Arranged for the Russian Pakhan (Yuri Bratva Brides #5)

Chapter 1 - Darya

“Your turn will come, too, darling,” the woman in front of me coos, saccharine dripping from every word.

I pluck a flute of champagne from one of the eight trays circulating the ballroom and grant myself a dainty sip. Already, I can feel a headache coming on. Best to nip it in the bud by curbing the edges of this odious interaction. I foresee more incoming.

C’est la vie.

“Will it?” I question.

She jumps at the opportunity. “Yes, yes!” she insists. “Age is just a number, you know. They are right when they say this. It is not so bad that your little sister—”

“Nadya,” I calmly supply. In this world, where one’s last name carries such tremendous weight, the first often slips the mind. I get it.

“—has married first. What can you do about young love, eh?”

“Celebrate it,” I remind, raising my flute in a toast.

More or less, that’s what we’re here for tonight.

At least that’s the party line. My little sister is in the middle of the room, twinkling in the arms of her new husband, Viktor Zakharov.

She’s never looked more radiant. Her head is thrown back in laughter.

In spite of propriety, Viktor bends his head to press his lips to the long column of her throat.

More than one person in the room squirms over the placement of his hands, planted dangerously close to her ass.

I glance at the woman out of the corner of my eye. Tersely, she says, “Yes,” and raises her own glass. Her frown speaks volumes.

She isn’t alone in being a disbeliever.

The road to this ballroom has been anything but smooth.

I don’t need to count the ways. It’s ubiquitous in this room.

There’s an abundance of watchful eyes on the happy couple.

Unfortunately, not everyone is happy for them.

Happy endings aren’t really the bread and butter of the Bratva world.

Even less so when the pair being celebrated is two halves of the biggest rival gangs in North America.

It isn’t, however, surprising for my little sister to pull off. It’s pretty par for the course, actually. What’s a daredevil to do but have audacity? She is who she is, magnificent and detrimental as that can be.

Often, the aftermath requires damage control. That’s what tonight is.

“I’m glad you agree,” I say. The words are firm, a statement and a warning in one. My smile isn’t meant to soften anything. I punctuate with it before I graciously extricate myself from the woman—always, always graciously—leaving her behind to resume my circuit of the room.

We Yuris are scattered all over the place.

Trifon and Yulia are chatting with some people by the windows.

My eldest brother holds his wife by the hip, shielding her without thinking.

For once, she’s out of her scrubs. I’m clearly not the only one who thinks that she cleans up exquisitely well.

Their daughter is the only one of us missing from the party—but I suspect little Zinaida would despise this crowd even more than Nadya does.

I scan the crowd, and another brother, Valentin, this time, catches my eye. I’ve already crossed paths with my sister-in-law, Gela, so I know she’s already here somewhere. So are my brothers Leonid and Miron.

Iosif is twirling our beloved Janella, his wife, around the dance floor. Her honey-blonde head looks up at him with swooning sweetness, like something plucked from a fairy tale. They stick close to Nadya and Viktor. That’s no coincidence.

In one way or another, they’re all in pairs. They all have their roles to play. I have mine as well. Everyone’s mission is the same: keep smoothing over the feathers ruffled by the shocking alliance between the Yuri and Zakharov Bratvas. Normalize it. Celebrate it.

Throw ivory tablecloths over it, adorn it with tapers, votives, and glamorous centerpieces—and it just may distract from this ballroom actually being a minefield.

If nothing else, the people in this room all love a good party.

I’ve known and interacted with versions of them for years now.

One needn’t be a social butterfly to be excellent at catering to their proclivities.

I am excellent. I require no reassurance about it; I know I hit the ball out of the park, as the plebes say.

Cherry red, crystal-encrusted fabric rustles against my legs as I walk through the sea of guests. I scan through faces for someone I already know and don’t dislike because of it. It’s a meaner feat than one would expect.

A candidate announces themselves when my eyes land on them.

At around six feet tall, most of my brothers have a couple of inches on him.

But Anton Zakharov has an aura about him that makes him feel taller.

I’m not the only person who notices. It isn’t just because he’s Viktor’s half-brother, as we’ve found out recently—a secret that has been spilling through the grapevine for the past six months.

Or rather, Viktor is his. They share a father.

And some features. Mostly, the full mouths and caterpillar-thick eyebrows the Zakharov men can call their own family’s signature trait—not unlike the thick, dark hair all Yuris share, except for Nadya, who likes to recreationally ruin hers with copious amounts of bleach.

The Zakharov Pakhan, on the other hand, works an entirely natural blond.

His locks are spun gold. Thick and perfectly coifed.

