6. Valentina

Chapter 6

Valentina

If I thought stepping into Liam's meetings would teach me something, I was right.

So fucking right.

Not only do I have access to all of Liam's plans for overtaking not just the Bratva, but the city . Most of the notes written in the margins are in English, but a delicate hand has marked a few pages with Russian words and phrases.

I'd recognize the handwriting anywhere as my grandmother's. Even though she pretends to be the silent observer hiding in the corner of every room in the house, I know she's still pulling invisible strings. I can practically see them floating through the air every time Liam moves.

She's trained him well on what to say. I'll give her that much.

Outside of the meetings, however, Liam takes the time to show me our new home a little more each day. It gives me unprecedented access to his schedule, so I know exactly what he's up to and where he is at all hours of the day. It's rare that we're not together, and the staff and house guests start to expect my presence as much as their pakhan 's.

It makes planning for an escape that much more difficult.

There are a few moments I have to myself, though, whenever Liam leaves the grounds. He takes a handful of guards with him and disappears for hours. I don't know what he's doing or where he's going—all I know is that I suddenly find myself with time .

I use every second of it to carefully roam the house for its best-kept secrets. The easiest ones to find aren't those written on paper, much to my surprise.

It's the ones embedded into the estate itself—from its well-kept staff to the very foundation it's built upon—that spills the most information.

I was right when I noticed it before; the entire grounds are a replica of the ones I grew up in, from the shade of paint on its walls to the type of decor cluttering the halls. But one thing is glaringly clear—it's all fake.

When my father was alive, he prided himself on many things. Authenticity was at the top of the list. In everything he did and with every trophy he collected, he made sure it had the official Baranova seal of approval. That seal holds more weight than gold, so I've been led to believe. It's why our reputation precedes us. We're an old name in an old city with a penchant for tradition.

I've been staring at priceless objects my entire life, so I know a fake when I see one. Most of the paintings and decor around this house are well-made, still pretty and distinguished, but fake.

My grandmother should have been able to spot the difference when furnishing the place, so I know she didn't have a hand in this, much to my surprise. I'd have expected her to be running the house until the duty was passed on to me.

The truth is far more alarming.

I stare at a framed portrait of a balding man, his whitened smile broad, thick mustache curled, huge forehead shiny, as he stands in front of the very house I'm currently occupying. In the picture, he shakes hands with no one other than my father, former pakhan of our Bratva, Tolkotsky Baranova.

My father wouldn't have funded and furnished a place like this, nor would my grandmother, my mother, or anyone in the long line of Baranovas who have claimed this city. They wouldn't make a cheap replica of our own home. My father even looks bored in the picture, like he's wasting his time being there.

But appearances matter, and it's the reason my father took time out of his day to congratulate the owner on this once-new manor. It's the same reason why Andrei dragged me to that party last week. Line the pockets of influential people, show your support, and you'll have them eating out of the palm of your hand, ready to do your bidding at a moment's notice.

Like a well-fed dog looking after its master.

This place has the appearance of finery, but it's fraudulent and cheap.

Much like the man who owns it.

"Miss Baranova!"

My head snaps up at my name being called. I curse at myself for getting sidetracked, then I throw in an extra one at Riot for failing to inform me we had a visitor.

"Mr. Mayor," I greet, putting on my best smile. "How lovely to see you again."

He twirls his mustache between his fingers as he enters the room— his office —a curious gleam in his eye as he catches me standing behind his desk, clearly rifling through its drawers.

I clench my jaw to keep from glaring at my personal bodyguard.

"I'm afraid you'll find those documents quite boring," the mayor continues, meandering closer at a snail's pace. "Contracts and the like. A bunch of legal jargon I can't even read properly without the help of my lawyer." He comes up beside me and closes the bottom drawer with a hard snap. "I'm sure that's not what you're looking for, anyhow."

In truth, I was looking for more dirt on Liam's operations, or anything mentioning my grandmother's name or my father's. But the mayor is right—I didn't find anything the least bit useful in his desk.

Those types of documents must be locked up somewhere else.

Henry Mastiff, affectionately known throughout the city as Mr. Mayor, smiles at me. But much like everything else in this room, it reeks of inauthenticity. "Tell me, do you still go by Miss Baranova, or should I be referring to you as Mrs. Dolohov now?" He shakes his head. "A bit strange to marry backward, don't you think? Tying yourself to your grandmother's lineage? But I suppose I can't fault you if it's for love. He does seem to dote on you, although I said the same about Mr. Leonov when I saw you two together." His eyes bore into mine. "Moving rather quickly from one man to the next, aren't you?"

My face flames as embarrassment latches onto anger, both flashing hotly through my veins. I've yet to face any scrutiny for my situation aside from my own, and the mayor's thinly veiled censure is a reminder of what awaits me outside these doors. Once the public catches on that I've switched partners from Andrei to Liam, it'll spread like wildfire, and the rumors of how I spread my legs for multiple men will be the juiciest gossip in the city.

