Page 63 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Anton Kravin is alive. The man who tortured me, who broke my finger with pliers, who would have done far worse if Pavel hadn’t arrived—he’s still out there.

My father has been working with him.

The realization hits like a physical blow. I press my hand against the wall for support, trying to process what I’m hearing.

“Pull the full communication records,” Pavel continues. “I want every message Souris sent to Kravin operatives, every financial transfer, every piece of evidence that confirms he’sbeen actively undermining our operations while pretending political cooperation.”

My father isn’t just protecting himself anymore. He’s actively betraying the organization he forced me into marriage to appease. Using the alliance he created—using me—as cover for espionage.

The betrayal cuts deeper than the original sale. At least then I understood his motivation—self-preservation, political survival. Selfish but comprehensible.

This is something else entirely. This is calculated, ongoing treachery that puts not just me but everyone in this household at risk.

“What about Mrs. Rudenko?” Mikhail’s voice carries through the phone, and I realize he’s put it on speaker. It’s tinny but clear enough to make my breath catch.

Silence stretches. I can picture Pavel’s expression, that calculating look he gets when assessing threats and variables.

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and the admission sounds like it costs him. “She’s been present for discussions where sensitive information was shared. The timing correlates. Her behavior doesn’t suggest active deception.”

They think I might be involved.

Of course they do. My father is the leak, I’m his daughter, I’ve had access to operational details. The logic is sound even if the conclusion is wrong.

Horror floods through me, mixing with the shock and anger into something overwhelming. I need to—what? Burst in and proclaim my innocence? That would just make me look more guilty, more desperate.

Staying silent while they investigate me as a potential threat feels like betrayal in itself.

“Increase surveillance,” Pavel orders. “Keep it subtle. I don’t want her aware she’s under suspicion unless evidence confirms involvement.”

I push open the study door.

Pavel looks up sharply, his hand moving instinctively toward the weapon I know he keeps in his desk drawer before recognition registers. “Serena.”

“I heard.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “Not all of it, but enough. My father has been working with the Kravin Syndicate and feeding them intelligence. Using the marriage as cover for espionage.”

His expression shifts through several emotions too quickly to track before settling into careful neutrality. “How long were you listening?”

“Long enough to know you think I might be involved.” I close the door behind me, needing this conversation private despite how much my hands are shaking. “Long enough to hear you ordering surveillance on me because the evidence looks bad.”

He sets down his phone with controlled precision. “Mikhail, I’ll call you back.”

The line disconnects, and we’re alone in heavy silence.

“I didn’t know,” I say, the words rushing out before he can speak. “I swear to you, Pavel, I had no idea my father was doing this. I thought after he sold me, I thought the worst was over. I didn’t realize he’d keep using me as a tool for—”

“Serena.” He stands, moving around the desk toward me. “Slow down. Tell me exactly what you know about your father’s recent activities.”

“Nothing!” The denial is desperate, too loud. I force myself to lower my voice. “I haven’t spoken to him since the wedding. Haven’t received any communication until—”

I stop, the envelope in my desk drawer suddenly feeling like a brand.

Pavel’s eyes narrow. “Until what?”

The moment of truth. I can hide the message, hope he never discovers it, maintain plausible deniability about my father’s contact.

Or I can choose the transparency we’ve been trying to build, even when it makes me look guilty.

“Until yesterday,” I admit quietly. “He sent me a message. An envelope that appeared on my desk while I was downstairs.”