Page 20 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Humor is a decent anchor.

***

When we were little, Nadya and I used to play weddings. I was always the bride, mostly because my little sister never wanted to be. I always liked it, though. I liked being the center of attention and liked even more the ceremony of it all.

So, it isn’t all that surprising that, growing up, I’ve thought about the big day more than once. What it would be like.

The dress I would wear, the flowers I’d carry, the setting I would walk through, and how many eyes I’d like on me as I did it. Over the years, I’ve accumulated the answers to those questions. Last year, amidst planning Nadya’s wedding, I answered them in the back of my mind.

My sisters-in-law and otherwise—surround me, sentimental and fawning. A professional already did my makeup in tasteful, smoky neutrals and rearranged my curls into a braided chignon. But they fuss over my dress: a glimmering reality pulled from my dreams; pearl-white Mikado beginning with an off-the-shoulder sweetheart neckline, dotted with crystals over an in-built corset, and finished off with a full, frothy skirt that pairs with the dramatism of a long, long train. A blush-colored ribbon in the back cinches it all together and knots snugly at my tailbone.

They shower me with compliments—Janella, wiping delicately at her shining eyes, and Yulia with her dexterous hands tucking my train in place, and Gela helping me into my J’Adior slingback heels.

And my baby sister, who once made me a bouquet out of three-ply toilet paper and intricate Chantilly lace, brings me my creation of maroon sweet peas and deep purple calla lilies that’ll match the décor, with the cream ranunculus—my favorite—as the centerpiece.

“You sure about this, dude?” Nadya asks, looking younger than she has in years, her eyes wide and doubtful as she looks down at me.

“It’s the perfect wedding,” I say.

Perfect. It’s the right word for it.

For the most part, at least.

It isn’t like her to hold her tongue, but I can tell she does it when I answer. Probably because she bitched and moaned about my giving her such a hard time about falling in love with her kidnapper-turned-husband. I can’t lie, it’s a little entertaining, watching her try not to be a hypocrite. Though slightly less so to watch her be weighed down by the realization that she can’t talk me out of this.

She knows as well as I do that this is a commonplace occurrence. She’s a more hopeful person than I am on my best day. Yet, even she has to face that there’s nothing new or novel about a political marriage. They have been a weapon wielded by people in power since the beginning of time. Even my brothers, who haven’t exactly come around on the topic, can see that this is an idea with merit.

I honestly think that at least some of them even grudgingly admire Anton’s audacity to go for it the way he did. After all, it isn’t as if he stole me or cajoled me into a union. There was no foul play. His approach had been stunningly upfront. Ballsy.

It was the kind of shit a man leading Bratva could pull off. No one with half a brain could dismiss that that was probably the point. And a long overdue point to be made, if how comfortable his own brother felt going behind his back is the metric to go by.

Anton earned my acquiescence from me.

Of course, one could say that my perception of Anton’s charade is a form of delusion. It isn’t. Delusion would be the belief that his audacity will earn him my respect, my favor, or some hope for my affections. I’m certain neither he nor I is under any such illusion.

However much a romantic I may or may not be, I’ve never been one to be swayed by sugary sentimentality. What I am is a person who knows what I want; a person who knows her heart, her mind, her soul. I don’t need sugar. I need the end to justify the means. I don’t believe in good or bad, heaven or hell—I believe in loving with every inch of my soul, and destroying anything that tries to kill what I love.

What I love is my family.

What remains to be seen is whether Anton Zakharov is the thing that needs to be destroyed.

Until then, he’ll have to do simply as something to be played with.

***

When it’s almost showtime, it’s just me left. Everyone else has been ushered to their seats. A firm, demanding knock sounds against the heavy door of the suite. Upon my subsequent invitation, Trifon’s tattooed hand grips the door, and the other opens for his entrance.

His brows are furrowed and brooding.

I know what he’s going to ask before the words leave his lips. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you down? Or out of here?”

Without a hitch, I answer, “Yes. Positive, bratik.”

Unconvinced, he says for what has to be the millionth time, “Darya, you don’t have to do this. There are a hundred solutions we’d consider before shackling you to Anton.”

“Give me one.”

He scowls darkly. “We could find the mole tomorrow. And then, you’d still be married.”