Pakhan’s Forbidden Bride (Villains of New York #1)

Prologue

Alexei

The Balshov mansion smells like money and rot.

Expensive cigars, spilled vodka, and perfume making the air sickly sweet.

The sound of laughter cuts through the music—sharp, brittle, false.

I shouldn’t have come, but Yuri insisted.

And when Yuri insists, you show up or risk his wrath.

The old man’s paranoia is getting worse.

Everyone knows it. Everyone’s waiting for the day his mind finally cracks in half.

I move through the room, greeting faces I don’t trust, shaking hands that have left blood on the same streets as mine.

It’s meant to be a birthday party for Yuri’s stepdaughter, but she’s little more than an excuse for him to parade his wealth and remind everyone of who actually holds the power in this room.

I haven’t seen her in years, not since Nadia moved in and made the house unbearable with her voice, her perfume, her presence—a constant reminder of what we were… My father married my ex-girlfriend because that’s what he does—he takes what’s mine, just to remind me that he can.

I spot Nadia across the room now, draped in gold and glitter, eyes sharp with hunger. She raises her glass toward me. I look away before I remember what it felt like to despise Nadia properly.

Then I see her... Anya.

She stands by the piano, half hidden behind a vase of white lilies. The girl I used to call zayka—little bunny—because she’d follow me around like a shadow, then dart off the second I turned to look.

But this isn’t that girl anymore. She’s taller, her frame slender but not fragile, the soft curve of a woman where there used to be awkward limbs and too-big sweaters.

Her hair is a rich, warm brown, the color of chestnuts in autumn, twisted into something delicate that bares the pale skin of her throat.

I notice her eyes—deep brown, soft as velvet, with flecks of amber caught in the chandelier light.

Her dress is light, almost innocent… except there’s nothing innocent about the way she looks at me when our eyes meet.

It’s a split second, but it’s enough to make my pulse jump.

No, Alexei.

Don't go there.

If Yuri ever thought, even for a second, that I wanted her, he would ruin her just to punish me.

I force my gaze away and join my brothers near the bar. Viktor is nursing a drink in silence, his expression unreadable. Mikhail is talking animatedly about shipments, drawing a sharp look from Viktor that shuts him up—for a moment, at least.

Mikhail leans in closer, voice low.

“Father’s slipping,” he says. “He’s drawing too much attention. The other families are losing patience.”

Viktor says nothing, but the slight narrowing of his eyes tells me he agrees.

“It’s only a matter of time before you take over,” Mikhail insists. “You’re already the one they follow. Everyone knows it.”

Dmitri gives a distracted nod of agreement, his dark brows furrowed in that way that suggests his mind is focused elsewhere.

I can't help but wonder what's going through his mind.

Apart from being my brother, Dmitri is also my sovetnik, and we work closely together.

I know what it means when he has that look—trouble is looming, and he hasn't decided whether to handle it on his own or share it with me.

I make a mental note to ask him about it later.

We can't afford a slip right now.

“Enough,” I say, tone clipped. “You want to live through the week, you keep that mouth shut.”

Mikhail quiets down, but the truth hums between all of us anyway. Yuri is a storm about to break, and when he goes down, he’ll try to take us all with him.

“Attention, please!” Nadia’s shrill voice cuts through the crowd. “Our birthday girl has a surprise for us.”

I turn, already dreading whatever she’s planned. Anya looks like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her. Nadia nudges her forward, smiling like a cat that’s cornered a mouse.

“Sing for us, detka,” Nadia says.

Anya’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t argue.

It’s not worth the time and effort, especially since Nadia would ignore it anyway.

Nadia isn't Anya's mother—that was Katarina, Yuri's second wife, whi died when Anya was twelve.

Now, Nadia plays stepmother, though she's only a few years older than Anya herself and has about as much maternal instinct as a snake.

Anya’s eyes dart to her stepfather, who gives her the kind of smile that makes my hands itch for violence. Then, she lifts her chin and takes the microphone. Her fingers tremble at first, but when she starts to sing, the room changes.

