Page 9 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

“We do,” Trifon says before his brother can say anything else.

Chapter 3 - Darya

It always takes a couple of days to shake him off.

I credit the win of going forty-eight hours without him—with his husky, imperious voice and his regal, pompous face—being in my head to my work. The atelier requires a level of patience and attention to detail that leaves little to no leftover. What does the incensing existence of a single man compare to the trying task of stabilizing a hairline fracture in a sixteenth-century panel painting? Easy: it doesn’t.

That man isn’t welcome in this space. Few are, in fact. I prefer to work by myself. My small team has an innate understanding of my process. They fade into the periphery, as does all else, and I get to hone in on the details of the day’s project. It’s meditative.

There’s nothing but me and this sixteen-by-twelve-inch oak panel, delineating a woman next to a window. She stares out of it with such deep melancholy in her opal eyes. It takes a moment, but once you see the level of dimension to the work, one can’t stop noticing it.

The style is obviously Flemish oil. A direct attribution isn’t known for sure. My client believes it’s an unknown Mor. That’s an optimistic belief, one I couldn’t chide her for, because her enthusiasm is so charming. Besides, the painting itself is in a sorry state for now. Some hope is probably a good thing. It needs it. Previous attempts at restoration—several, from the looks of it—have left a palimpsest overpainting across the lower third dimension. Someone has varnished over dirt. The sight of it makes my blood boil.

I lose myself in the work.

It isn’t until my primary assistant, Filip, sets a matte black teacup of espresso beside me and I reach for it with desperation that I notice the light outside the windows. Or, rather, the lack thereof. Beneath the alternating light of the UV lamp and raking light source, daylight is inconsequential. Once I snap out of my haze, not so much.

“Thank you,” I exhale and roll back my shoulders. The knobs of my spine creak like the floorboards of a haunted house. I take a scalding sip of espresso, rising to my feet. I could use a little movement.

I pull my phone out of my purse, laying it on the antique writing desk I always discard it atop as soon as I walk into my office. Thumbing through a slew of notifications, my mind wanders back to the Yuri estate—to the study—like a dog returning to a door to a room he knows is locked to him.

My brothers are so tense. All signs point to the mole situation being more dire than they’d initially assumed. I could tell that morning that they were dubious about the weight Anton was putting on his words. Being on top led to many enemies; they were used to those attacks, but never from within our own camp. They were initially defensive, inquisitive, vexed.

The past few days, it’s been closer to panic. There’s fury.

What there isn’t is an open-door conversation.

I suspect it’s a slap on the wrist for taunting the Zakharov Pakhan.

With a sigh, I purge the resentment from my system. It isn’t a productive emotion. And besides, it isn’t like I’m not aware that it’s beneath me to antagonize a man my family is in business with. I just can’t seem to help it when I see his stupid face.

Just thinking about him is aggravating enough.

Fortunately, combing through unread texts gives me the perfect distraction. I hit Call instead of Reply. Two rings later, my sister answers the phone with an unceremonious and uncouth, “‘Sup, bitch?”

“That is not how adults answer the phone,” I laugh down the line, polishing off the rest of my espresso like a shot of mezcal.

“This one does,” Nadya counters cheerfully.

And, to think, a part of me had been afraid that distance from our family and a marriage that dragged her to another city would change her. But Nadya is still Nadya—maybe even more so than she was before.

A pang hits me. My chest aches with missing my baby sister.

“What are you doing with your day today?” I ask her, hungry to be able to envision her life; a life that is so grievously separate from mine these days.

Picturing my wild sister’s life has never been easy. She never has the same day twice. And she’s rarely, if ever, spent a day of it as I choose to spend most of mine. But now, the distance makes the fact itch worse. Even if we’re so different, we may as well be opposites. Still, what is closer than two sides of the same coin? It is, after all, the same coin.

“Dealing with a super-stressed husband,” Nadya shares openly.

It’s just as well. Our brothers ensure we’re always in possession of a secure line, impossible to tap. Therefore, I don’t bother pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“Mole?” I ask and confirm in the span of a single word.

“The fucking mole,” Nadya agrees.

If I’m surprised Anton shared the situation with Viktor, I don’t plan to be overt about it. I can’t help but dig a little, however. “Anton Zakharov came to the estate at the beginning of the week with the news. I didn’t get the impression he trusted that Viktor had nothing to do with it.”

I’m definitely shocked when Nadya laughs in response, but that’s mostly due to how harsh and mirthless that laughter is. It isn’t like her to sound so bitter. “That man doesn’t trust anyone.”