Page 77 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

Making a decision, I send him a message asking him to meet me. His response comes within seconds. I pull out the bottle of whiskey we used to share on quiet nights when the world wasn't demanding our immediate attention. Those nights feel like they happened in another lifetime.

Gregory arrives exactly ten minutes later, knocking once before entering. He looks tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much weight for too long. I gesture to the chair across from my desk and pour two generous glasses of whiskey, sliding one across to him. For a moment, we just sit there in comfortable silence, sipping our drinks.

"Remember when you first started working for me?" I lean back in my chair, rolling the glass between my palms. "You were so damn nervous, you could barely hold a gun steady."

Gregory's mouth quirks into a small smile. "I was terrified you were going to shoot me for being incompetent."

"You weren't weak. You were young and untrained." I take another sip. "But you learned fast. Faster than anyone I'd ever seen."

"You were a good teacher." His voice is quiet. "You could have just used me as cannon fodder. Instead, you actually gave a shit whether I lived or died."

The conversation flows easier after that, drifting through old memories. We laugh about the time he locked himself in a storage container during a warehouse inspection, and I had to cut the lock off while he cursed from inside. We reminisce about his first successful deal negotiation without my supervision. These are the moments that built our relationship, the foundation of trust and respect that turned a scared kid into the man sitting across from me now.

"Things have been good lately," I say eventually, refilling both our glasses. "Business is stable. The territories are secure. Even took Ana to the children's hospital yesterday for one of her charity initiatives. Watched her work the room like she was born to it."

The shift in Gregory's demeanor is subtle but unmistakable. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes anymore, and his grip on the glass tightens. He takes a long drink before responding, his tone carefully neutral. "Sounds like you've been finding plenty of time for your wife. That's good. Important to keep her happy."

There's an edge beneath the words. I study him across the desk, noting the tension in his shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Gregory shakes his head and forces the smile wider. "Just making an observation. You seem more relaxed lately."

"But?" I press, because I can hear the unspoken criticism.

He hesitates, clearly debating whether to say what's really on his mind. Finally, he sets down his glass and leans forward. "It's just that there's a lot of Bratva business piling up. Territory disputes that need your attention. Supply chain issues that require decisions only you can make. And you've been spending a lot of time on personal matters."

The accusation lands like a punch to the gut. Gregory has never questioned my priorities before. "I'm handling the business," I say carefully, keeping my voice level. "Nothing is being neglected."

"Of course not." Gregory picks up his glass again, his expression smoothing back into something more neutral. "I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. Forget I said anything."

But I can't forget it. The words hang between us, poisoning what should have been a simple evening of reconnection. We finish our drinks in uncomfortable silence, the easy camaraderie from earlier completely evaporated. When Gregory finally excuses himself, citing early morning responsibilities, I don't try to stop him. I just watch him leave and wonder exactly when everything started falling apart.

The library is warm and inviting when I join Ana and Ivan later that evening. Ivan sits in his usual chair near the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand. Ana is curled up on the sofa with a book, her legs tucked beneath her and her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She looks up when I enter, her face brightening with a smile I feel all the way to my gut, and even my cock takes notice at the simple expression.

"There you are." She sets the book aside and pats the cushion next to her. "We were starting to think you'd gotten lost."

"Just finishing up some business." I pour myself a drink from the decanter on the side table before settling onto the sofa beside her. The cushions are soft, the fire is crackling pleasantly, and for the first time all day, I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.

"Business." Ana rolls her eyes dramatically. "That's all you ever say."

"I run an empire, Princess." I take a sip of whiskey and let my arm rest along the back of the sofa, my fingers brushing against her shoulder. "It's not as exciting as you think."

"I doubt that." She leans into my touch slightly, the movement so natural it seems unconscious. "You came home with blood on your knuckles last week. That seems pretty exciting to me."

Ivan chuckles from his chair, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Your husband has always had a talent for understatement. Even when he was younger, he'd come back from handling problems and act like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience."

The conversation drifts after that, moving through topics with the easy flow of people who've grown comfortable in each other's presence. Ana tells a story about the time she convinced her childhood tutor that she was deathly allergic to mathematics, complete with fake hives and dramatic fainting spells. Ivan adds details she's forgotten, laughing so hard, he has to set down his glass. I find myself genuinely entertained, watching the way her eyes light up when she gets to the good parts of the story.

"You were a terror," Ivan says fondly. "Your poor mother would have had her hands full if she'd lived to see you grow up."

Something shifts in Ana's expression, a flicker of old pain that she quickly masks. I squeeze her shoulder gently, a silent acknowledgment of the loss she carries. She glances at me with gratitude before launching into another story, this one about her attempts to train the estate dogs to steal pastries from the kitchen.

The evening stretches on, comfortable and warm. Ivan shares stories from his own youth, tales of the old royal and Bratva traditions and the men who built the foundations we all stand on now. I contribute my own memories, carefully edited versions of events that won't give Ana nightmares. She listens with rapt attention, asking questions and making observations that show she's actually interested and not pretending.

At some point, I roll up my sleeves, the tattoos on my forearms visible in the firelight. Ana traces one of the designs with her fingertip, following the lines of ink with obvious curiosity. "Do they all mean something?"

"Most of them." I watch her finger move across my skin, the touch light but somehow intimate. "Some are just decoration. Others mark important moments or achievements."

"Like what?" She looks up at me, genuinely interested.