Page 17 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

“I don’t answer to you, either.”

“Oh yes, you fucking do. Don’t you ever forget the only goddamn reason you’re still breathing, Viktor,” I say, every word daring him to defy me. Give me a reason, I think. One more reason to put you in the ground.

He sighs heavily down the phone line. I’ve seen him expel versions of it in-person too many times not to know this is him holding his tongue, all the way in New York. He should’ve started five minutes ago—but I’ll fucking take it. I’ll have to.

I have more to ask of him, and this, I know, he’ll fight me on.

“And bring your wife.”

“Wh—” he starts.

I interject, “Didn’t we just establish you don’t get to ask fucking ‘why’? Because I said so. Because you have no choice in the matter. And if that wounds your ego, cry about it to your woman. I don’t have time for this. Rest assured, you aren’t being summoned for the pleasure of your fucking company.” But I don’t add, Because I need her for this, because I’ve already asked her brothers to be there—because it’ll matter to Darya. Because I’ll be damned if that woman says anything but ‘Yes’ to being mine.

In the wake of a growled exhale from the other end, the line goes dead. That’s just as well. I was done with this fucking call before I made it. I drop my phone on the desk with a clatter and sag in my seat.

What a day.

Six phone calls, back-to-back—and this was the seventh.

I’ve earned a goddamned drink.

As if I shouted the idea out loud, Boris batters his fist against the door in the process of walking through it. I’d never correct my uncle about the right way to knock. This doesn’t mean I don’t itch to. It’s smarter to just pour two vodka doubles and hold one out to him wordlessly.

That’s all the prompting he typically needs, if any at all.

Like clockwork: “Your brother?” he grunts.

“Yes. Viktor.”

“You’re calling him to Boston?” he asks, looking irked at the thought.

I don’t comment on his giving away that he was listening in on the call. It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell him what’s happening tomorrow as soon as he’s done with his drink.

I nod and watch him sip at it, sinking into a seat on the other side of my desk. I follow, leaning against the edge of it, making a pointed choice not to put the barrier between us. There’ll be enough of a hurdle here as is.

“Uncle.”

“Anton?”

“I know what the next action to take is,” I try.

His head cants up to look at me, his brows furrowing. “To the mole problem?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I agree. “To stabilize the alliance while the mole is hunted down and the threat eliminated.”

“Stabilize? Anton. Two of our men were picked up at the port last night,” Boris says, setting down his glass hard. “Trifon’s contact already vanished. Now ours? This isn’t the time for—”

“Uncle, let me finish, please,” I interrupt gently, every syllable somber. He’s going to fucking hate this. I realize that. But it’s too fucking bad. I’m not changing my mind.

He fixes me with a stony glare. But he allows, “Go on.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. I square my shoulders. “I’ve asked Darya Yuri for her hand in marriage,” I say, filling my voice with finality. “I’m telling you this as my uncle—the closest thing I have to a father—” Mine isn’t dead, but Sergei may as well be, for all the role he has in my life. “—not as my advisor.”

There is utter, pin-drop silence.

Then, “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Possibly.” I down half my glass, liquor burning its way down my throat like I’ve swallowed a sword. “But I’ve asked her. It is an ongoing conversation for now. Tomorrow, I am making a formal proposal. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’d like you to. Galina will. Your daughter will. Maxim and Viktor will. Each of the Yuris will be there. And she will give me her answer.”