The noise fades. Conversations die mid-word. Her voice is soft, pure, and achingly human, rising above everything like something holy that doesn’t belong here. An aria. Not the kind of thing that fits this world, but maybe that’s the point.

I can’t look away.

Each note winds around my ribs, tighter and tighter, until it’s hard to breathe. She’s nervous at first, but then her eyes find mine. Just for a heartbeat. And I see her steady herself on it. On me.

Something dark cracks open inside me, something I don’t want to name. When she finishes, the room erupts into polite applause. Yuri beams like he owns her. Nadia claps with that tight little smirk she gets when she’s jealous.

Anya blushes and looks down, stepping back, but not before her gaze catches mine again. Her brown eyes are curious, uncertain, and in them, I see a question I can’t afford to answer.

I down my vodka.

In the end, she’s still my father’s ward. Still too young. Still untouchable.

The applause fades, replaced by the clinking of glasses and Nadia’s shrill voice cutting through the air again.

“Time for cake!” she announces, already steering the crowd toward the dining room.

I stay back. I’ve played the dutiful son long enough for one night.

While I want to leave, my father has instructed that my brothers and I stay the night.

But that doesn’t mean I have to act like I’m happy to be stuck here.

Especially with who’s in attendance. My father’s guests are drunk on fake charm and expensive vodka, pretending not to notice the cracks spreading through his empire.

I step to the bar and refill my glass. I notice Sergei from the corner of my eye, starting to leave his spot in the shadows, so I signal to him not to follow me.

He nods once, immediately blending back into the darkness like he was never there.

Sergei is actually one of the few men that has unlimited access to me apart from my brothers, doubling as my bodyguard and personal assistant.

But sometimes, like now, I just want some breathing space.

I slip out the patio doors before anyone can corner me. The night air is cold, cleaner than inside, though it still smells faintly of kerosene from the lit heaters scattered along the terrace. I roll my shoulders, take a long pull from the glass, and finally let my guard drop for a moment.

For a while, it’s quiet, just the dull bass of laughter and music bleeding through the walls. Then the door creaks open behind me.

When I turn, she’s there.

Anya.

She holds a small dessert plate, her fingers tightening around the edge like she’s not sure if she should be out here. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes uncertain but determined.

“I noticed you didn’t get any cake,” she says softly. “So I brought you a piece.”

The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “That’s very thoughtful, zayka.”

Her eyes brighten at the nickname, one I haven’t used since she was a child. She holds the plate out to me, and I take it, mostly because it would be cruel not to. The frosting is smeared, a little crooked. She must’ve plated it herself.

I set the vodka down on the railing and take a bite, more for her sake than mine. “It’s good,” I say. “How’s your birthday going?”

Her lips curve shyly. “Better now.”

The answer is quiet, but it hits me in the gut like a blow.

I clear my throat. “You sang beautifully, Anya. Where did you learn?”

She shrugs one slender shoulder, looking down at the garden lights below. “I’ve been taking lessons for years. Mama used to tell me I had a gift. I…I want to study music. Maybe perform someday.”

There’s a pause, fragile and warm. I set the cake aside and step closer. She doesn’t move away.

I reach up without thinking, my hand finding the loose strand of hair by her temple. I tuck it behind her ear. Her breath catches, her cheeks coloring slightly.

“You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman,” I say quietly. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

Her eyes shimmer. “You really think so?”

“I do.”

Something changes then. The air thickens. Her gaze flicks from my mouth to my eyes and back again, and before I can step away, she whispers, “I love you, Alexei. I’ve loved you for years.”

“Anya—”

She’s already moving. Rising onto her toes, she presses her lips to mine, soft, hesitant… trembling. I should stop her. I know I should. But her taste, her warmth…unravels something inside me I’ve kept locked for too long.

I kiss her back. God help me, I kiss her back.

My hands find her waist, pulling her closer.

Her back hits the wall with a quiet thud.

Her fingers clutch my jacket, and when I deepen the kiss, she sighs, a small, broken sound that sends heat coursing through my veins.

I angle her chin up, mouth slanting over hers firmer this time, greedier, desperate for more of what I can’t have.

