Page 81

I unlock the first case and start removing journals, setting them on the table in chronological order. The oldest ones are fragile, their leather covers cracked and faded, the pages yellowed with age. My great-great-grandfather's handwriting fills the earliest volumes, precise and controlled even when describing violence and bloodshed. The Galkins have always been meticulous record keepers.

"Start with the deaths," I say, pulling out a chair and sitting down. The wood creaks under my weight. "Any Rostova who died under suspicious circumstances, no matter how long ago. Accidents, illnesses that came on suddenly, anything that seemed odd."

Ana moves to sit across from me at the table while Ivan settles at the head between us. For the next several hours, we work in relative silence, broken only by the occasional question or the scratch of pen on paper as we take notes. The fire burns low, and someone, probably one of the household staff, comes in to add more wood without saying a word. Coffee appears at some point, strong and black, exactly how I need it.

The pattern emerges slowly, like a picture coming into focus. A Rostova cousin who fell from his horse in 1847, breaking his neck. A distant uncle who drowned in 1869 despite being an excellent swimmer. An aunt who died from food poisoning in 1891 at a family gathering where no one else got sick. A nephew who was killed in a hunting accident in 1923 when his own rifle supposedly misfired. The list goes on, stretching across generations, each death explainable on its own but forming something far more sinister when viewed together.

"Jesus Christ." Ivan sets down the journal he's been reading and rubs his eyes with both hands. "I knew there were incidents, but I didn't realize how many. How did no one see this before?"

"Because they were spread out over time," Ana says quietly. She's been making a timeline on a large sheet of paper, marking each death with names, dates, and cause of death. "Years, sometimes decades between incidents. And they always looked like accidents. Bad luck. The family curse everyone whispered about."

I pull one of my ancestor's journals closer and flip to a page I marked earlier. The entry is dated 1889, written by my great-grandfather Dmitri Galkin. His handwriting is harder to read than the earlier volumes, more hurried, as if he was writing quickly to get his thoughts down before they escaped him.

"Listen to this," I say and start reading aloud. "Another Rostova has died under circumstances that raise questions. Mikhail Rostova, age forty-three, found dead in his study from what the physician claims was a heart attack. But Mikhail was in perfect health, strong as an ox, and had no history of heart trouble. His wife found him slumped over his desk with papers scattered everywhere, as if he'd been searching for something. The family accepted the physician's explanation because what else could they do? But I cannot shake the feeling that Mikhail was a victim, that someone made sure he didn't live to see another day."

The silence that follows is heavy with implication. Ana's face has gone pale, and Ivan's expression is grim. I continue flipping through the journal, finding more entries that echo the same theme. Suspicion without proof. Questions without answers. A guardian who knew something was wrong but couldn't identify the threat.

"There's more," I say, pulling out another journal from a different decade. "My grandfather wrote about a Rostova woman who died in a fire in 1934. The official story was that she knocked over a candle, but my grandfather noted that she was terrified of fire after losing her parents in a house fire as a child. She would never have kept lit candles in her bedroom. He suspected murder but had no way to prove it."

Ana stands abruptly and walks to the window, staring out at the darkening grounds. Her reflection in the glass looks haunted, and I can see her hands trembling slightly where they rest against the windowsill. This isn't just history to her. These are her ancestors, her blood, people who died before their time.

"The guardians knew," she says without turning around. "Generation after generation, the Galkins suspected the Rostovas were being systematically eliminated, but they couldn't stop it. They couldn't even identify who was responsible."

"Because whoever is behind this has been careful," Ivan says. He's reading through one of the Rostova journals now, his finger tracing lines of text. "They've hidden behind accidents and natural causes for over a century. They've been patient, methodical, willing to wait years between strikes to avoid establishing a clear pattern. That level of discipline and planning suggests an organization, not an individual."

I lean back in my chair and roll my shoulders, feeling the tension that's been building there for hours. The tattoos on my forearms are visible where I've rolled up my sleeves, the ink dark against my skin. The crowned wolf on my right forearm seems to stare at me accusingly, as if asking why I haven't protected Ana better, why I haven't solved this puzzle that's been killing her family for generations.

