5. Nona
NONA
Idon’t have a lot of experience with dating and men and all that.
With my father’s position was well known when I was in high school, I didn’t really have too many experiences until I was in college.
I have this distinct memory of being excited about dating older boys.
I spent so much of my teenage years fantasizing about some handsome graduate student seeing me across the quad and sweeping me off my feet.
The reality has been filled with guys who didn’t have enough manners to know how to open a door or pull out a chair for a lady.
College boys who were more interested in status and parties than anything else.
And when I did find a halfway decent one that I thought I loved enough to have sex with, I had to deal with how lame they were in and outside the bedroom.
And even through all of that misery, I can definitively say that last night was the worst date I have ever been on.
He was rude. No, worse than rude. He was mean. I’ve been lying in bed all morning replaying it in my head. It was like he hated me the moment he saw me.
How can I marry a man who hates me that much? And I’m not naive about all this. We both know that this marriage isn’t supposed to be real, but we’ll still have to pretend that it is for the sake of appearances. Our collective brotherhoods will be looking at us to be the example…
And even that’s bullshit. My father will be expecting me to work with him to bring them down from the inside out. No pressure or anything, I guess.
I sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes.
My expensive red sex dress is balled up on the floor and I’m in my pajamas, wondering how I got in this predicament.
There has to be a better way for Papa to execute his plan.
Or maybe a better person. All I know is that if I have to sit and smile and act like I’m madly in love with that asshole, I might just lose my mind before I can be a proper spy at all.
There’s a knock at my door, then my father’s voice. “Nona? Are you awake?”
I’m tempted to say no. He was pissed at me last night when he saw me leaving in that dress. He didn’t lose his shit like I thought he would, though. I guess he actually did see the benefit of a half-naked me appealing to Alex’s baser instincts. Too bad it didn’t work.
“I’m awake,” I say against my better judgment. The door opens slowly and my father walks in, a smile on his face.
“Well?” he asks. “How did it go? Tell me everything.”
I could lie, I suppose. Tell him what he wants to hear. It would make him happy, at least. Unfortunately, I just don’t think I have it in me to do that this morning.
“It didn’t go so good, Papa,” I tell him, and his smile drops.
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
I sigh. “He doesn’t like me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says angrily, though I’m not sure yet if it’s me that he’s angry at. “How could he not like you? Especially in that whorish cocktail dress. What kind of man is he that he didn’t like you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did you do?”
I freeze slightly. “I didn’t do anything, Papa.”
“Did you insult him? Are you trying to sabotage this in some way?”
“No, I swear. Papa, I think I’m just not his type. Or maybe he’s just as upset about having to marry a stranger as I am.”
He scoffs and crosses his arms firmly. “Impossible. Alexandr is Fedor’s heir.
He understands this kind of political move and he knows what’s at stake if he denies you.
” My father stares at me for a long moment, dark eyes boring through me as if he’s trying to see into my soul. “You didn’t do anything to upset him?”
“No. I promise, Papa. We’re just not compatible, I guess.”
His frown deepens and he drops his arms. Then he starts pacing back and forth, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “That needs to change, Nona. You must get him to like you or else he will not trust you, and we need him to trust you.”
“How do I do that?” I say, and he rolls his eyes.
“Curse your mother for dying and never teaching you how to manipulate a man to do your bidding,” he mutters.
I almost object to that, but think better of it. We don’t need to discuss the finer points of his misogyny.
“You will show him that he is the man in your marriage,” he says to me. “Be submissive to him. Do whatever he tells you to do. Especially in the bedroom. You must make him feel as though he is in total control over you.”
My stomach turns at the thought of letting Alexandr subjugate me. “What if he wants to hurt me?” I ask him. “Or beat me?”
“Then you will take those punches like a man,” he growls at me. “This is not optional, Nona. He will be your husband and once that happens, you will be my spy. There is no other option.”
A chill runs up and down my spine. Any thought that I had about asking him to free me from this obligation is gone. I have to do this or else face the wrath of my father.
