Page 48 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

I almost forget, at times—mostly because the fact gets blown to smithereens when it comes to her and me—that Darya’s an exceptionally refined and courteous person. It shouldn’t be a surprise to me that she holds her tongue in front of an elder.

Impulsively, my arm wraps around her waist. I squeeze her hip in wordless thanks.

She sighs against me.

“We’ll be at the table,” I say.

“An hour,” Boris grunts, turning back towards the stairs. His stick finds the step. “Tell Galina to have two more places set. I should like to get to know your wife.”

Darya sheds her coat and drapes it over her arm. She looks stoic now, and the glass wall between us has returned. She steps out of my hold with a pat on my wrist, which feels distinctly placating.

With extraordinary composure, she says to me, “I’ll go. Might as well get it over with.”

And then she’s gone, too.

***

My mother’s eyes meet mine as I stride into the dining room. Entering through the other set of doors on the opposite side of the room, she takes one look at the seating arrangement, particularly where Uncle Boris sits at the other end of the table, just a little farther away from everyone else, and says nothing of it.

Her silence has always been louder. As are her actions.

I bite my smile when she chooses a spot equidistant from Boris and me, dropping into the seat beside Darya, who sits at my right. To my right, Anastasia and her brother, Maxim, are bickering about something or other. I can’t tune in enough to keep up. I’m too caught up in the fact that I can’t remember the last time the table was this full, all of us here at the same time—with the obvious exception of Viktor, and an addition of Darya, which evened the table out, regardless.

Six places out of the ten-chair dining table are occupied between us.

It feels significant. I just can’t tell if it’s good or not. That locus of tension is what continues to plague me while everyone around me settles in and digs into a meal so elaborate that one would never know Maxim and Boris’ attendance is an unanticipated circumstance.

I pick at the pickled vegetables distractedly, piling a forkful onto a spongy piece of buttered bread. But I can’t linger on the flavors. My attention splits between Darya and Boris, the latter of whom engages in conversation with no one. Though it should be said, neither do I. It heartens me to see Darya get along so smoothly with both Galina and Stasi, even ribbing Maxim, as we all do with him being the youngest of us. I don’t miss that every time she makes one of his children laugh with that caustic sense of humor, Boris’ expression grows more and more dark.

A storm is on the horizon. I’d venture a blind man would be able to feel it. I’m certain everyone at this table can, too.

Yet, for some reason, we go on pretending none of us does. Because it’s the appropriate, tactful thing to do, I suppose.

“—I’m telling you!” Maxim insists, gesticulating with his fork. “These Providence motherfuckers have gotta be some of the most optimistic fucking criminals I’ve ever encountered in my life. Truly fucking ballsy, man. Almost to a delusional degree. They were operating out of a laundromat, but had the nerve to push on our boundary like we wouldn’t notice? What the fuck? Do your brothers—”

It’s to Darya that he directs this.

I can see Boris’ jaw clench, his stare stony. “Ah, come now, Maxim. The Yuris are impervious to such commonplace inconveniences. Such is the charming benefit of those Yuri wiles. Isn’t that right, Darya?”

Oh, Jesus.

Truth be told, on one hand, I’m impressed he lasted halfway through the main course. On the other hand, I can’t fucking believe he just said that. What the fuck?

By my side, I can feel how still Darya has gone. Maybe I do know her. It’s precisely how I’d expect her to react. It was, after all, how she’d taken it in stride when I’d been a fucking dick to her, reducing her words to nothing but platitudes. She could bite back. She’d draw blood. If anyone needs proof of how sharp her tongue can get, I’ve got many a scar to show off by now. It goes to show that her not going to those lengths here is a choice. It’s an exhibition of restraint.

I’ve got no doubt she’ll wait, sit with this, steam and seethe, and concoct a way to get even when the time is right. That’s how she is.

But she shouldn’t have to.

“Uncle,” I say coldly. It surprises me, too, given how immovable this man has always felt to me. A man who’s consistently been impossible not to obey, given that he’s essentially an extension of my father’s will. Historically, it isn’t often that his ideas and mine go down divergent roads. When they have, in the past, we’ve gone his way out of respect for his experience. He is an elder. But this time, he’s also so fucking wrong. What kind of Pakhan am I, if my own brother can go behind my back, and my own uncle can insult my wife to my face? The kind with a mole selling sensitive information to the highest bidder. “That’s the last time you speak to her this way. To her face, or behind her back.”

Boris chortles, raising his glass of frosted vodka. “See? Wiles at work.”

My brow lifts. “You have no idea,” I agree. “I’d say I’m thoroughly ensnared in those wiles already.”

God. My poor mother chokes on a bite, and Darya, looking more stricken than I’ve ever seen her, helpfully pats her back.

Swallowing a sigh, I add, “So, if anyone has a problem with that, then—” Then what? Boris’ eyes dare me. “Then that’s just too fucking bad.”