"The kidnapping doesn't fit the pattern," I say, thinking out loud. "Every other incident was designed to look like an accident or natural death. But taking Ivan was bold, public, impossible to disguise as anything other than what it was. Why change tactics now after more than a century of careful planning?"

"Because something has changed." Ana turns from the window to face us, and there's a fierce intelligence in her eyes that reminds me of a cat, sneaky and unpredictable. "Our marriage. Maybe whoever is behind this realized they were running out of time."

The theory makes sense. If the goal has always been to eliminate the Rostova bloodline, then Ana marrying me and potentially producing heirs would complicate that goal significantly. Any children we have would carry both Rostova and Galkin blood. It would be under the protection of my organization and would be far harder to reach than previous generations of Rostovas who stood alone.

"They took you alive," I say to Ivan, the pieces clicking into place. "They could have killed you during the ambush on your motorcade. Three of your men died, two more were critically injured. But they went to the trouble of taking you prisoner and holding you at that hunting cabin. That wasn't a failed assassination. That was a message."

"A message saying what?" Ivan asks, though I can see in his expression that he's already figured it out.

"That they can reach anyone, anytime, anywhere." I stand and start pacing, unable to sit still while my mind works through the implications. "That no amount of security or protection will keep the Rostovas safe. They wanted you to know you're vulnerable, that your daughter is vulnerable, and that this alliance won't save your family from whatever fate they have planned."

Ana moves back to the table and sinks into her chair, looking suddenly exhausted. She picks up one of the older journals and opens it randomly, staring at the faded handwriting without really seeing it. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"So, what do we do? How do we fight an unknown enemy who's been operating in the shadows for over a hundred years?"

"We keep digging." I move to stand behind her chair, resting my hands on her shoulders. The contact is meant to be reassuring, but I can feel the tension in her muscles, the way she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. "We go through every record, every journal, every piece of correspondence until we find something that connects these deaths. There has to be a common thread, something that links the victims beyond just being Rostovas."

Ivan nods slowly and reaches for another journal. "I'll contact some of the older families. Someone might remember stories or rumors that might help put the pieces of this puzzle together."

We work late into the night, ordering food that arrives and grows cold while we continue reading. The staff knows better than to disturb us beyond leaving fresh coffee and clearing away the untouched plates. By the time exhaustion forces us to stop, we've compiled a list of thirty-seven suspicious deaths spanning from 1847 to the present day. But we're no closer to identifying who or what is behind this.

Later that evening, Ana and Ivan go to bed, but I'm too wound up and go to my office. Movement outside the window captures my attention and my hand automatically goes to my gun, easing only slightly when I see it's Benedikt. He's not trying to hide, exactly, but he's not making himself obvious, either. Just standing there, arms crossed over his chest, his attention fixed on the upper windows where Ana's suite is located.

Anger flares hot and immediate in my chest. I'm out of my office and down the stairs before I consciously decide to move. I go out the side door and cross the lawn with long strides, my boots silent on the grass. Benedikt sees me coming but doesn't move, doesn't try to leave or explain himself. He just stands there waiting, his expression carefully neutral.

"I thought I made myself clear," I say when I'm close enough that we won't be overheard. My voice is low and controlled, but there's no mistaking the threat underneath. "You're not part of Ana's security anymore. You have no reason to be here."

"With respect, Pakhan, I have every reason to be here." Benedikt's voice is steady, but his eyes still gleam with that hatred I've seen several times before. "I've protected Princess Anastasia since she was a child. That responsibility doesn't end just because you married her."

"Yes, it does." I move closer, invading his space deliberately. I'm taller than him by several inches and outweigh him by at least forty pounds of muscle. The physical intimidation is intentional. "She's my wife now. My responsibility. And I don't need or want you hanging around watching her like some lovesick fool who can't accept that she belongs to someone else."