Page 2 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

The elder Zakharov just happens to be handsome in a factually undeniable way. With the bone structure and sturdy build of a Rodin sculpture. An aquiline nose that pairs well with a full, lush mouth. And eyelashes that are remarkably long—longer than a mascara wand can accomplish for most women of my acquaintance—and vaguely doll-like.

The closer I get to him, the more obvious it is: He’s sublime.

Nadya’s told me about him before, briefly. If only to accuse him of being bitchy and having a stick up his ass. Both are opinions I’ve taken with a grain of salt, given that she’s said more or less the same about me on more than one occasion. Who knows what we might find in common? The glimmer of possibility is encouraging enough.

“Hello there,” I greet Anton with a warm smile.

Slowly, the man turns his head towards me. “Hello, Miss Yuri.” His accent is much thicker than his brother’s. As thick as Trifon’s is.

Idly, I wonder if he was born in Moscow as well and later immigrated here to rule his empire. His tone doesn’t exactly brook the question yet. That’s fine. I’m a relatively patient person, I’d say.

Besides, his eyes are an intriguing, almost sage green.

What can I say? I appreciate beautiful things.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Anton?” I ask, pointedly opting for his first name. We’re family now, for better or for worse. Surely we can dispense with certain formalities?

“Ah, yes,” he grunts. “This is what I live for.”

“Do you, really?”

All he responds with is a vague, irksome hum. It rides the line between acknowledgment and derision. Yet, what could I possibly have done to deserve the latter? He isn’t remotely a senseless man. Then again, I suppose you never know with the male species.

I try a different angle. “That’s good. Planning these galas is typically more fun than attending them. On the bright side, this was more fun to plan than their impromptu wedding,” I quip. He’d been less than thrilled by the match, much like everyone else, but he’d still helped Nadya find Viktor in the end. He’d come to their winter wonderland of a wedding. He hadn’t stormed off at any point during the event. All pluses. “Less stressful. More classic.”

With his no-frills attitude and that classic tuxedo, he fits immaculately amidst the trappings of this event. I’d venture he’d admire it.

It’s evident that he doesn’t.

Anton stares for a long beat. His eyes seem hollow. Everything about him does. Like he’s a husk of a human being. “Was it, really?”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he’s mocking me.

Summoning the wherewithal to barrel on, I take another sip of my champagne. It tastes sour to me now. I refuse to hum back like I’m some sort of irate bird.

“I understand that you and Viktor have your differences—” I ignore the arch of his brow, the way he ignores the waiter who offers him a flute of champagne of his own. He doesn’t accept the drink but plods his emptied lowball glass down on the tray. “—and I can empathize. I’ve got many, many siblings. Too many, one would say. We can have our differences. But family is family. And our families are linked now. This isn’t just a party; it’s an announcement to the world.”

He turns his head away from me, as if bored. “That’s heartwarming, thank you.”

There’s nothing technically wrong with his words. They are polite, albeit clinically so. But he speaks them in such a cold, condescending manner... It takes an infuriating amount of effort not to drop my jaw.

Who the hell does this man think he is?

Clutching at my composure, I add, “If you disagree, you can say so plainly. I’d welcome an interesting opinion.”

“Yet I harbor no opinions about this platter of platitudes you’re keen on serving, Miss Yuri,” he says without feeling or pause. He punctuates the blow with a courteous bow of his head.

I want to box his ears.

I don’t reproach his formality a second time. I decide I don’t want my name in his mouth.

“You should,” I sniff. “Half the people on the guest list are your associates, are they not? I was under the impression that presenting a united front matters.”

He doesn’t have to confirm that I’m right. I already know that I am.

“I wasn’t aware party-planning made one an expert on Bratva business,” Anton says. There may be no taunting in his tone, but I can feel it. He exudes it in waves. The indelible subtext of those words is Fuck off.

There’s no keeping my jaw hinged anymore.