Her lips part under mine, giving me the opening I need. I slide my tongue into her mouth, stroking along hers. She lets out a soft moan.

The sound shoots straight to my head, breaking through the fog clouding my brain. Reality slams into me like a fist. She’s eighteen. My father’s ward. My stepsister…

This could destroy her.

I tear myself away, breath ragged, scanning the patio. The curtains shift inside, a shadow moves past the window, but no one’s looking. Thank God.

When I glance back, she’s frozen, eyes wide, lips swollen. Then shame floods her expression.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammers, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

“Anya—”

But she doesn't wait to listen. She swerves on her heels and darts back inside before I can stop her. The door shuts hard behind her, leaving the echo of her voice and the taste of her mouth in the cold night air.

I run a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. She’s safer being angry at me than being caught in my orbit. I know what Yuri would do if he ever suspected.

So I don’t chase her.

I stand there until the vodka in my glass warms in my hand and I can breathe again. Then I go back inside, pretending nothing’s happened. The party is nowhere near winding down as guests laugh and glasses clink.

But Anya’s nowhere to be found.

I tell myself it’s better this way. I’ll talk to her in the morning and explain why nothing can happen between us. I’ll make her understand.

What I don’t admit, even to myself, is that I already know I’ll never stop thinking about her.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

***

The next morning, I enter the dining room expecting to see her at the long table, but she's nowhere in sight. Morning light cuts through the room like a knife. It’s too bright, too clean for this house.

The smell of coffee can’t quite cover the sour edge of last night’s liquor still lingering in the air.

I sit at the long table, half-listening to the chatter of staff as they clear empty bottles and champagne flutes from every corner of the room. My head isn’t pounding—years of control won’t allow that, but there’s a heaviness I can’t shake.

I didn't sleep. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face—flushed, tearful, humiliated. The soft sound she made when I kissed her still echoes in my head. Now, morning has come, and Anya has vanished.

“Where is Anya this morning?” I ask Marina, the housekeeper, when she comes to refill my coffee cup.

“Miss Anya already left this morning,” she says solemnly, as though it’s bad news. “Her sister came to get her. They’re going to California for the summer.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

“California?”

“Yes, sir. She said she won’t be back before leaving for school in London. Music program, I think.”

I nod once, not trusting my voice. My fingers tighten around the mug until my knuckles turn white.

So that’s it, then.

Last night…her voice, that kiss, the look in her eyes…might be the last thing I’ll ever have of her.

Part of me feels relief. Relief that she’s gone and safe. I won’t have to see her across this poisoned table pretending she doesn’t make my pulse skip. But underneath that relief, something darker curls tight in my chest. Loss, sharp and unwelcome.

The dining room doors open.

Yuri strides in, laughing too loudly, Nadia clinging to his arm like a shiny new toy. She’s barefoot, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else. His pupils are blown wide… cocaine, maybe worse. He looks around as if expecting applause.

“Morning, my boy!” he slurs. “What a party, eh? Our Anya’s all grown up.”

I swallow the disgust threatening to rise. “She’s already gone.”

He blinks. “Gone? Where?”

“California. Then London. She won’t be back.”

Something flashes in his eyes—interest, irritation, maybe both—but it’s gone before I can get a better read on it. He waves a dismissive hand. “Good for her. Waste of talent staying here.”

Nadia giggles and curls into his side, whispering something that makes him smirk. Their laughter fills the space between us, ugly and hollow.

I set my cup down carefully, every muscle in my body wound tight. Watching him touch her, a woman I had once touched in the same way… It’s a bitter reminder of what kind of man he is. What kind of monster he would become if he ever turned that interest toward Anya.

No. It’s better this way.

She’s out of his reach. Out of mine.

And for now, that’s enough.

Still, as I leave the table, her voice comes back to me, soft and trembling, “I love you, Alexei.”

I don’t let myself look back. Not yet. Not until the world is mine to control, and no one, not my father, not his ghosts, can ever touch what is mine again.

That day will come.

And when it does, I’ll find her.