Page 14 of Forced Marriage Vows

Like always, my father’s face sours at the mention of my brother. They don’t have the best relationship, or any relationship at all at this point. The day Anthony turned eighteen, he moved out of this house and never looked back. My father’s never forgiven him for that. Anthony is his firstborn son and was meant to be his heir, but now they want nothing to do with each other.

I wish I knew why. Neither of them have ever spoken about the reason for their frayed relationship. They just go on pretending the other doesn’t exist.

“That’s alright. What else? Did you get that photography deal you mentioned?” he asks.

I observe him for a second. “Actually I didn’t.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why not? What happened?”

“It just didn’t work out,” I say on a shrug. “They turned me down at first?—”

He cuts me off before I can continue. “They dared not to choose my daughter? What magazine is it? I’d like to have a word with the people in charge.”

“No,” I protest, laughing. “It’s okay. They came back, trying to make amends, but by then I’d already lost interest. I don’t think I’ll be selling any of my pictures anytime soon.”

He calms down at that, his blue eyes meeting mine. “Are you sure,zvezdochka? Because you know I can always handle things. Just say the word.”

“I know, Papa,” I say warmly.

What this conversation has proven is that he wasn’t responsible for pulling strings with Rodriguez. But if it wasn’t him, then who? I’d think it was Anthony, but my brother’s not one for doing anything covert. Plus, I never even told him that I was thinking about getting my pictures featured anywhere. Which means I still have no idea who was responsible.

I could call Rodriguez back, interrogate him until he has no choice but to tell me who was responsible. But I don’t even think it matters anymore.

“You should go home and rest, Anastasia. I’m sure you’re tired,” my father tells me, rising to his feet.

I can tell by his expression that he’s already preoccupied by something else. Probably his conspiracy theories. I definitely got my overthinking from him. He looks tired, and I immediately feel bad. I hate seeing him like this, especially since he doesn’t have any close family members to take care of him.

He doesn’t have anyone other than me, which is why I feel like the burden falls entirely on me. Anthony would tell me that he’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But I can’t just turn my back on our father.

“You should rest, Papa.”

And I don’t mean just for today. He’s an old man who should have definitely retired sooner. He’s been the Pakhan for long enough—let someone else take over.

“There is no rest for a man like me, Anastasia,” he says gently.

I make sure to give him one more hug before leaving his office. I have to pass by the people in the living rooms, trying to ignore them. When I still lived in the mansion, they never used to do shit like this. My papa made sure of it. But as soon as I moved out, he stopped caring, let them do whatever they wanted in order to keep them happy. It’s annoying, watching them turn my family home into some sort of fun house.

The woman who called me earlier manages to waylay me before I can make my escape.

“Anastasia,” she says.

I cross my arms as I face her. “Hi, Mrs. Petrov,” I say to the petite, middle-aged woman.

She’s married to one of my father’s most loyalsoldat, which means soldier in Russian. He’s a stoic old man named Brutus who has protected my father since he became Pakhan. I’ve known her for most of my life. She seems to have an over-inflated sense of her importance to me, hovering like a fly that refuses to leave me alone.

“How are you, my dear? I called you earlier but you seemed to be in a hurry to see your papa. It’s been ages since we’ve had you at the house.”

I force a small smile. “Yes, I’ve been pretty busy.”

“With what?” she asks in that high, patronizing voice of hers.

“Work,” I reply, my tone sharper. “Not all of us have husbands we enjoy spending all our time with.”

She ignores the dig, brushing it off like she always does.

“Speaking of husbands, when are you getting married? You’re not getting any younger, you know. Your papa should really get on with arranging a perfect match for you. Perhaps to a young Pakhan back in Moscow to build an alliance? Or a rich aristocrat? Or maybe he’ll marry you off to someone in the Cosa Nostra? Intermarriages with the Italians seem to be all the rage these days.”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Petrov, I don’t plan to marry anytime soon,” I say through gritted teeth.

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