I'm used to blending in with the wallpaper, not being thrust into the center of a crowded room for all to witness and pass judgement. The difference is jarring, but expected by now. Onlookers want to watch me stumble so they can gossip about each wrong move I make as the new wife to the pakhan. It means that I can't let them see any flaws—least of all that I'm being forced into a spotlight I don't want—so I'll walk straight into the damned thing myself. I'll control the narrative before it spins.

It's best that observers like Henry Mastiff understand that now.

"Be careful with what you say next, Mr. Mastiff, or I might mistake your tone for censure."

Riot takes the initiative to move closer, all two-hundred-something pounds of muscle stepping out from the shadows to stand behind Henry. His arms remain crossed over his broad chest, but I'm sure if he wanted to, he could reach out and crush the older man's skull with his bare hands.

It turns out, I chose the biggest guard in the house, and he gives off insane alpha vibes.

The mayor clearly notices, his body tensing at the sudden realization that he can't move without touching either Riot or me, and neither would end well for him . "Not at all," he says quickly, a bead of sweat collecting on his shiny forehead. "If anyone knows about getting in bed with people in high places to get ahead, why, it's me." He laughs, but it's stilted. "I was the one who approached your father, after all—the man didn't want anything to do with me, at first."

I catch the note of bitterness in his voice. He stares at the framed photo of my father and himself, his smile frozen into place just as well as mine. He's used to staying in character, too.

"Took some convincing, but we managed to build a prosperous relationship by the end of it, I assure you. Andrei, on the other hand—" he scoffs—"boy doesn't know how to respect tradition, unlike your Dolohov lad. At least he's keeping in line with our contracts. Leonov would sooner rip his own teeth out than stick to your father's agreements?—"

I stare at the mayor as pleasantly as possible, but it's hard when he's glaring at your dead father's picture and digging a groove into the top of his desk with his fingernail. Agitated doesn't begin to describe his change in demeanor. It's no wonder the man's never been married; anyone would be crazy to chain themselves to someone holding that much resentment in his blood.

It's probably why Andrei tried to get out of my father's contracts—if they involved the mayor in any way, he probably saw him for what he is. A bitter, old man trying to be something and someone he's not.

"But I convinced your father to back my election, and I've been in office ever since. There's power with you Baranovas, you know. Your entire organization, it's . . ." his forehead pinches as he considers the proper word to use, "interminable, Miss Baranova. Everything about you Bratva folk is carved into the marrow of this city. Nothing will ever remove that mark. Nothing. "

My gaze wanders around the room as the mayor speaks, the strange note of reverence in his voice catching on the glint of a gold-plated globe, the impressive four-foot long print of the city skyline at dusk, the shiny brass buttons on the faux antique chaise lounge set. I've seen mirrors of these items in my father's office, and the resemblance of the room throws me off balance. I catch myself on the desk and stare at Henry Mastiff with new eyes.

He doesn't just work with our Bratva, he worships it. The idea clicks at the same time he turns to face me, his cheeks ruddied and hazel eyes swimming with a hint of mania. "If there's anything you want, Valentina, anything I could give you . . ." His hand brushes the outside of my arm, and before I can react, Riot intercepts.

The snap of bone as he bends Henry's fingers back too far is followed by a scream.

"Do not touch her," Riot grumbles beneath his mask, "or I will break off more than your fingers. Nod if you understand."

Henry's eyes are wide in horror, his face sweaty and pale, as he stares at his hand in Riot's grasp.

I wasn't expecting more violence after Liam's unexpected murder two days ago, but here we are again. Nothing speaks to the soul quite like pain does, apparently.

I snap my fingers in front of Henry's face to get his attention. "You may think you have power in this city, Henry, but I promise you, I can bury you so deep that your own mother forgets your name. That is what it means to be a Baranova. None of this—" I gesture at all the trinkets around the room, a new level of disgust curling in my chest—"means shit to this Bratva or this city. You're a pathetic excuse of a person if you think you can charm your way into my good graces, or into any actual power within this city. In fact, I think a little demonstration is in order." I point to the red lounge chair on the other side of the room. "Have a seat, Mr. Mayor."

Riot grabs Henry by the back of the neck and hauls him to the chair, forcing him to sit.

I take my time crossing to the door and turning the lock, making a show of checking that it's secure before spinning around to face our guest. "My father's office is soundproof. I assume that, as a proper replica, yours is, too?"

When Henry doesn't answer, Riot squeezes his fingers, making the older man scream. "Yes! Yes , dear god, it's soundproof, I promise."

I pop up onto the desk and cross my ankles, smoothing out my skirt and humming to myself. "That's good to know, Henry. We're going to be here a while. I have a lot of questions about a lot of things, and I'd prefer if we kept this conversation a secret among friends. You understand, of course." I take another look around the room, checking it with fresh eyes. "Are there any cameras in here, Henry? Be honest."

He points out four cameras, tells me how to turn them off, and where to find the hidden monitor to erase the footage from the past hour. Once that's done, I give him a genuine smile. "Thank you for your honesty. Now, let's start with an easy question." I pull a small notepad and metal pen from Henry's belongings. "Where exactly are we within the city, and who knows about this house?"