He never has a hair out of place. I can appreciate that in a man.

Too many of them are far too comfortable looking unkempt nowadays.

Viktor Zakharov, with his wild, likely unbrushed hair, is a good example of this.

Anton’s hardly the life of the party, especially in contrast. There’s a somberness about him.

And it isn’t just that he’s often standing to the side.

I have seen him a handful of times, and never without the placid expression he sports now.

I watch him, surrounded by people who are drinking, dancing, and making merry. Him, sober as the eye of a tornado.

The word that comes to mind is Lonely.

Still, the closer I weave my way towards him, the more I’d have to be blind not to admit that there’s plenty to appreciate about the man’s physicality. That’s perhaps my artist’s eye at work.

The elder Zakharov just happens to be handsome in a factually undeniable way.

With the bone structure and sturdy build of a Rodin sculpture.

An aquiline nose that pairs well with a full, lush mouth.

And eyelashes that are remarkably long—longer than a mascara wand can accomplish for most women of my acquaintance—and vaguely doll-like.

The closer I get to him, the more obvious it is: He’s sublime.

Nadya’s told me about him before, briefly.

If only to accuse him of being bitchy and having a stick up his ass.

Both are opinions I’ve taken with a grain of salt, given that she’s said more or less the same about me on more than one occasion.

Who knows what we might find in common? The glimmer of possibility is encouraging enough.

“Hello there,” I greet Anton with a warm smile.

Slowly, the man turns his head towards me. “Hello, Miss Yuri.” His accent is much thicker than his brother’s. As thick as Trifon’s is.

Idly, I wonder if he was born in Moscow as well and later immigrated here to rule his empire. His tone doesn’t exactly brook the question yet. That’s fine. I’m a relatively patient person, I’d say.

Besides, his eyes are an intriguing, almost sage green.

What can I say? I appreciate beautiful things.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Anton?” I ask, pointedly opting for his first name. We’re family now, for better or for worse. Surely we can dispense with certain formalities?

“Ah, yes,” he grunts. “This is what I live for.”

“Do you, really?”

All he responds with is a vague, irksome hum. It rides the line between acknowledgment and derision. Yet, what could I possibly have done to deserve the latter? He isn’t remotely a senseless man. Then again, I suppose you never know with the male species.

I try a different angle. “That’s good. Planning these galas is typically more fun than attending them.

On the bright side, this was more fun to plan than their impromptu wedding,” I quip.

He’d been less than thrilled by the match, much like everyone else, but he’d still helped Nadya find Viktor in the end.

He’d come to their winter wonderland of a wedding.

He hadn’t stormed off at any point during the event.

All pluses. “Less stressful. More classic.”

With his no-frills attitude and that classic tuxedo, he fits immaculately amidst the trappings of this event. I’d venture he’d admire it.

It’s evident that he doesn’t.

Anton stares for a long beat. His eyes seem hollow. Everything about him does. Like he’s a husk of a human being. “Was it, really?”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he’s mocking me.

Summoning the wherewithal to barrel on, I take another sip of my champagne. It tastes sour to me now. I refuse to hum back like I’m some sort of irate bird.

“I understand that you and Viktor have your differences—” I ignore the arch of his brow, the way he ignores the waiter who offers him a flute of champagne of his own.

He doesn’t accept the drink but plods his emptied lowball glass down on the tray.

“—and I can empathize. I’ve got many, many siblings.

Too many, one would say. We can have our differences.

But family is family. And our families are linked now.

This isn’t just a party; it’s an announcement to the world. ”

He turns his head away from me, as if bored. “That’s heartwarming, thank you.”

There’s nothing technically wrong with his words. They are polite, albeit clinically so. But he speaks them in such a cold, condescending manner... It takes an infuriating amount of effort not to drop my jaw.

Who the hell does this man think he is?

Clutching at my composure, I add, “If you disagree, you can say so plainly. I’d welcome an interesting opinion.”

“Yet I harbor no opinions about this platter of platitudes you’re keen on serving, Miss Yuri,” he says without feeling or pause. He punctuates the blow with a courteous bow of his head.

I want to box his ears.

I don’t reproach his formality a second time. I decide I don’t want my name in his mouth.

“You should,” I sniff. “Half the people on the guest list are your associates, are they not? I was under the impression that presenting a united front matters.”

He doesn’t have to confirm that I’m right. I already know that I am.

“I wasn’t aware party-planning made one an expert on Bratva business,” Anton says. There may be no taunting in his tone, but I can feel it. He exudes it in waves. The indelible subtext of those words is Fuck off.

There’s no keeping my jaw hinged anymore.

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.