I can say from experience that there is honestly not much that Alexandr could do to me that might be more painful than when my father gets angry. He’s staring at me as if waiting for an answer.
“Am I understood?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
“Good.” His shoulders relax slightly. “The arrangements are being made. You and Fedor’s son will be wed in two weeks. Do not disappoint me.”
I can only nod, and thankfully, that’s enough. He walks out and leaves me to my own sorrow.
Two weeks left to what has passed for freedom my entire life. I don’t know what will happen to me once all this is over… but if I do this, maybe I can at least make Papa truly happy for once.
“Hold still,” the seamstress says to me in Russian. It’s been a week since that awful date with Alexandr and I’m standing on a block in the middle of a wedding shop in a dress that I didn’t even choose.
Looking at myself in the row of mirrors on the wall before me, I can at least say that the dress looks good.
It’s simple, silk with lace flowers embroidered down the side.
It fits me well, the way it falls over my hips and outlines the shape of my breasts without being too obscene.
The best part of this whole dress is the lace flower spaghetti straps.
I’m sure Papa will want these straps covered, but I’m not budging on that. I like how I look in strappy dresses. My neckline and shoulders look regal. I can almost see how it will look from the back when I look over my shoulder.
At least I’ll be pretty on my wedding day. It’s the least that any bride can hope for.
“There.” She arranges the hem of the dress around, watching it flow between her fingers.
“Thank you, Mrs. Babkin,” I respond in Russian. Mrs. Babkin’s a seamstress for just about everyone in this part of the Upper East Side. Well, everyone who’s Russian. I don’t think she speaks a word of English. At least I’ve never heard her speak English before.
She stands slowly, her short, squat frame laboring under the weight of gravity as she gets to her feet.
Mrs. Babkin is wearing a dark blue tracksuit and orthopedic sneakers.
She’s got messy red hair that she keeps in a bun on top of her head and eyes that are dark and sunken in, like she doesn’t sleep.
She’s also got to be over eighty years old.
I’ve been told that she’s been making wedding dresses since Papa was a boy.
I turn my attention to myself in the mirror and I turn around, posing as I give myself an over-the-shoulder look. Just like I thought. Beautiful.
“Your father wants me to attach some sleeves,” she says to me. “I can sew on some chiffon or lace—”
“I don’t want that,” I tell her. “I like it just like it is.”
She pauses, her thin lips quivering. “But your father—”
“I will deal with him about that. Don’t worry. I’ll tell him this is my idea.”
She nods, though she’s looking at me skeptically.
The sound of the door chime goes off somewhere in the front of the store. Mrs. Babkin scowls. “Not a customer right now,” she mutters. “I’ll be right back.”
She leaves, and I’m left standing on this block, looking at myself in this beautiful dress.
It’s a shame that this moment can’t be about marrying a man I actually love.
Or even like, for that matter. At least he’s attractive, tall and dark with the bluest eyes.
When he leaned across the table at me at dinner and locked eyes with me, a chill ran over my skin.
He had this uncanny ability to make me feel like I was under attack with just a glimpse.
It made me wonder what it might be like if I were under his protection instead.
There goes that silly young girl fantasy of mine.
Alexandr has the look of the kind of man I used to hope to run into on campus.
Dark hair with a streak of silver in the front.
A strong jaw with just enough of a salt and pepper beard to let everyone know he’s years and years away from immaturity.
He’s self-assured, yet thoughtful. Strong enough to stand up to my father and keep me safe at all costs.
And the kind of personality that could move me with a well-placed whisper in my ear.
A man like that could have changed my world. Probably quite literally.
But that man never came and now I’m stuck marrying an asshole whom I have to find some way to endear myself to. Wish there were a manual for this kind of thing.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the sound of arguing, fast, quippy Russian from another female voice arguing with Mrs. Babkin.
“You can’t go back there. Ms. Molotov, it’s not proper.”
“Relax, Grandma, I’m in the wedding party.” The door opens and a woman with long, jet black hair and pale blue eyes stands there, staring at me. She walks in slowly, looking me up and down as she circles.
“Can… Can I help you?” I ask in Russian.
