Page 2 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

One of the other men clears his throat. "We should probably finish our discussion, Boss."

"Yeah." Samuil's attention is already back on them, his broad shoulders angled away from me. "We should."

I wait for him to invite me to join them, to ask for my phone number, to do anything that acknowledges the fact that I'm standing here, that I exist, that I'm Anastasia fucking Rostova and men don't just dismiss me.

He doesn't.

The conversation resumes as if I'm not even there, and after a moment of standing like an idiot, I turn and walk away. My face burns with embarrassment and anger. I grab another glass of champagne from a passing server and down half of it in one swallow. Across the room, I can see Samuil's dark head above the crowd, still engaged in his discussion, completely unbothered by my existence.

For the first time in my life, a man has looked at me and found me wanting. Or worse, found me completely unremarkable.

The thought should infuriate me. It should send me storming out of this gala with my pride wounded and my ego bruised. Instead, I find myself watching him. Studying him. The way he moves and seems to command the space around him without effort.

The evening drags on, and I play my part. I smile and laugh at the appropriate times, I accept compliments and deflect advances. But my attention keeps drifting back to Samuil. He moves through the room like a predator, all controlled power and barely leashed violence. Men step aside for him. Women watch him with hungry eyes. And he notices none of it, his focus entirely on whatever business brought him here tonight.

He's not here for the spectacle. He's not here to be seen or admired. He's here because he has something to do, and once it's done, he'll leave without a backward glance. Samuil Galkin doesn't care about impressing anyone. He doesn't need to. His reputation precedes him and his power speaks for itself. He's everything these other men pretend to be. And he dismissed me without a second thought.

By the time I'm sliding into the back of my father's limo, the irritation has transformed into something else entirely. The city lights blur past the window as my driver pulls away from the venue, and I press my fingers against the cool glass.

Samuil Galkin looked at me and saw nothing worth his time. He treated me like I was ordinary, forgettable, and just another pretty face in a room full of pretty faces. And instead of crushing my ego, it's stirred something inside me that I haven't felt in a long time. Excitement.

I want him. Not just his attention or his admiration. I want all of him. I want to make him mine, make him adore and worship me.

The car turns a corner, and the gala disappears behind us. I stare out at the darkness, my reflection ghostly in the glass, and make a silent promise to myself. No matter what it takes, Samuil Galkin is going to be mine.

2

PAKHAN SAMUIL GALKIN

The charity gala is exactly the kind of bullshit I hate. Crystal chandeliers dripping with enough diamonds to fund a small war, politicians in thousand-dollar suits pretending they give a fuck about orphans, and aristocrats who've never worked a day in their lives sipping champagne that costs more than most people make in a month. But business doesn't stop because I'm uncomfortable, and tonight, there are deals to be made, alliances to strengthen, and territory to discuss.

I adjust my cufflinks as I step into the ballroom. The weight of my Glock pressing against my ribs beneath my jacket is reassurance. I rarely go anywhere without it. The suit is Italian, black, tailored to accommodate both my build and my weapon. I've learned over the years that looking the part opens doors that violence alone can't, though I'm more than capable of using both when necessary.

A politician spots me first, his round face breaking into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's one of ours, and he's been useful in smoothing over some recent complications with the city council. "Samuil, glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it." The lie comes easily. I shake his hand, noting the weakness in his grip. Soft hands. Soft life. But he serves his purpose, so I tolerate him.

We move to a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the main crowd. Two other men join us within minutes, a man in a navy suit who runs the docks, and another whose construction company launders more money than it builds buildings. Both are solid, reliable, and smart enough to know when to keep their mouths shut.

"The shipment arrives Thursday," the man in the navy suit says, his voice low. The suit strains slightly across his belly, and there's sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air. "But we've got a problem with the inspection schedule."

"What kind of problem?" I keep my expression neutral, but my mind is already running through solutions. Problems are just opportunities for people too stupid to see the angles.

"They've moved up the timeline. We'll have twelve hours instead of twenty-four to get everything off the docks and distributed."

The man shifts his weight, his jaw tight. "My trucks can handle it, but we'll need more drivers. Ones we can trust."

"I'll handle the drivers." I make a mental note to call Gregory later. He'll know who to pull in, who can be trusted to keep their mouths shut and do the work without asking questions. "What about the inspector?"

"Already taken care of." He gives me an oily smile. "He's got a daughter starting university next year. It's an expensive school, so we're helping with tuition."

"Good." I scan the room while they continue talking logistics, my attention split between the conversation and the crowd. It's a habit of necessity. You never know when a threat will materialize.

My gaze scans the area then snaps back to the woman gliding across the ballroom like she owns it. And maybe she does, in a way. Princess Anastasia Rostova, the Bratva princess and the last surviving heir to one of Russia's oldest bloodlines, the daughter of Ivan Rostova, and the woman every man in this room would kill to possess.

She's wearing white silk that clings to every curve of her body before flowing to the floor. The neckline plunges deep between her breasts, showing off creamy skin and the kind of cleavage that makes men stupid. Her blonde hair falls in loose waves over her bare shoulders, and even from across the room, I can see the way the light catches in it, turning it gold.

She's beautiful. I'll give her that. The kind of beautiful that's been weaponized and perfected, every movement calculated to draw the eye and hold attention. Her waist is tiny, her hips flare beneath the silk, and when she turns to greet someone, I catch a glimpse of her ass, round and firm beneath the fabric.