Aria descended the grand staircase in the outfit Katya had selected. It was a cream silk blouse and tailored black pants that probably cost more than her old monthly rent. The clothes fit perfectly, which somehow made everything worse. This was slowly becoming her world too. The realisation was so hard to soak in.
The dining room was a study in intimidation, dark mahogany table that could seat twenty, crystal chandelier casting light across bone china and silver cutlery. Viktor sat at the head of the table, reading what appeared to be financial reports while sipping coffee from a cup that probably cost more than most people's cars.
He looked up when she entered, his dark eyes taking in her appearance with clinical assessment.
"Good morning, wife," he said, the title rolling off his tongue like he was testing how it sounded.
"Good morning," Aria replied, not returning the endearment.
Viktor gestured to the chair at his right hand—close enough that she'd be within easy reach, far enough that she couldn't grab anything sharp without him stopping her. Everything calculated.
"I trust you slept well?" There was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice, probably remembering how she'd stubbornly chosen the chaise over the bed.
"Like a baby," she lied smoothly.
A ghost of a smile crossed Viktor's lips as he folded his newspaper. "Excellent. We have a busy day ahead."
Before Aria could ask what he meant, the dining room doors opened and Katya entered, followed by two men Aria recognized from the wedding. The first was tall and lean with silver hair and cold blue eyes. The second was younger, stockier, with the kind of scars that spoke of a violent life.
"Aria, I'd like you to meet my associates," Viktor said with the casual air of a man introducing his golf partners. "Mikhail Petrov, my financial advisor. And Sergei Volkov, head of security."
Both men nodded politely, but their eyes held the same calculating assessment she'd seen at the wedding. She was being measured, evaluated, catalogued for weaknesses.
"Gentlemen," she said coolly, reaching for the coffee pot with steady hands.
"We were just discussing today's charity luncheon," Viktor continued, cutting into what looked like eggs Benedict prepared by a chef who probably trained in Paris. "The Children's Hospital benefit. You'll be accompanying me."
It wasn't a request.
"How generous of you to support children's causes," Aria said, unable to keep the slight edge from her voice.
"I find it important to give back to the community," Viktor replied with perfect sincerity, as if laundering money through charity events was a civic duty.
Mikhail cleared his throat. "About the Kozlov Foundation's quarterly disbursements—"
"After breakfast, Mikhail." Viktor's voice carried just enough warning to cut off the conversation. "Family time is sacred."
Family. The word sat strangely in the air. This felt nothing like the warm family breakfasts of her childhood, back when her parents were still alive and her biggest worry was finishing her homework.
"The venue has excellent security," Sergei said, addressing Viktor but keeping his eyes on Aria. "Three exits, easily monitored.
But there are... concerns."
"What kind of concerns?" Aria asked before she could stop herself.
Sergei's pale eyes shifted to her with what might have been surprise. Most crime bosses' wives probably didn't ask about security details.
"The Bratva has been making moves," Viktor answered, his voice matter-of-fact. "Territorial disputes. Nothing that concerns you directly."
"Doesn't it? If someone's planning to shoot up a charity luncheon, I'd say that concerns me very directly."
"No one will shoot up anything," Viktor said with absolute certainty. "Because they know that would mean war. And war is bad for business."
The casual way he discussed potential violence, as if it were just another business consideration, sent a chill down Aria's spine. His world was a place where human lives were weighed against profit margins and territory disputes.
"Besides," Viktor continued, reaching across to place his hand over hers, "you'll be with me. No one would dare."
His touch was warm, possessive, and completely calculated for the benefit of their audience. But underneath the performance, Aria caught something else. His words wore a flicker of genuine concern that he quickly masked.
"How reassuring," she said dryly.
Katya, who had been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke. "Your stylist will be here at ten to prepare you for the luncheon. Hair, makeup, final fitting for your dress."
"I have a stylist now?"
"Viktor's wife must look the part," Katya said with cool efficiency. "Image is everything in this business."
"And what part exactly am I playing?"
Viktor's fingers tightened slightly on her hand. "The devoted wife of a successful businessman. Someone who chose to marry me because she loves me, not because she was forced into it."
The emphasis on 'chose' wasn't lost on anyone at the table. This was her first test. Could she play the role convincingly enough to maintain Viktor's reputation or would she plot her way out of his deadly grip ?
"Of course," Aria said smoothly. "What woman wouldn't fall for such a romantic courtship?"
Mikhail choked slightly on his coffee. Even Sergei's stoic expression cracked with what might have been amusement. But Viktor's eyes darkened with something that looked like approval.
"Careful, little artist," he murmured low enough that only she could hear. "Your sarcasm is showing."
"I thought you appreciated honesty."
"I do. But timing is everything."
The breakfast continued with business discussions that Aria was clearly not meant to understand.
There were coded references to "shipments" and "territorial adjustments" and "problem resolution." She found herself studying the dynamics, the way Mikhail deferred to Viktor's judgment, how Sergei communicated volumes with just a glance.
This wasn't just a criminal organization. It was a corporation, complete with hierarchies and protocols and corporate culture. Viktor wasn't just a thug with a gun. He was a CEO who happened to run an empire built on violence and fear.
"The Morozov situation?" Viktor asked, and Aria caught the way everyone's posture tensed slightly.