She stops and looks up at me, her blood red lips spreading into a slow smile. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me?” she responds in English.
I blink. She looks vaguely familiar, I’ll admit.
“Second period English,” she says. “Eleventh grade? You were always sitting up front like a good little teacher’s pet.”
Right at ‘teacher’s pet’, it hits me. In high school, her hair was cut into a pixie cut and her uniform was always altered in some way. White dress shirt, tied up to show off her midriff. Plaid skirt hiked up so that it barely covered her ass…
“Yeva,” I say, and her last name slaps me in the face before I can speak it. “Molotov. Oh, My God.”
She chuckles. “You’re surprised to see me?”
Let me just say that Yeva and I were never close in high school. To say we didn’t run in the same circles is an understatement. But I knew of her. Everyone knew of her back then.
“H-Hi?” I manage to squeak. I clear my throat and add, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were related to, to—”
“My brother? No, I guess you wouldn’t. There’s, like, a twenty-year age gap between us.”
“Alexandr’s your brother?” I cannot believe this. I’m about to be sisters-in-law with the school party girl.
She wrinkles her nose at me. “‘Alexandr’?” she says. “Kind of formal for your future husband.”
“He insisted,” I tell her. Now I’m wondering how much she knows about that awful date last night.
She tsks and says, “Sasha does kind of have a stick up his ass about his name. Don’t worry, he’ll warm up to you.” She looks me up and down again. “He’d better. You look incredible in this dress.”
I smile with a lost sense of approval from her that I didn’t know I needed. “Thank you.”
“Ms. Molotov,” Mrs. Babkin interjected in Russian. “This is Ms. Sokolov’s appointment. If you want to chat with her, you should do it after I am done.”
“Ne pizdi,” Yeva shoots back, and Mrs. Babkin gapes, the vulgar phrase shocking her into silence. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Mrs. Babkin’s face goes beet red and she storms out, slamming the door behind her.
“That was unnecessary,” I say. “She’s only trying to do her job.”
“She was being a pest. Old ladies sometimes need a curse word or two to snap them back in line.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I don’t speak. I just stand there as she continues to look me up and down.
“Well,” she says with a sigh, “You have really filled out since high school. That’s good news. Sasha’s a bit of an ass man.”
My hands immediately go to my backside self-consciously. “Um, is there a reason you’ve decided to stop by and interrupt my fitting?”
“Of course there is,” she says. “I wanted to scope you out before the wedding. See where your head’s at with all this arranged marriage bullshit.”
I shrug. “It’s for the good of our Bratvas. This marriage will bring us all together and make us stronger.”
Yeva raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Right. So, you’re about just towing the company line, then?”
I shrug. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“Well, that depends on which company line you’re towing,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
“I don’t think I know what you mean.”
“I think you do,” she says. “Listen, personally, I don’t care too much about where your loyalties ultimately lie.
If you’re the kind of girl who likes to follow Daddy’s every rule, that’s cool.
In a way, I can relate probably better than anyone else in the world.
We’re the daughters of Pakhans, after all. ”
She walks over to one of the chairs next to the wall of mirrors and sits down. The chair has gold-plated arms and crushed velvet upholstery. She crosses her legs and sits like a queen as she gazes up at me.
“That said,” she goes on, “one has to wonder if this marriage implodes, whose house will you run to?”
I stiffen my back, determined to look strong in front of her. “Where would you go if you were me?”
“I’m not the one under the glass, am I?” she retorts.
“Here’s the bottom line, Nona. Whatever happens with this marriage to my brother or with our Bratvas, you should remember who’s going to catch you if it all falls apart.
Because if my brother is hurt in any way and you’re to blame, there won’t be anywhere on earth you’ll be able to hide from me. ”
I’m doing my best to appear strong, but my knees are shaking. She stares me down for about fifteen seconds before standing up. “In the meantime, I’ll see you at the wedding?”
I nod stiffly, and she smiles as she leaves. As soon as she’s gone, I get off the block and look at the four reflections of myself.
I need to play things smart… if I’m going to survive.