Page 1 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Chapter 1 - Darya

“Your turn will come, too, darling,” the woman in front of me coos, saccharine dripping from every word.

I pluck a flute of champagne from one of the eight trays circulating the ballroom and grant myself a dainty sip. Already, I can feel a headache coming on. Best to nip it in the bud by curbing the edges of this odious interaction. I foresee more incoming.

C’est la vie.

“Will it?” I question.

She jumps at the opportunity. “Yes, yes!” she insists. “Age is just a number, you know. They are right when they say this. It is not so bad that your little sister—”

“Nadya,” I calmly supply. In this world, where one’s last name carries such tremendous weight, the first often slips the mind. I get it.

“—has married first. What can you do about young love, eh?”

“Celebrate it,” I remind, raising my flute in a toast.

More or less, that’s what we’re here for tonight. At least that’s the party line. My little sister is in the middle of the room, twinkling in the arms of her new husband, Viktor Zakharov. She’s never looked more radiant. Her head is thrown back in laughter. In spite of propriety, Viktor bends his head to press his lips to the long column of her throat. More than one person in the room squirms over the placement of his hands, planted dangerously close to her ass.

I glance at the woman out of the corner of my eye. Tersely, she says, “Yes,” and raises her own glass. Her frown speaks volumes.

She isn’t alone in being a disbeliever.

The road to this ballroom has been anything but smooth. I don’t need to count the ways. It’s ubiquitous in this room. There’s an abundance of watchful eyes on the happy couple. Unfortunately, not everyone is happy for them. Happy endings aren’t really the bread and butter of the Bratva world. Even less so when the pair being celebrated is two halves of the biggest rival gangs in North America.

It isn’t, however, surprising for my little sister to pull off. It’s pretty par for the course, actually. What’s a daredevil to do but have audacity? She is who she is, magnificent and detrimental as that can be.

Often, the aftermath requires damage control. That’s what tonight is.

“I’m glad you agree,” I say. The words are firm, a statement and a warning in one. My smile isn’t meant to soften anything. I punctuate with it before I graciously extricate myself from the woman—always, always graciously—leaving her behind to resume my circuit of the room.

We Yuris are scattered all over the place.

Trifon and Yulia are chatting with some people by the windows. My eldest brother holds his wife by the hip, shielding her without thinking. For once, she’s out of her scrubs. I’m clearly not the only one who thinks that she cleans up exquisitely well. Their daughter is the only one of us missing from the party—but I suspect little Zinaida would despise this crowd even more than Nadya does.

I scan the crowd, and another brother, Valentin, this time, catches my eye. I’ve already crossed paths with my sister-in-law, Gela, so I know she’s already here somewhere. So are my brothers Leonid and Miron.

Iosif is twirling our beloved Janella, his wife, around the dance floor. Her honey-blonde head looks up at him with swooning sweetness, like something plucked from a fairy tale. They stick close to Nadya and Viktor. That’s no coincidence.

In one way or another, they’re all in pairs. They all have their roles to play. I have mine as well. Everyone’s mission is the same: keep smoothing over the feathers ruffled by the shocking alliance between the Yuri and Zakharov Bratvas. Normalize it. Celebrate it.

Throw ivory tablecloths over it, adorn it with tapers, votives, and glamorous centerpieces—and it just may distract from this ballroom actually being a minefield.

If nothing else, the people in this room all love a good party. I’ve known and interacted with versions of them for years now. One needn’t be a social butterfly to be excellent at catering to their proclivities. I am excellent. I require no reassurance about it; I know I hit the ball out of the park, as the plebes say.

Cherry red, crystal-encrusted fabric rustles against my legs as I walk through the sea of guests. I scan through faces for someone I already know and don’t dislike because of it. It’s a meaner feat than one would expect.

A candidate announces themselves when my eyes land on them.

At around six feet tall, most of my brothers have a couple of inches on him. But Anton Zakharov has an aura about him that makes him feel taller. I’m not the only person who notices. It isn’t just because he’s Viktor’s half-brother, as we’ve found out recently—a secret that has been spilling through the grapevine for the past six months. Or rather, Viktor is his. They share a father. And some features. Mostly, the full mouths and caterpillar-thick eyebrows the Zakharov men can call their own family’s signature trait—not unlike the thick, dark hair all Yuris share, except for Nadya, who likes to recreationally ruin hers with copious amounts of bleach.

The Zakharov Pakhan, on the other hand, works an entirely natural blond. His locks are spun gold. Thick and perfectly coifed. He never has a hair out of place. I can appreciate that in a man. Too many of them are far too comfortable looking unkempt nowadays. Viktor Zakharov, with his wild, likely unbrushed hair, is a good example of this.

Anton’s hardly the life of the party, especially in contrast. There’s a somberness about him. And it isn’t just that he’s often standing to the side. I have seen him a handful of times, and never without the placid expression he sports now. I watch him, surrounded by people who are drinking, dancing, and making merry. Him, sober as the eye of a tornado.

The word that comes to mind is Lonely.

Still, the closer I weave my way towards him, the more I’d have to be blind not to admit that there’s plenty to appreciate about the man’s physicality. That’s perhaps my artist’s eye at work.