Page 9 of The Lazarov Bratva

“Alena, I’m so sorry.” Katja reaches across the counter, knife in one hand, and gently swipes her thumb across my damp cheek. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do! He gave me a doll. It’s a pretty doll, but it’s the kind of present you give to a child, not someone you…” Trailing off, I aggressively stab into my slice of birthday cake and drown my sadness in vanilla sponge and chocolate frosting.

What was I thinking? That he would turn up here, take one look at me, and declare his undying love for me? Whisk me away to whatever fancy penthouse he lives in and ravish me until I don’t know my own name?

Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking, and as fantasies go, it’s definitely one of the tamer ones.

Instead, I’m stuck here, locked away and facing down marriage to a stranger because my parents want to make our family stronger. I grumble under my breath, and Katja pauses her chopping of carrots and takes my hand.

“Maybe you need to do something different to get his attention if that’s what you really want to do.”

Sniffling, I lift my head. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s a real man. If he can’t accept what’s right in front of him, maybe you need to get even. Make him jealous.”

“He wouldn’t be jealous,” I say dejectedly. “He wouldn’t even care. He kissed that woman right in front of me!”

“Now, now,” Katja snaps softly. “Don’t act like a brat. You’re better than this. Go out there. Get even. Hell, maybe follow Mara’s example. That woman is as cold as sin, yet she has all the men at the party wrapped around her fingers. I see them drooling over here when I’m passing out entrées. It’s kind of disrespectful if you consider the fact she’s the Pakhan’s wife, but the way she acts, you’d never know.”

Snorting softly, the next forkful of cake doesn’t make it to my lips. “She’s a witch. I’m sure she’s done some sort of magic to trick everyone out here because, honestly, who could like someone so cruel?”

“Alena!”

Right on cue, my mother sweeps into the kitchen. Katja immediately gets back to work under the disdainful eye Mara casts at her, then she grasps my wrist and pulls me from the stool I’d been sitting on.

“What on earth are you doing in here? There are people for you to meet—what happened to your face?” Suddenly, her cold hands grip my chin and she starts to roughly swipe at my cheeks, clearing the tears as if they’re nothing but an inconvenience.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp around her hands. “I went out to see Papa.”

“Complaining to your father will get you nowhere,” she scolds, then she tsks and sighs. “You’ve ruined your makeup. Is there anything else you want to spoil before the night is over?”

She drags me from the kitchen before I can answer, but on my way out, I glimpse Katja who straightens up and gives such a good enough impression of my mother that by the time I’m back in the ballroom, there’s a smile on my face.

“Alena, this is Mikhail Kuznetsov. He is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Kuznetsov.” Mara introduces me to a man who stands slightly taller than me. His black hair is slicked to the point that it looks wet, and his beady eyes rove over my dress as he licks his lips. He holds out a thick hand.

“Evening.”

Mara raises a brow at me expectantly, so I shake his hand. His grip is almost crushing as if to immediately assert his dominance.

“Good evening. I trust you’re enjoying the party?”

“It’s alright.” Mikhail shrugs and tips the champagne glass in his hand. “Seen better.”

“Yes, quite.” Mara smiles politely and places her hand between my shoulder blades, forcing me a step closer. “Oh, would you excuse me for one moment?” She melts into the crowd, leaving me with Mikhail and his painful handshake.

When he finally releases me, the presence of his hand still lingers around my own. Immediately, I want to leave and an excuse rises in my throat, but just as I’m about to take my leave, Katja’s words fill my mind. Maybe acting like my mother is the way to go, if not just to make Kristof jealous but also to survive whatever comes next.

“So, what is it your family does?” I smile politely and straighten my stance slightly, pushing my chest out. Mikhail’s eyes dart down to my breasts and take their time coming back up to my eyes.

“My father works for your father,” he retorts.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Maybe. Though we do not need him as much as he needs us.” Mikhail’s square jaw juts out sharply. “My father owns the shipping lanes that bring weapons into this country. An important role, if not the most important. Without us, the entire Family would be without the latest weapons. People think American rifles are the way to go, but the truth is?” Mikhail leans close, and I feign interest with a smile. “What’s coming out of Cuba these days is liquid gold.” He sighs deeply then and drains his glass. “Not that my father has a clue.”

This is where I’d typically be bored enough to leave, but Mara would stay. She has an uncanny ability to get people to pour their heart out, and the more I listen to Mikhail, the more I realize it’s because these men are so self-centered that getting them to talk about themselves is the easiest thing in the world.

“How so?” I prompt. “You’d do things differently to your father?”

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