Page 5 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

“Not the word I’d use,” I admit. “Let’s discuss this somewhere private. Summon whichever brothers you can.” I can never decipher how many of them actually live here. Every sibling has their own residence, yet they intermittently prefer to be here. It baffles me.

Meanwhile, Trifon’s brow creases, but he doesn’t ask another question. Instead, he urges me on, steering me towards his study. I’ve been here before. It’s a moderately comforting balm to the wound that none of the Yuris gleaned any pleasure from this impromptu alliance we’ve been coerced into, either. On both sides of the line, it’s no less than the lesser evil and no more than convenient. It’s progressed from a rivalry to a grudging mutual respect, even if our compulsions differ considerably.

They adore the littlest Yuri, my new sister-in-law, Nadya. I... simply couldn’t stomach snuffing out Viktor’s life. My conscience vehemently rejected the idea, the obvious solution that it had been.

Why I spared him, I still have no answer for. I suppose I had no desire for fratricide to be one more thing that happens to me.

Still, I’ve thought about it. I think about it. Anyone who’s ever crossed paths with Viktor couldn’t blame me—and they haven’t had the displeasure of the poison he’s been prone to spewing since he was a goddamn toddler.

Such enmity could never exist between these men, with their honeyed bonds. It’s present in how Valentin Yuri storms in like a thundercloud and comes to stand beside Trifon, their shoulders overlapping, as if he’s prepared to be a shield for his brother, his Pakhan.

“You look like the fucking executioner, Zakharov,” he sneers.

“A messenger of bad news,” I correct.

Trifon doesn’t blink twice any easier than I do. “Deliver it.”

“We have a mole on our hands.”

Trifon crooks a skeptical brow. “We?”

There is a flash of vindication in my chest. I’m quick to deduce that the brothers have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ve sat across from both of them at a poker table before. I can tell. I’ve got the superior brigadier on my team. And now, at least, it puts me in a better position on the chessboard to be the one who gets to relay the bad news.

“We,” I confirm.

“Go on, Anton.”

“One of my brigadiers brought the news today. Someone’s poking a hole in this alliance, and they’re coming for the crown.”

Valentin’s shoulders are set stiffly. “Is this an accusation, Zakharov?”

“Does it feel like one?”

His eyes narrow. “It d—”

Instinctively, we all still and go silent at the click-clack of someone’s high-heeled gait approaching. My stomach lurches when the sinful, luscious scent of her perfume precedes her entrance.

“Darya,” Trifon greets, and the lines in his face immediately soften for his sister.

Valentin struts towards her and greets her with an embrace.

Yet her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, zeroed in right on me. Her stare reminds me of a cat’s, though I’ve never met a cat with eyes so painfully blue. My pulse isn’t unaffected. “Miss Yuri,” I say, chin dipping towards my chest.

“Oh, you’ve got a visitor,” she says to her brother.

I don’t trust the note of innocent surprise in her voice for a second.

When it comes to Darya Yuri, I’ve learned better.

She’s made fucking sure of it.

So, why does the instantaneous loss of her attention grate on me? “We’ve established that I’m a messenger of bad news,” I say, stealing her focus back. It works. Her impossible eyes return to me.

In a cloyingly sweet tone, Darya purrs, “Well, don’t you worry about it—little ol’ me only came to take my niece to breakfast.” Everything about her, from the docile bat of her lashes to the perfectly pearly smile curling her lips, is a performance. A beautiful one. One I don’t believe.

“Zinaida will be thrilled,” Trifon cuts in. Barbs of irritation snag inside me. “I’ll call up Delia in the nursery. Yulia had a late shift, and she’s getting some well-earned sleep.”

“Fantastic,” Darya beams at him. The nature of this smile is innately different than the one she’d aimed at me, like a weapon. When she talks to her brother, it is with a slight crookedness and no teeth. When she pivots towards me, the teeth have returned. “Don’t let me interrupt.” Her words say one thing, and the way she traipses across the room and sinks meticulously into a seat on the leather couch by the window says wholly another.