Page 3 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

Stunned, my lips part at the gall of that barb. How casually belittling it is. “Then I’m thrilled to enlighten you,” I bite out, warmth a faint memory now. The Arctic lives in my throat, coating every syllable in frost.

Party-planning. He may as well have laughed in my face. Is he even capable of such an expression of joy? I can’t decide if I’m more insulted by how lowly he perceives the job or that he’s so lazy as to think it’s all I do with my life. One of those options makes him a pig. The second one aptly explains to me why the Zakharovs have never been able to one-up the Yuris in terms of territory, power, or influence. Either sentences him as a mistake to have approached.

Unfortunately, I’ve been bred better than to heatedly spew this in his impassive face. Not that I’d give him the satisfaction in the first place.

A part of me really, really wants to throw the rest of my drink in his face. Instead, I drain it and set it down on the nearest surface.

Whatever he sees in my face—and there can’t be much, with how rigidly I school my features—makes him do a conspicuous doubletake. His mouth opens, and I’ve already had enough.

I pivot on a spiked heel with a dismissive, “Thanks for the illuminating conversation, Mr. Zakharov.” It’s my turn. And it will be the last one.

The words have every bit of the detached courtesy that every word he has uttered to me has radiated. I hope they sink in like an icicle into his chest.

I don’t turn around to make sure of it.

He owes me the gratification of feeling him watching me walk away, at least. Clearly, he’s got no idea who he’s made an enemy of. I’ll have to let my sister know it isn’t a stick up his ass; it’s his whole head.

Chapter 2 - Anton

Six Months Later

Anemic sunlight spills in through the dining room windows. Despite a winter chill encroaching on an idyllic New England fall, the frigid morning thaws for a moment of warmth. The light turns the bone-white china a buttery yellow.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

“Anton.”

The sharp, haughty summons for my attention successfully splinters my focus. My attention snaps to my mother’s face, away from the paisley pattern edging the plate in front of me. It sits beneath a bowl loaded with the same mannaya kasha it is most mornings, with a side of sweet-sour cherry preserves. I diligently spoon a mouthful.

The green eyes I’ve inherited gleam with amusement from across the table.

“Forgive me, mama.”

She waves it off with the swish of a lily-white hand. “What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

It isn’t a lie. This is not the same as it being the truth. At the forefront of my mind, however, I’d simply been zoning out. Morning time is the first and only chance my mind has to meander—before my day is in full swing. But I already know that, were I foolish enough to say as much to my mother, she’d instantly demand to know what’s wrong. She can’t help it. She worries.

Yet no answer would satisfy her. Least of all, the one that is the truest: it is always everything and nothing that is wrong. That’s the nature of the gig. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, as they say.

“I never know whether to believe you when you say that,” she sighs, picking up her cup to sip from it. Its contents are the same fragrant and unblemished black tea that fills my cup.

The things the inimitable Galina Zakharov and I share are endless. Lifeblood. The color of our hair and eyes, though her locks are mostly chemically-colored to match nowadays, or so I’d assume, given her age of sixty-two years old. Our stoicism, certainly. Impassivity as a defense mechanism. Principles, because I am who she has raised me to be. An affinity for a perfect cup of black tea to start our respective days with.

Those days just unfold in different worlds.

“You have nothing to lose by believing me,” I point out.

“On that, we disagree, rodnoy.”

I shoot her a solemn smile. “As is your right.”

It’s a right plenty of people exercise. These days, more and more often. That’s why—even if I were willing to be impudent and argue with my mother—I’ve got no energy to do it. I have to save it for whatever fresh hell awaits me today.

The thought may as well be the fucking Bat-Signal to the universe. No sooner had I thought it than a swift, familiar tread thuds down the hallway, making a beeline for us. I look over my shoulder just in time for Anastasia to enter the room. The dour look on her face tells me that she hasn’t come down to breakfast in her capacity as my cousin and dearest friend; this is Brigadier Zakharov walking towards me, carrying bad news.

I’d hoped her general absence over the past few days was due to her finally allowing herself some personal fun and letting loose a little. Within a minute, it is clear to me that that’s not the case.