Chapter Eight
In which you know things are intense when Vadim is the least complicated of Oksana’s problems.
Oksana…
"We can't!" My mother's voice is loud and strident, and slightly panicked. "Can you imagine what people will say? We can't have this wedding put together in a week. This is the wedding of the season," she wails, her hands flapping wildly, as if to wave away all these silly notions.
"What are we talking about?" I ask, walking into the dining room. Okh, chort. Father is at the table too, and he casts a single baleful glance up at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows.
"The timeline for the wedding has moved up," he says shortly. "You'll be marrying Turgenev in a week."
My head still feels like it's stuffed with cotton candy after my restless night, and it takes me a minute to understand him. "Why so soon?" I ask.
"It's a nightmare," Mother says, rubbing her temples.
She tries so hard to be a good mother, and I do love her. But above all else, she is hardcore Six Family royalty. "What will the others say?" is the very meaning of her existence.
"Your husband-to-be sent a message today," she says fretfully. "He wishes to be married now, not the three months as planned. I cannot, I cannot possibly put this together in such a ridiculous time frame!" She's waving her hands around again.
Sitting next to her, I take her hands, holding them between mine. "Mother, it's all right. Did he say why?"
"No," my father says sharply, "just that it needed to be done. He stated that his project in Chicago is urgent and he wants to return there as a married man."
Well, that's the flimsiest possible excuse. Based on Father's expression, he obviously knows this, too. I should be upset about this, right? Angry, or insulted that he's being so autocratic. Ordering my life around before he's even put a ring on my finger.
With uncanny timing, my father picks up a small box from a tray next to his breakfast and slides it down the table, skidding to a stop when it bumps my plate.
"Put this on."
It's a little velvet box, in a square shape that makes the contents obvious. My heart sinks, Vadim wouldn't even offer the basic courtesy of coming here and putting it on my finger himself. I have to get it tossed at me by my father.
"Well, go ahead and open it," my mother urges, leaning against my shoulder, eager to see.
I do, and it is heart-stopping. The ring has a large emerald-cut diamond with a sprinkle of more along the band.
I turn it one way, then the other, watching the light play over the ring.
The stones light up with a gentle glow, as if the diamond is the moon, and the smaller ones are stars, glinting silvery white.
"Put it on," my father snaps, at the end of his patience.
I'd never let myself think much about my future wedding, which I know is unheard of in my circles.
All the Bratva girls in Moscow have excessive planning books and files, dedicated to everything from literal tons of imported orchids to hiring Beyonce to sing at their reception.
I'd accepted long ago that I wouldn't have a choice about who my father married me off to, so I never let myself think about it.
Taking it out of its little velvet nest, I slide it onto my ring finger, staring at it for a moment.
"It's beautiful," my mother says, happy and relieved. "Isn't it beautiful, Benedikt? How does it fit, dear?"
I use my thumb to push it back and forth. "It's a perfect fit," I admit.
My father has had enough of 'family time' and stands, throwing his napkin on his chair. "Make this happen, Sofia," he snaps, and leaves the room.
Mother's smile crumbles, and she begins to cry pretty tears from eyes that never seem to get bloodshot. I'm an ugly crier. I snort and wheeze and look a lot more like a walrus than a woman grieving. But she has had a lot of practice, both at crying pretty tears and hiding them.
"What can I do to help?" I offer.
She waves her perfectly manicured fingers at me. "Nothing. The bride needs to be relaxed."
"Seriously? I know you're going to be miserable, Mat'. I would want to help you even if it wasn't my wedding," I say, taking her hand again. "I know how much pressure you're going to put on yourself."
"It's all right," she says, distracted. "I already placed a call today to the Brachnyy posrednik."
My blood turns to ice. "Oh," I say, my throat feels like it’s squeezing the words out. "I didn't think we'd need a consultation with her."
A "consultation" with the Brachnyy posrednik could be anything from a forced pelvic exam to prove the bride's "innocence" to a mind-numbing interrogation. The marriage broker has been a queasy, shadowy part of the Moscow Six Families' unions for three generations.
Mother glances at me and catches my nauseated expression.
