s spouse for ninety days. A standard mourning period.”

“Mrs. Volkonsky has her father⁠—”

“Her father is useless. You know that as well as I do.”

She doesn’t argue because it’s true and everyone in this room knows it.

“The ninety days begin now,” I say. “During that time, you’re considered my staff, and will work for me at the penthouse. Is that understood?”

Murmurs of agreement.

“Good. Oksana, I want her things packed and ready to move by ten Friday morning. Everything from her closet and her bathroom, anything personal.”

“Yes, sir.”

I let my gaze move across each face. The cook looks nervous.

Only the groundskeeper meets my stare, and he’s the one who finally speaks. “What about Mr. Grishin?” he asks. “He was asking about Mrs. Volkonsky earlier. Said he’d be calling on her tomorrow.”

Anton. Of course he is.

“If Anton Grishin shows up here, you tell him Mrs. Volkonsky is no longer in residence. You don’t tell him where she is. Understood?”

The groundskeeper nods.

“Anyone else have questions?”

It appears that nobody does. Either that, or they’re unwilling to voice it. Regardless, nobody says a single word.

“Then get back to work.”

They disperse quietly. Only Oksana lingers, her sharp eyes studying my face. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” she says when the others are gone.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” She crosses her arms over her chest, and I notice how thin she’s gotten since I last saw her.

Her gray hair is streaked with white now, and there are new lines around her mouth.

I step closer, and Oksana holds her ground. She’s one of the few people who ever stood up to my father, or who told Dmitri no when he was being an entitled shit. I respect that about her, but I need her to understand how this works now.

“She’s already in the middle of it,” I say quietly. “The moment Dmitri married her, she became part of this. I’m giving her a way out.”

“Only for ninety days.”

“Stay in line,” I say. My voice comes out flat and cold. “I don’t need your opinions on how I handle this. I need you to do your job and keep your mouth shut.”

Something flickers across her face. Disappointment, maybe. Or resignation.

“Of course, Mr. Volkonsky,” she says. The formality is deliberate. “Will that be all?”

“That’s all.”

She turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing on the marble floor. I watch her disappear down the hallway toward the kitchen, and I tell myself I don’t care what she thinks.

I’m about to head upstairs when I hear voices coming from the entrance hall. I walk toward the sound and find Anton Grishin standing by the door, his coat already on and a tumbler of what looks like expensive scotch in his hand.

He’s not alone. One of Dmitri’s associates hovers nearby, looking uncomfortable and eager to leave. When Anton sees me, his mouth curves into something that might be a smile if you didn’t know him well.