Page 12 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

The master suite is at the end of the east wing. I push open the double doors and we step inside. The room is massive, dominated by a king-size bed with dark wood posts. Everything is decorated in shades of gray and black. Dmitri’s taste, not hers.

Vera walks to the window and looks out at the manicured gardens below. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the lawn.

“I need to change,” she says.

“Then change.”

She disappears into the walk-in closet, and I hear drawers opening and closing. I take off my suit jacket and drape it over a chair, then loosen my tie.

My phone buzzes. A text from Lev: Heard you claimed the widow. Bold move.

I don’t respond, but it gets a dry laugh out of me.

She emerges from the closet wearing dark jeans and a simple black sweater. She’s pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and without the funeral makeup she looks younger. Tired, but younger.

“Better?” I ask.

“It’ll do.”

She sits on the edge of the bed and then immediately stands back up, like the mattress burned her. “I can’t sleep here,” she says. “Not in this bed.”

“You won’t have to after Friday.”

“No.” She cuts me off. “I mean I won’t sleep in the bed Dmitri... that we...” She trails off, her throat working.

I get it.

“Guest room then.”

We wander into the hall, and I duck to catch Vera’s lips between my teeth. For a second I think she might pull back, but she leans into it with a moan.

“I need to speak to the staff,” I murmur against her lips. “Meet me downstairs later.”

I leave her there and head back downstairs. The wake is winding down by now, thank God. Most of the guests have already left, and the remaining few are clustered in small groups, speaking in low voices.

I find Oksana in the kitchen, directing the catering staff as they pack up.

“I need you to gather everyone,” I say. “All the household staff. Five minutes in the main hall.”

She doesn’t question it. She’s used to Dmitri’s rule, so why would she?

Five minutes later, they’re all assembled. Ten in total. They stand in a loose semicircle, and I can feel their uncertainty radiating off them in waves.

“As of tonight,” I say, “Vera Volkonsky is under my protection. She’ll be moving to my penthouse soon, and I expect full cooperation in packing her belongings.”

Silence. They exchange glances but no one speaks.

“I’m observing Zabota,” I continue. “Which means for the next ninety days, she’s my responsibility. Anyone who has a problem with that can find employment elsewhere.”

Still silence. Then Oksana clears her throat. “May I ask a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Zabota hasn’t been observed in this family for... decades. Why now?”

It’s a fair question. The tradition fell out of use after my grandfather died. Too old-fashioned, my father said. Too limiting.

But it serves my purposes now.