Page 33 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

I’ll admit, she startles another laugh out of me, inspiring delighted shock this time. This development is one I did not see coming. “Tell me honestly, Galina, when’s the last time you were at a strip club?”

“No comment” is her clipped response.

But I swear, I see her eyes sparkle with humor. I can’t be sure, since she falls into step beside me. A horde of men follows after us, toting the equipage.

“Fair enough,” I allow. “I’ll be more conservative with redecorating the more communal areas. And I’m serious about your input. You’re too well-dressed for this to be your taste, either. It looks like a hotel from the 1940s. In the bad way.”

She’s eyeing me suspiciously; I can tell. One doesn’t grow up a Yuri and not learn how to effortlessly spot someone’s focus on them. Attention, in this world, has always come with repercussions. Idly, I wonder how much Galina understands about it.

From what I myself understand about her history, hers was a political marriage as well. A path to securing ties between the Zakharovs and Karpovs, all the way in St. Petersburg. Whether that was before or after, or during, my father-in-law’s affair with Viktor’s late mother, Milena, I don’t know. I’d never be so rude as to ask Galina outright.

But I feel bad for her. I can’t deny that. It’s why I invite, softly, “You can say what you’re thinking. I’m pretty hard to offend.”

That invitation, apparently, is all she needs. Stepping ahead of me into the drawing room, she candidly proclaims, “You’re doing this to get a rise out of my son.”

Galina glides toward a dated-looking couch and sinks imperiously into it. Her words aren’t a question. That’s no accident. There’s a challenge in her eyes that reminds me—again, disturbingly—of her son. It takes effort not to let it poison her for me.

I understand that she’s testing me. Still, I find I can’t decide whether I care or not about passing that test.

Leaning on the information I have about her and the impression I’ve gleaned now, I rely on my intuition. “Yes,” I tell her the unembellished truth. Then ask, “Are you going to try to stop me?”

Chapter 12 - Anton

I stop short so abruptly, Stasi walks right into my back with an irate Urgh! and swats my arm in protest. In a single beat, that turns into clutching my arm instead. Because she hears what I do.

Truth be told, I can’t remember the last time I heard laughter echoing through the hallowed halls of this manor. This place has seen much magnificence. It has seen blood and glory. And, a few macabre times, even condemnation and executions. But laughter?

We exchange a look, my cousin and I, equally baffled.

What. The. Fuck? Anastasia mouths slowly, not making a sound.

I can tell it’s a choice. I even understand the impulse to be stealthy, though I don’t share it. Shock doesn’t slow me down. Whether it isn’t in my nature to react that way, or an occupational hazard of being Pakhan, who’s to say? A true leader walks right into the line of fire. Therefore, chest puffed, that’s what I do, making a beeline for the source of bewildering merriment with caution thrown to the wind.

This time, when I come to an impromptu halt, Stasi manages to sidestep, barreling right into me. A good thing, in retrospect, since a feather could probably knock me over after this sight.

A sideways glance confirms, at least, that Anastasia doesn’t know what to do with the sight of Galina Zakharov chortling away while thumbing through paint samples with my new wife, who looks absolutely delighted by her company, any more than I do.

It’s safe to say this is an unprecedented turn of events.

Maybe not where Darya is concerned—given that I’ve seen her laugh, genuinely, plenty of times, albeit never at my elicitation—but definitely when it comes to the invulnerable, stoic woman who raised me.

“Uh,” Stasi interrupts, like a paragon of eloquence.

I whip a glare her way when the laughter cuts off abruptly at her sound, like a tap has been twisted off. Then again, there’s some comfort in the normalcy of Darya’s defensive glower returning, full-intensity, like we’re no more than intruders. If one can, in fact, be an intruder in their own home.

Just to fuck with her, I meet that glower with an ironic smile. “Hello.”

“You’re home early, rodnoy,” my mother admonishes.

I fight to not roll my eyes, knowing I’ll never hear the end of it for my impudence if I succumb to the urge. “I got married yesterday. I may not get a honeymoon, but sometimes even the big boss man gets to come home early for dinner.”

I’m unsure which part of my response pisses Darya off so much. But pissed off, she is—her ire practically oozes from her pores, emanating from whatever darkness resides beneath the pristine cover of her porcelain flesh.

Having apparently misplaced my self-preservation, I stoke the flames of her fury. “What’s for dinner?”

I’m not too thrilled to see my mother’s hand cover hers, squeezing it. Like she’s comforting her? I may have been spaced out during the wedding and had a bitch of a night besides, but I’m positive I didn’t wake up from my fitful sleep on the couch in my study to an alternative fucking universe. When did my mother and wife get into cahoots with one another? How long was I gone today?

“Borscht and pelmeni. Roasted lamb and roasted vegetables. And medovik for dessert,” Mama answers. “Darya’s been busy with redecorating plans today.”