Page 43 of Crimson Sin
Lex doesn't answer immediately. His gaze cuts toward the window, taking in the darkened grounds beyond, before coming back to meet mine. That moment of hesitation, barely perceptible to anyone else, tells me more than his words evercould. In all our years together, Lex has never been one to pause before delivering a report.
“It's quiet,” he replies finally, but his tone carries undertones of unease.
I set the glass down harder than I should, the sound sharp and brittle in the stillness of the room. “Quiet from Viktor is never good. Quiet means plotting. Quiet means he's moving pieces in shadows where we cannot see them.”
Lex's mouth pulls into the faintest shadow of agreement. “He's moving pieces, but not on the board we can see yet. The intelligence network reports minimal activity from his known associates. But men like him don't sit idle. They sharpen their knives while the room is distracted by other threats.”
My jaw clenches so hard I can hear my teeth grinding together. The muscles in my neck pull tight, a familiar tension that has become my constant companion since the attempt on our lives. “Then find out where his knives are pointed before one finds my back. Or Naomi's.”
Lex inclines his head. “Understood,pakhan.” He pauses at the door, his hand resting on the brass handle, then adds in his low, deliberate tone that I've learned to associate with his most serious warnings, “But know this, Viktor's obsession isn't just with the throne. It's with what you're holding closest.”
His meaning doesn't need explanation. Naomi. The glass in my hand creaks ominously as I grip it again, the beast inside me clawing at the leash with renewed fury. The urge to hunt Viktor down tonight, to end this threat permanently, surges through me like fire through dry timber.
Timur's message pings on my laptop with electronic urgency:Surveillance footage sorted and compiled. Time stamps matched with security protocols.I open the video file, and the gala unfolds on the screen in high-definition clarity, every detail preserved in digital amber.
Naomi glides through the crowded ballroom in the gown I gave her, the fabric flowing around her like liquid starlight. My mother’s diamonds glitter at her throat, reflecting the light from a dozen crystal chandeliers. She looked unshakable to the casual observer, poised and elegant, though I knew she was nervous. I could read the tension in the set of her shoulders and the way her fingers occasionally brushed against the necklace like a talisman. She played her part flawlessly, a queen among wolves, and beside her, I softened. The cameras caught it all. Every protective gesture, every possessive touch, every moment when my carefully constructed mask slipped to reveal the man beneath.
Then Viktor enters the frame, and everything changed. His eyes snapped to her instantly, drawn by some magnetic force, and his entire demeanor shifted. The way he began to circle through the crowd was like a hunter who had already identified his prize. I watch him study her movements, memorize her habits, and catalog her weaknesses. The footage shows him positioning himself for maximum visual access, always keeping her in his sight line.
I hit the replay button. The scene unfolds again. And again. Each viewing reveals new details. The way his fingers drummed against his champagne glass when she laughed. How his conversation partners became mere background noise when she moved across his field of vision. The hungry intensity in his gaze when she turned her head, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
Again. This time I notice how he timed his approach when I was momentarily distracted by business associates. The strategy is woven into every step, and every gesture is designed to appear casual while serving a deeper purpose. He sensed Naomi is my weakness, and Viktor identified her with the precision of a sniper acquiring his target.
I slam the laptop shut with enough force to crack the screen. Fury coils tight in my chest, sharp as a blade and twice as deadly. The leather chair creaks as I surge to my feet, pacing behind the desk like a lion restless in its enclosure. If he touches her, if he so much as breathes in her direction with ill intent, I'll kill him with my bare hands. Slowly and very painfully. But he has to expose himself first and show his hand before I can make my move. Even aspakhan, I can't move against my own blood without irrefutable proof. One rash strike would ignite unrest in my ranks, creating fractures in the organization that could take years to heal.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimes midnight, its deep bronze notes rolling through the silence like a funeral bell. Time moves differently in this house, compressed by danger and stretched by anticipation. Minutes feel like hours when every shadow might hide a threat.
I hear footsteps in the hallway. Light, graceful, and unmistakably feminine. My body tenses automatically. Naomi. She appears in the doorway like a vision from a dream, backlit by the hallway sconces. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, dark waves framing the delicate architecture of her face. The simple cotton nightshirt she wears does nothing to diminish her beauty. If anything, it enhances it, revealing the natural grace that no amount of designer clothing could improve upon. Thefabric clings softly to her curves, hinting at the treasures beneath without revealing them, a tease that sets my blood on fire.
“You should be asleep,” I state, though my voice lacks any real authority.
“So should you.” Her response comes with a slight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She can read my moods now, seeing through the facade I present to the world.
“You shouldn't wander the halls at night.” The words come out rough, colored by the fear that never fully leaves me.
“Why?” she laughs, and the sound is like music in the sterile silence of my office. “Afraid your guards will mistake me for an intruder?”
“No,” I answer evenly, meeting her gaze with unflinching honesty. “Afraid of who else might be watching.”
The laughter dies on her lips. “Viktor,” she replies, quiet but certain. No question, just acknowledgment of the threat we both know lurks in the shadows.
She moves across the room, settling on the edge of the leather chair positioned across from my desk. The position allows her to watch me closely, to read the micro-expressions I try so hard to control. I pour a second glass of whiskey and set it on the small table beside her chair, though she doesn't immediately reach for it. The amber liquid sits untouched, a bridge between us that she may or may not choose to cross.
“What aren't you telling me?” she asks softly, and there's no accusation in the words, only gentle persistence. She knows I'm holding something back, and she wants the complete truth, not the sanitized version I might offer to spare her feelings.
I lean against the desk, my arms folded across my chest. The marble is solid against my back, grounding me as I prepare to reveal secrets I've kept buried for years.
“You want the truth? Fine.” I draw a deep breath, tasting smoke and leather and the faint scent of her lavender perfume that seems to permeate every corner of this house now. “Viktor has never been my ally. He is two years younger than me, close enough in age that we grew up together, played in the same rooms, and learned the same lessons. But he has lived every moment of his life convinced that I stole what was rightfully his.”
I pause, watching her face for any sign of judgment or fear, but find only attentive concern. “His father was my father's brother. Shurik Zorin, a man who believed birthright trumped capability, who thought the world owed him deference simply because of the family name he carried. By the old traditions, when the Bratva throne should have changed hands after my father was killed, Viktor believed his bloodline should have inherited the crown. That his father should have becomepakhanand ruled the organization my grandfather built from nothing.”
Naomi's eyes widen slightly, processing the implications of dynastic succession in a world where power is measured in blood and bullets. “So, Viktor thinks it should have been him that was next in line. Not you.”
“Exactly.” My voice carries the burden of years spent defending my legitimacy. “But it was my mother, Galina, who rose to claim the throne when the smoke cleared. She was stronger, smarter, and ruthless enough to take what others could only dream of possessing. While Shurik postured and demanded recognition, she acted. While he gathered supporters for a future claim, she eliminated opposition in the present. She understood that power is not inherited, it's seized.”
The memory of my mother still brings a complex mixture of pride and pain. Galina Zorin had been a force of nature, beautiful and terrible, loving and lethal. She'd taught me that sentiment was fragility the powerful couldn’t risk, and mercy was weakness that enemies would exploit.
“Viktor grew up in my shadow,” I continue, the words coming easier now that I've begun the telling. “Watched as Galina built an empire that he thought his father should have ruled. Watched as resources and respect flowed to our branch of the family while his father remained a bitter lieutenant, always second in command, never the leader. His father died angry and resentful, convinced until his last breath that the universe had conspired against him. And Viktor inherited every ounce of that bitterness and nursed it like a flame in the darkness.”
