Page 2 of Vitaly

He does nothing but underestimate me. Nothing but disrespect me.

My nostrils flare while his face sinks like I’m wearing him down.

“Don’t mistake that girl for a project, Vitaly. She’s the woman you’re to give yourself to. You’re to protect her with your life, and you’re to honor her as the worthy bride she is. I didn’t choose her without care.”

“Then why did you choose her?” I demand, hoping to see the one thing I’ve been missing that can make all of this seem worthwhile.

He insists he didn’t choose her because of her family name.Insiststhat there’s little we’re getting from this arrangement. If that’s the case, it’s difficult to see the point in this. So I don’t buy it.

A knock sounds on the door, and my father turns that way while I stare at him, waiting on my answer.

“They’re ready for you,” my uncle, Nikita, says, sounding annoyingly chipper. I wonder how ungrateful he must think I am for thisopportunity. As the second son of my grandfather, he’ll never be granted more power than he’s given by my grandfather, then my father, then me, if he isn’t dead by the time the gauntlet has passed. Which means there are little expectations put on him in terms of his personal life. He could marry a fucking rock for all they care.

If he feels envy, he shows none of it.

“Thank you, Nikita,” my father replies with a nod.

With nothing but a brief glance my way, my father heads for the door, his shoulders back, his chin high. I take a steadying breath, my eyes closing for a moment before I follow behind, my uncle giving me an encouraging wink and mouthinghappy birthdayas I pass him.

Yes. Happy birthday indeed. Others may get a car or a cake for their eighteenth birthday. I get a burden.

I try to smile and nod my thanks, but there’s a tightness in my lips that must give away the bitterness I feel. I’m flooded with it, but slowly, as my father and I make our way to our guests, itmixes with the tiniest bit of hope. I don’t like being told what to do, but there’s still the chance this could work out for me.

I could get my own place. I’ll stop hearing the constant nagging from my mother, the constant chiding from my father. There are plus sides to this arrangement.

If my wife is grotesque, I’ll get a mistress. I’ll probably do that anyway. And if she sings off-key, I’ll tell her not to sing. I’ll tell her we’re not going to Russia to visit her family. I’ll tell her whatever the fuck is necessary to make life tolerable.

Like my father said… If I can’t lead my own home, how will I ever be able to lead the Bratva?

My father blocks my view as we enter the sitting room, but I can feel the tension exuding from the girl like a thick fog. Or maybe it’s from her father. The power he’ll gain from this arrangement means there’s much more riding on this for him than for her.

My hands tuck into my pockets, although I feel anything but casual. I know my face appears relaxed, but my pulse jumps. When my father steps out of view, I lock onto a set of brown eyes that shine with forced fierceness. False bravery. Fear.

And youth.

My jaw slackens as I roam my gaze over her round face, no older than fourteen, but I would guess younger. Her breasts are barely developed. Her legs are lanky and thin beneath the white, knee-length dress she’s wearing.

“Fyodor,” my father says in a warm voice as he steps up to the man and holds out his hand.

“Vlad.” Fyodor grasps my father’s hand and leans forward in a sort of bow. “How are you, friend?”

My stomach roils as I stare at the girl, tuning out my father and Fyodor.

Girl. Not woman, girl.

Her head is hung submissively, letting brown hair a shade lighter than mine act as a curtain for her face. Her hands are clasped in front of her like the good little slave they must’ve taught her to be. I look down at the flats she’s wearing and wonder if she’s even capable of wearing heels.

My father wants me to marry a child.

Aweak, docile, little fucking girl.

He cannot be serious.

This cannot be real.

But it is. My father claps my shoulder and clicks his tongue as the two let their polite conversation die. “Vitaly, this is Mila.” He gestures to the girl before nudging me forward, clearly wanting me to introduce myself. Shake her hand. Welcome her into our home. Intoherhome, before the wedding.

I swallow the bile that crawls up my throat, but my nausea is nowhere near quelled.

---