Page 19 of The Pakhan’s Heir

“You worry too much.”

Rikki and I turn and start walking toward the men. One of them sees us move. He nudges his partner. Between the flickering streetlight above us and the mist of rain around us, I don’t get a good look at the faces under the brims of their hats.

“Hey!” Rikki shouts. “You two want something?”

They leave the fence and start walking away. We follow. After a few steps, they realize that we’re not giving up the pursuit and they break into a run. We run after them.

They turn the corner at the end of the block. By the time we get to the corner, they’ve jumped into a car. The headlights come on and they speed off, tires squealing in the night.

“Should we tell Father about this?” Rikki asks.

“Yes, but not until after the wedding. I don’t want to spoil his mood.”

7

NONA

“Eyes up, please.”

I turn my eyes upward as the makeup artist leans in with the eyeliner. My hair is still in curlers and I’m wearing a white silk robe that I’m pretty sure was made just for this particular occasion. In a few hours, I’m going to be married. Whether I like it or not.

His sister Yeva’s here and so are several other women I don’t know. They’re all wearing the same dark blue silk dresses with short, chiffon sleeves that I’m certain are yet another design insisted upon by my father. There are a couple of them who are my age, but most of them are in their forties. Through listening to them chatter back and forth while I get my makeup done, I find out that they’re all the wives and sisters of the members of both brotherhoods. Too bad I don’t really know any of them.

I’ve never felt more isolated than I do right now. Even locked up in my bedroom at my father’s house when he’s angry with me. Even during the times when he’s decided not to talk to me for some offense that he says I committed. If I didn’t have an eyeliner pencil so close to my eye, I’d burst into tears.

The makeup artist finishes her work and sits back, her round brown eyes scanning my face. “Beautiful.” She grabs a hand mirror from her bag and holds it up in front of my face. The makeup is well done. The contours of my face have been buffed out along my cheeks and jawline, practically erasing the cherubic features of my face. My freckles have been expertly covered. I can barely see the speckles over the bridge of my nose. And the light brown eye makeup and dark liner are making my green eyes sparkle like emeralds.

My only complaint is the lipstick. It’s only a shade above the natural rose color of my lips, so it almost looks like I don’t have anything on at all.

If I’d had my choice, I’d wear bright red lipstick. Fire engine red. But then, very few things happening today are my choice, so…

I smile politely and thank her. “It’s very nice,” I say.

Yeva comes over. She’s holding a wineglass as she looks me over with those icy blue eyes. “Not bad,” she says. “Needs something brighter on the lips, though.”

“Um,” the makeup artist stammers. “Her father specifically told me no red lipstick.”

Yeva scoffs. “This isn’t his wedding. He’s not going to have to marry my brother,” she says. She looks at me. “What do you think? You like that color on you?”

I could lie. It would be the easier thing to do to keep from rocking the boat. Yeva clears her throat and adds, “It’s really none of my business, but in a few hours, you will no longer be Nona Sokolov. You’ll be Nona Molotov. And I think your husband would appreciate you in something with a little fire on your wedding day.” She side eyes the makeup artist. “So, what’s it gonna be, Sister? Your father or your husband?”

I know this is another test of my loyalty, but I don’t think I care. When I look at myself in that mirror, I see the woman my father thinks I should be. Not the woman I am.

“Do you… have something redder than this?” I ask the makeup artist. “Like really red?”

She bristles slightly and goes into her bag, setting the mirror down. “Of course. I have several shades, actually.”

She pulls out a palette of lipstick colors. One of them catches my eye. Dark, blood red. I can already imagine it on my lips. The moment I point at it, the makeup artist goes pale and Yeva’s smile broadens.

“That’s a good color on you,” she says, then to the makeup artist, “Wouldn’t you say so?”

“It’s lovely,” is all she says.

She takes a makeup remover wipe to my lips, then starts over with the blood red shade. When I look at my lips this time, I sit up a little straighter. I look sexy, fierce, smoking hot. I look like the kind of woman I’ve always wanted to be.

“Now that’s a good makeup job,” Yeva says.

All the makeup artist says as she puts her tools back in her bag is,” We’d better get your hair finished, Ms. Sokolov.”