12. Yaromir #2
Anya’s fingers tighten around her napkin.
I should stop this, but I want to see what she does.
“I chose not to marry a man who betrayed me,” Anya says. “Everything after that became less simple.”
Larisa leans back slightly. There’s approval there, though she hides it well. “Did you love him?”
Anya goes quiet.
It’s not a soft silence. It’s controlled, uncomfortable, honest.
“I thought I did.”
Larisa nods slowly. “That is usually worse.”
Anya looks at her for a second too long, as if she hadn’t expected understanding from this woman.
Neither had I.
Larisa turns her knife between her fingers, then asks, “What did your father tell you about the Volkovs?”
“Very little.”
“Interesting.”
“No,” Anya says. “Cowardly.”
The word lands cleanly.
Alexei’s eyes flick toward me. I keep my face still.
Larisa looks pleased now. “You dislike your father.”
“I’m married today because of his debt,” Anya says. “Dislike feels polite.”
Larisa’s gaze shifts to me.
There it is again. That look. Boring into me from across the table like she’s trying to peel my intentions open in front of everyone. I cut into my fish and pretend not to feel it.
For a while, she returns to Anya. Questions about her mother, her education, what she reads, what languages she speaks, whether she has ever managed money, whether she knows the difference between loyalty and obedience.
Anya answers carefully at first. Then less carefully. By the time coffee is served, there is more steel in her voice.
My phone buzzes beside my plate.
Viktor.
I glance at the message, then stand. “Excuse me.”
Larisa’s eyes lift. “Work?”
“Yes.”
“On your wedding day?”
“Especially today.”
Anya looks at me, but says nothing.
I leave them with Alexei, which is either wise or a mistake. Hard to tell.
Viktor waits in the hall near my study, phone in hand, expression controlled.
“What?”
“Word has reached Kirill,” he says.
My father.
Of course it has.
“And?”
“He has called a meeting at the old house tonight with his lieutenants.”
“He thinks I’m plotting against him,” I say drily.
“Isn’t that what this is?” Viktor asks.
I open the study door and step inside. Viktor follows.
“Let them meet,” I say.
“There’s more. Chernov has frozen the port transfer. He says he wants confirmation the arrangement still stands.”
I almost laugh. “Confirmation from whom?”
“He didn’t say.”
“He means my father.”
“Yes.”
I move behind my desk and pick up the phone. “Call Chernov.”
Viktor does.
Thirty seconds later, the man answers. His voice is steady for the first sentence. Less steady by the second.
“Yaromir,” he says. “Congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you. Transfer the port rights.”
A pause.
“I was under the impression there might be family complications.”
“There are always family complications.”
“Yes, but given the unusual nature of today’s wedding, I thought perhaps it would be wise to wait until your father confirms the new position.”
I sit in the chair slowly.
Viktor watches me.
“Chernov,” I say, “how many sons do you have?”
Silence.
“Two,” he says carefully.
“Good. Then you understand succession.”
His breathing changes. “I did not mean disrespect.”
“No? Then why the fuck do I have to call to confirm that you’re still going to make good on the deal I made with you weeks ago.”
He says nothing.
“The transfer happens within the hour,” I continue. “Or by tonight you can ask my father for permission to bury what remains of your business.”
Another silence.
Then, quieter, “Within the hour.”
I end the call.
Viktor’s mouth twitches. “That will spread quickly.”
“Good.”
“The marriage changes things.”
“Yes.”
Everyone will understand soon enough.
Dmitri’s runaway bride is now my wife. Sergei’s debt is cleared under my hand, not my father’s. Men who were waiting to see whether I would remain content with scraps have their answer.
This marriage is not only scandal. It’s a line drawn through the city.
And Anya, whether she understands it yet or not, has become the visible proof that the old house can lose what it believes it owns.
“And Sergei?” Viktor asks.
“If he’s an intelligent man, he has already left the city. My father won’t take kindly to his debts being cleared by me.” He’s a dead man walking, but I don’t say that.
Part of me wonders if Anya realizes what she has done, but might not have been thinking so far ahead. Or maybe she doesn’t realize the depth of hatred my father has for me.
“Anya stays inside the estate,” I say.
“Do you want her told that?”
