Page 10 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

I don’t share that he’s probably wise for that. Just look at what Viktor pulled. Whatever way my brother-in-law wanted to slice it, betrayal is betrayal. I’m not stupid enough to say any of this to my sister. Instead, I question, “Then how does Viktor know about it?”

“Anton told him. The bare bones of it, at least. Getting him to say more was like pulling fucking teeth. Maxim helped, though.”

I stall. “That’s—?”

“His cousin.”

“Anastasia’s brother?”

“Yeah, he and Vik are besties. Anton and Stasi are besties. There’s probably a weird line-in-the-sand thing going on there. I don’t know, D. Zakharovs are fucking weird.”

“You’re a Zakharov now,” I tease.

Nadya scoffs, unbothered. “Yuri blood in my veins forever, baby.”

I sink into the velvet-upholstered chair tucked by the desk. Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I busy my hands cleaning up some brushes. “Always and forever,” I agree.

In my mind, I can see her broadly sprawling, impish grin. “Tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“That’s a bad deal, Nadya. I promise your husband discloses more to you than our brothers share with me. You know how they are.” I ignore her inconducive muttering of, Do I fuckin’ ever. “All I know is that they’re tense. They’ve been behind closed doors a lot. I think I’ll ditch Sunday brunch. Sleeping in sounds more fruitful than witnessing a black mood no one’ll explain. I swear, I could never be married to a Bratva man.”

Once upon a time, Nadya would’ve agreed with me. It was one of the few things we’d always been on the same page about. And now, she’s the wife of one anyway. Funny how life works sometimes, isn’t it? She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her.

I often see evidence of why. It’s present in the fact that she’s privy to how “Anton’s told Viktor to plant some false information in New York and see how deep the treachery runs or whatever.”

It sounds like Nadya is directly quoting Anton. I can hear his voice shaping those words. He has a theatrical way with words; I’ll give him that.

It’s a smart strategy, I can admit. I’d rather leap into a vat of acid and let it eat away at my flesh than pay Anton Zakharov the compliment out loud.

“He’s doing something similar on this side,” I inform Nadya. “Trif and Val seemed on board with that plan. But I don’t know how I feel about that man’s primary goal feeling like one of ours fucked up.”

“Knowing our brothers, they’ll handle Anton just fine.”

But how? I hate that I don’t know. It bothers me that I don’t—that they won’t talk to me.

“Of course they will. We probably just won’t know how until after the fact.” I try to push the words off as wry, but even I can hear the note of annoyance that chases them like a shadow.

I know I’ve got to get over it. I’m not Nadya. I’ve no desire to act out because I’m not thrilled about the unexplained ramping up of security that follows me around. I can be displeased, but there’s nothing to be achieved from throwing that displeasure in anyone’s face. I can control myself better than that.

Well... with one unfortunate, obvious exception.

With Anton Zakharov, my displeasure drips from every thought, kept inside or spewed aloud. He coaxes the pettiness tamped down inside me. I’d mind it if how ill-equipped he is to handle someone handing his ass back to him weren’t so genuinely hilarious.

It stays hilarious, so long as I don’t think too deeply about it. Because then, I’d actually have to contemplate whether it was me getting beneath Anton’s skin that got him to reach out to his brother.

I’d have to think about the look on his face when I threw the words in it, when I called him lonely.

I’d have to confront that I know he is, because I recognize the feeling these days.

But I don’t have to think about it because I have a sister who loves me enough to change the subject. “Whatever. Fuck men. What painting are you geeking out over today, by the way?”

Despite everything, I have someone who can still make me smile to myself. That isn’t everything, but it comes pretty damn close.

***

One by one, all three of my employees bid me a goodnight. By now, they know better than to play savior and try to outlast me at work. I run a tight ship, it’s true, but it’s an exceptionally well-oiled one. It’s why, despite being a private, word-of-mouth operation, the atelier is a wildly successful venture in its own right.

I stay later than intended. Then again, that’s not unusual.