"Oh, dear, don't worry. She was not involved in creating your union with Vadim, which I suspect she is not happy about.
Fortunately, she does have a list of approved planners who can put something this grand on at a moment's notice.
She was gracious enough to share it, even without her direct involvement. "
"Yes, the woman is a saint," I mumble.
"I fear half of the families won't be there, though," she says crossly. "Seven days! Half of Moscow society is out of the country right now!" Which is probably true, the women are the information brokers of the Bratva and keep a close eye on who goes where and why.
“Well, you could explain that while our wedding was hasty, we are throwing a party to celebrate later." She still looks miserable. "As grand as you like."
She perks up a bit.
"Perhaps around the holidays?" I suggest.
"You might have joked about this earlier," she says, "but it is no laughing matter. This sort of hastiness makes it look like you're pregnant." She's not happy when I burst out laughing.
I'm a virgin. At twenty-four.
There were a few men that I would have liked to have sex with.
That was never an option. Maybe if I'd had a bodyguard I could have trusted, one that I could have counted on to keep my private life from my father.
Anka's had the same two bodyguards since she was six, they dote on her with the kind of avuncular affection you can only get from someone who has watched you grow up and killed a lot of people who might have interfered with that.
My father's security will always be loyal only to him.
"It's unsettling," Mother says, crossly.
"I'm going to go to the stables." I rise, kissing her cheek. "Please let me know if there's anything I can do." She's already on the phone, her lacquered fingernails rapidly tapping out a text.
This is the part that I hate most about being back in Moscow.
The endless negotiation for a bodyguard so that I'll be allowed to leave the mansion.
After I've changed into my riding breeches, I head back downstairs and ask Avel, who's head of house security that day, who's available to take me to the stables.
He checks the schedule quickly. "I will send Simon with you," he says. "I'll have him bring the car around immediately."
"No need. I'll take her."
For the second time this morning, I feel like I've been thrown into an ice bath. Just hearing his voice makes me feel soiled, like I need a shower. Turning around, I see Yefim's gaze greedily running up and down my body.
In a Bratva family that cared about their daughter, visually groping her like this would mean death. The Vasiliev Bratva is not one of those.
He's dressed appropriately in a suit; his hands are loaded down with rings on nearly every finger and the smell of his Tom Ford cologne is eye-watering. Even with the liberal dousing, I can smell the stench of rot underneath.
"No need, Sovietnik," I say politely, fighting an atavistic shudder. "I'm sure my father has many things that are required of you today. I know he's been very unsettled."
Avel stands next to me, silent, an uncomfortable sentinel in this interaction. I know he hates Yefim as much as I do, but he's still his superior.
"Nonsense. I can spare a moment to take my Pakhan's treasured daughter to her riding lessons." He smiles, and it's jarring. He's switched from his yellowed, crooked teeth to aggressively white implants that look like he's ready to take a bite out of something small and helpless.
I'm about to cancel my trip to see my beloved horse when I'm rescued by Maks, who comes out of Father's study looking irritable. "Sovietnik," he says, "my father's been looking for you."
Yefim risks one small, furious side glance at me, telegraphing his disappointment that he won't be able to take advantage of the half hour drive to make me feel degraded in every way. He angrily heads into Father's study.
"Thank you," I say to Maks.
"For what?" he frowns.
"Being the king of the last-second rescue," I say fervently.
Of all the ways the men in my life have failed to protect me, leaving me exposed to that predator is the worst. I know I'm not the only one the Sovietnik torments, and the others are even less able to protect themselves.
The daughters of three of the men under his command have gotten pregnant and were forced to marry some lower soldier to, "Clean it all up. "
I'd talked to my mother about it, and then to my brothers, twice. Father ended those attempts to expose his Sovietnik by locking me in my room for three days.
I want Yefim to die.
That thought is crystal clear in my mind.
Despite the fact that the life my family lives is a violent one, I have never actively wished death on anyone.
I do wish it on this man. I want him dead.
I have access to all sorts of talented people, maybe a poisoning?
He sometimes eats with us. But then the blame would fall on one of the kitchen staff. There has to be something.