“No.”
Viktor understands. “I’ll keep it quiet.”
When he leaves, I remain in the study for a minute longer than necessary.
My wife.
The thought returns, unwanted and satisfying.
I push away from the desk and go back.
I don’t make it to the dining room.
Larisa waits for me in the hall outside, as if she knew exactly which door I would use. She has always had an irritating talent for appearing where a man least wants her.
“Your bride is with Alexei,” she says.
“That is unfortunate for both of them.”
“She’ll survive him.”
“I know.”
Larisa doesn’t smile. “She’s less stupid than she looks.”
I pause at that.
“She looks like a pretty little fool,” Larisa continues. “But she answers questions carefully. Not well enough to impress me, but carefully.”
She looks at me for a long moment.
Then she says, “Congratulations on your wedding.”
“You said that already.”
“No. I commented on not being invited. That’s not the same.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She steps closer. “Now tell me why you married her.”
I look toward the dining room. “She needed protection.”
“Many women need protection. You don’t marry all of them.”
“Her father owed a debt.”
“You collect debts every day.”
“She was engaged to Dmitri.”
Larisa’s face doesn’t change, but her eyes narrow slightly. “And you stole your half brother’s bride.”
“She was no longer his bride.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s convenient.”
I say nothing.
She studies me the way she used to when I was a boy with split knuckles and blood on my shirt, pretending I hadn’t been fighting men twice my size in alleys.
“She’s no one important in your world, Yaromir,” Larisa says. “Sergei Sokolov’s daughter. An underling’s daughter. Pretty, yes. Humiliated, yes. Angry enough to be useful, certainly. But not important.”
“She gives me Dmitri’s humiliation.”
“Does she?”
My jaw tightens.
Larisa notices.
“She ran from Dmitri first,” she says. “That humiliation already happened without you. The boy was left standing like a fool at his own wedding.”
“You think my intentions are weak,” I say.
“I think they are confused.”
“They are not.”
“Then why do you look at her like that?”
My silence is the wrong answer.
Larisa’s mouth tightens. “You should be careful with that,” she says.
“With what?”
“Want.”
I look back at her. Her face is cold now. Not cruel in the careless way Galina is cruel. Larisa’s cruelty has discipline. It knows exactly where to press.
“Want makes men sentimental,” she says. “Sentimental men make poor decisions. Your father made them. Dmitri makes them. I expected better from you.”
“I’m nothing like either of them.”
“No,” she says. “You are more dangerous because you can convince yourself revenge is strategy even when it is appetite.”
My fingers curl once at my side. “Say what you came to say, Larisa.”
She smiles faintly at the use of her name without title. “I came to say your reasons are flimsy.”
The hall goes very still.
“You are close to saying something you should not,” I tell her.
“I’m your mother’s sister. I’m allowed to say what no one else survives saying.”
I don’t answer.
She leans in slightly. “Your father took my sister, hid her, used her, loved her only when it cost him nothing, and let her die like an inconvenience. Remember that.”
“You want her humiliated,” I say.
“I want them humiliated through her.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
“No.”
Larisa’s eyes narrow.
There. I’ve given away too much.
She studies me like she has found the weakness she suspected. “Careful, Yaromir.”
I say nothing.
“She’s young. Pretty. Angry. That makes her easy to shape if you don’t lose your head.
Put her beside you. Let the city see her.
Let Dmitri watch her wear your name. Let Galina hear people laugh behind their hands.
Let your father see the girl meant to strengthen his house become the symbol of its failure. ”
“That was already the plan.”
“Then commit to it. Let that girl become your instrument of humiliation for what your father did to your mother.”
The words settle between us.
From the dining room, Anya’s voice rises slightly. Not laughter, but something close to it. A guarded response to whatever stupid thing Alexei has said.
I look toward the sound.
Larisa watches me do it.
I should be angry.
I am. But not only at her.
At myself too.
Because Larisa is cruel, bitter, and wrong about Anya. She’s making it a choice between my mother’s memory and hurting a person who had nothing to do with it.
But she’s not wrong about the danger.
I wanted Anya before I married her.
I still want her.
And now I have to decide whether she’s my wife, my weapon, or the first thing in years capable of making me confuse the two.