Page 21 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

“That’s a what if,” I point out. “Not a solution.”

“I could—”

“What, kill him? That would’ve been stupid if you’d done it to Viktor, and stupid if you do it now.” I roll my eyes and fluff out my veil. “Whether we like it or not, our little sister is happy. She’s in love with him. And the alliance with the Zakharovs may have been initiated because of that, but it’s changed the game for us to share territories and resources. Routes have tripled. Why would someone come for either of you, given the risk of getting caught, if you didn’t scare the shit out of the other gangs? Anton is a little bitch, but he’s also played this perfectly. He’s instigated a power move, choosing to strengthen something rather than admit it is weak. He placed a domino. Saying no to him makes you look unreasonable and stupid, and we both know you aren’t. You’ll knock the whole thing down. Then who knows who’ll side with him for what’ll be a bloody war—and Nadya could wind up collateral.”

Trifon looks away from me, pinching the bridge of his nose like I’m causing him physical pain. I’d bet I am. But the truth is the truth, and while we can bend it to our will occasionally, it still can’t be changed.

I stand up and step slowly towards my brother, coaxing his hand away from his face. “You men underestimate us,” I accuse with tenderness. “Instead of doubting me and trying to rescue me, try saying thanks. Maybe trusting that I know what I’m doing.”

Trifon looks down at me, tucking his knuckles under my chin. He raises my eyes to his. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“This isn’t doubt, Darya. It’s love.”

Upsettingly, those words urge a lump in my throat. I have to swallow past it. “What kind of love is bereft of respect, Trifon?”

“We do respect you. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s that respect for your life that’s fucking killing me, watching you intertwine it with Anton Zakharov’s. You know, his last wife died.”

I laugh weakly. “You’re forgetting that he’s intertwining his with mine, too. It goes both ways. And he’s not Bluebeard, for the love of God.”

With a doleful glance, Trifon mutters, “That we know of.”

I lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek. “I can handle myself—which is also why I’d rather walk myself down the aisle. I’m no one’s to give away but my own, thank you very much. I love you, however, for trying to uphold the archaic custom from a warm place in your heart.”

He blinks at me. “Too many words.”

Shaking my head, I shove him towards the door with another laugh. “Get out and go sit your ass down. I’ll see you in a minute.”

He only takes a couple of steps towards the door before he stops. “I fucking hate this, Dar.” he sighs to the door before he turns the handle. It’s like he can’t bear to look at me when he says, “But you make a fucking beautiful bride.”

The sight of him blurs as he walks out.

I have to force air into my lungs, forcing myself to move, walk towards the mirror to ensure the kohl the makeup artist lined my eyes with is still intact. It’s grounding to find that it is—though my eyes are redder than I’d like, and glossy with unshed tears. I’m quick to grab a handkerchief and tilt my face to the ground, blinking against the edge of it. Even with waterproof makeup, one could never be too sure.

Besides, I’m not giving Anton any reason to think I’m sentimental about this affair. It’s a wedding in its name—and maybe even the only one I’ll ever have—but it’s in service of a reason I believe in.

A final check of my reflection assures me that every aspect of the look, from the bronzy, smoked-out makeup to the rose-pink lining my mouth into a pout, remains immaculate. This is as ready as I’m ever going to be, but it’s ready enough.

I cast the veil in front of myself and step out of the suite.

The doors to the nave are still shut. Beyond them, the symphony of the organ swells to meet me. I’ve always known it’s the instrument I wanted to accompany me down the aisle. As I stand there in the back corridor, I inhale the perfume of the bouquet between my hands. I arrange my train to cascade the way I’ve imagined it will, and begin to walk towards the attendant. He reaches for the door handle when I nod the signal his way.

He can’t tear his eyes from me—and that, even now, makes me smile a little. Maybe it’ll be love at first sight for Anton, too, I joke to myself, albeit we’re very far from it being the first.

The door swings open, and I know this joke is in poor taste at best.

My feet chart the crimson runner, step by step. 154 people are watching me descend. One would think I’d be taken back to the moment last month, when Anton led me down the aisle and stood me beside him on the chancel. But no—I think of last year, to a different aisle I’d walked down, as a bridesmaid.

Out of nowhere, of all the people in the world, the only person I can think of is Viktor Zakharov. A vicious man with seemingly no impulse control. A traitor. A black sheep. A badass, to some. My unlikely brother-in-law. All I can think of is the look on his face when he saw my sister in her wedding dress—like the sun dawned on his face at the first glimpse of her. Like the fact of her existence knocked the breath out of his lungs, and redefined living to him. A man in love.

That’s not how Anton looks at me.

I walk down the aisle, with over a hundred pairs of eyes on me, and the man I walk towards may as well be looking right through me.

You can handle yourself, I remind myself brutally.

My brain absorbs the message, but my heart sinks like a stone in my chest. I’m supposed to be beyond this. That’s what I hate most about it. I shouldn’t care that Anton—devastating in his tuxedo, with a deep burgundy boutonnière—looks nothing more than staid as ever.