"Handled," Sergei said curtly.
"Cleanly?"
"As requested."
Viktor nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever coded message had just been exchanged. Aria didn't want to know what "handled cleanly" meant in this context.
"Excellent. Mikhail, I want the Patterson account moved to the Cayman subsidiary by end of week. And make sure the audit trail is... pristine."
"Already in motion."
"Good." Viktor dabbed his mouth with his napkin and stood. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us. I'd like to show my wife the gardens before her appointment."
It wasn't a request for her either.
......
The gardens were extensive and beautifully maintained, with winding paths that led through carefully curated sections.
Roses, herbs, a small orchard, even a greenhouse that Viktor led her toward with purposeful strides.
"Impressive," Aria said, and meant it. "Do you actually garden, or is this just another display of wealth?"
"I find gardening... therapeutic." Viktor opened the greenhouse door, releasing a wave of humid, plant-scented air. "There's something appealing about creating beauty from nothing. Nurturing something delicate until it becomes strong."
The greenhouse was filled with orchids, dozens of varieties in every color imaginable. Some were common enough that Aria recognized them, but others were clearly rare, exotic specimens that must have cost a fortune.
"You collect orchids," she observed.
"I collect many things." Viktor moved to a particularly stunning specimen. Deep purple petals with gold centers. "This one is from Thailand. Nearly extinct in the wild. It took me two years to acquire."
"Legally?"
Viktor's smile was sharp. "Define legally."
Aria moved deeper into the greenhouse, studying the carefully labeled specimens. Each orchid was perfect, maintained with obvious expertise and considerable expense.
"Why orchids?" she asked.
"They're survivors. Adaptable. They can grow in the most unlikely places, draw sustenance from almost nothing, and still produce something beautiful." Viktor's voice was quiet, almost contemplative. "I admire that resilience."
There was something in his tone that made Aria look at him more carefully. For a moment, his mask had slipped again, revealing something almost vulnerable.
"Is that supposed to be a metaphor for me?" she asked.
"If you want it to be."
"I'm not your orchid, Viktor. You can't just transplant me into your world and expect me to bloom on command."
"Can't I?" Viktor moved closer, and suddenly the greenhouse felt much smaller. "You're already adapting. Breakfast this morning—you handled Mikhail and Sergei perfectly. You're learning to play the game."
"I'm learning to survive. There's a difference."
"In my world, they're the same thing."
Viktor reached out to touch one of the orchid petals with surprising gentleness. "This particular species only blooms once a year. When it does, the flower lasts exactly forty-eight hours before it dies. But during those forty-eight hours, it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen."
"Another metaphor?"
"An observation." Viktor's dark eyes met hers. "Beauty is often fleeting. The trick is knowing how to preserve it."
Before Aria could ask what he meant, Viktor's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression immediately hardened.
"We need to go back to the house. Your stylist is here early."
"Viktor….."
"Now, Aria."
The steel in his voice brooked no argument. As they walked back toward the mansion, Aria noticed how Viktor's posture had changed. He was alert now, scanning the grounds with the practiced eye of someone always expecting danger.
"Is everything alright?" she asked.
"Everything's fine." But his hand found the small of her back, protective and possessive. "Just... stay close to me at the luncheon today. Don't wander off, don't talk to anyone I haven't introduced you to, and if something feels wrong, you find me immediately."
"You're scaring me."
Viktor stopped walking and turned to face her, his hands coming up to frame her face. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, but instead he just studied her features with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Good," he said finally. "Fear keeps you alive in my world.
But not too much fear. That makes you weak.
Find the balance."
"I don't understand."
"You will." Viktor's thumbs brushed across her cheekbones in a gesture that was becoming familiar. "You're stronger than you think, Aria. But strength without wisdom gets you killed."
"And wisdom without freedom gets you buried alive."
Viktor's smile was sharp and approving. "Now you're learning."
As they approached the house, Aria could see a small convoy of black cars in the circular drive. Too many cars for just a stylist appointment.
"Viktor….."
"Everything's fine," he repeated, but she could feel the tension radiating from him. "Just remember what I said. Stay close, trust no one except me, and if something goes wrong..."
"What?"
"Run."
The single word sent ice through her veins. Viktor Kozlov, the man who controlled everything, who planned for every contingency, who never showed weakness was telling her to run if things went bad.
Whatever was happening at this charity luncheon, it wasn't going to be the simple social appearance she'd thought.
As they entered the house, Aria caught a glimpse of men in expensive suits talking in urgent, hushed tones with Sergei.
One of them looked familiar, she was sure she'd seen him at the wedding, but she couldn't place him.
"Mrs. Kozlov?" A woman with perfect makeup and an armload of garment bags approached them. "I'm Elena, your stylist. Shall we begin?"
Viktor squeezed Aria's hand once, a gesture that could have been affectionate or warning.
"I'll see you in an hour," he said. "Remember what we discussed."
As Elena led her upstairs, chattering about color palettes and seasonal trends, Aria's mind raced. The tension in Viktor's voice, the extra security, the way everyone seemed to be communicating in code.
Something was definitely wrong.
She was beginning to understand that in Viktor's world, a simple charity luncheon could turn deadly without warning.
And she was about to walk into it on his arm, playing the role of the devoted wife.