Page 14 of The Pakhan’s Heir

“Then you will take those punches like a man,” he growls at me. “This is not optional, Nona. He will be your husband and once that happens, you will be my spy. There is no other option.”

A chill runs up and down my spine. Any thought that I had about asking him to free me from this obligation is gone. I have to do this or else face the wrath of my father.

I can say from experience that there is honestly not much that Alexandr could do to me that might be more painful than when my father gets angry. He’s staring at me as if waiting for an answer.

“Am I understood?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” I answer.

“Good.” His shoulders relax slightly. “The arrangements are being made. You and Fedor’s son will be wed in two weeks. Do not disappoint me.”

I can only nod, and thankfully, that’s enough. He walks out and leaves me to my own sorrow.

Two weeks left to what has passed for freedom my entire life. I don’t know what will happen to me once all this is over… but if I do this, maybe I can at least make Papa truly happy for once.

“Hold still,” the seamstress says to me in Russian. It’s been a week since that awful date with Alexandr and I’m standing on a block in the middle of a wedding shop in a dress that I didn’t even choose.

Looking at myself in the row of mirrors on the wall before me, I can at least say that the dress looks good. It’s simple, silk with lace flowers embroidered down the side. It fits me well, the way it falls over my hips and outlines the shape of my breasts without being too obscene. The best part of this whole dress is the lace flower spaghetti straps.

I’m sure Papa will want these straps covered, but I’m not budging on that. I like how I look in strappy dresses. My neckline and shoulders look regal. I can almost see how it will look from the back when I look over my shoulder.

At least I’ll be pretty on my wedding day. It’s the least that any bride can hope for.

“There.” She arranges the hem of the dress around, watching it flow between her fingers.

“Thank you, Mrs. Babkin,” I respond in Russian. Mrs. Babkin’s a seamstress for just about everyone in this part of the Upper East Side. Well, everyone who’s Russian. I don’t think she speaks a word of English. At least I’ve never heard her speak English before.

She stands slowly, her short, squat frame laboring under the weight of gravity as she gets to her feet. Mrs. Babkin is wearing a dark blue tracksuit and orthopedic sneakers. She’s got messy red hair that she keeps in a bun on top of her head and eyes that are dark and sunken in, like she doesn’t sleep. She’s also got to be over eighty years old. I’ve been told that she’s been making wedding dresses since Papa was a boy.

I turn my attention to myself in the mirror and I turn around, posing as I give myself an over-the-shoulder look. Just like I thought. Beautiful.

“Your father wants me to attach some sleeves,” she says to me. “I can sew on some chiffon or lace⁠—”

“I don’t want that,” I tell her. “I like it just like it is.”

She pauses, her thin lips quivering. “But your father⁠—”

“I will deal with him about that. Don’t worry. I’ll tell him this is my idea.”

She nods, though she’s looking at me skeptically.

The sound of the door chime goes off somewhere in the front of the store. Mrs. Babkin scowls. “Not a customer right now,” she mutters. “I’ll be right back.”

She leaves, and I’m left standing on this block, looking at myself in this beautiful dress.

It’s a shame that this moment can’t be about marrying a man I actually love. Or even like, for that matter. At least he’s attractive, tall and dark with the bluest eyes. When he leaned across the table at me at dinner and locked eyes with me, a chill ran over my skin. He had this uncanny ability to make me feel like I was under attack with just a glimpse. It made me wonder what it might be like if I were under his protection instead.

There goes that silly young girl fantasy of mine. Alexandr has the look of the kind of man I used to hope to run into on campus. Dark hair with a streak of silver in the front. A strong jaw with just enough of a salt and pepper beard to let everyone know he’s years and years away from immaturity. He’s self-assured, yet thoughtful. Strong enough to stand up to my father and keep me safe at all costs. And the kind of personality that could move me with a well-placed whisper in my ear.

A man like that could have changed my world. Probably quite literally.

But that man never came and now I’m stuck marrying an asshole whom I have to find some way to endear myself to. Wish there were a manual for this kind of thing.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of arguing, fast, quippy Russian from another female voice arguing with Mrs. Babkin.

“You can’t go back there. Ms. Molotov, it’s not proper.”

“Relax, Grandma, I’m in the wedding party.” The door opens and a woman with long, jet black hair and pale blue eyes stands there, staring at me. She walks in slowly, looking me up and down as she circles.