Page 3 of The Pakhan's Bride
"He's unmarried," I continue. "No official consort. Politically adaptable."
That gets a longer pause. His eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, his attention makes the room feel smaller. He is already dressed for the evening in formal black, cufflinks of obsidian, and the wedding ring he's never removed. My mother's name is never spoken, but he wears her memory like a badge, a symbol of discipline. He doesn't discard what once had value.
"He's bloodthirsty," Papa says at last.
"He's efficient," I counter, because this is another game we play. He prods, I parry, hoping the answer is something that'll make him happy.
That earns a faint shadow of a smile. "You've always had a clever mouth."
He crosses the room, slower than he used to, and when he stops beside me, he gently lifts the corner of Matteo's file with the same care he once used to untangle my braids when I came home after a day of mischief at school. "Don't lean on intelligence too heavily, Zoya. It fools them once, then it becomes a liability. I may sound harsh, but you're better off looking pretty and playing dumb."
"I'm not trying to fool them," I say softly. "And a powerful man can't not appreciate wit, Papa."
His smile fades, not harshly, but with something closer to regret. "You were always the more sensitive one." He says it not as a criticism but as a truth he sometimes forgets to protect. "You look so much like your mother when you argue."
I swallow, unsure whether to be flattered or wounded.
"Work on holding Matteo's attention tonight," he adds, a hint of authority seeping into the gravelly depth of his voice. "Men like him admire beauty. But they trust silence."
"I'll be both," I reply quickly, nodding in agreement. He steps back, eyes scanning my dress, my posture, the earrings he chose. "This isn't just a gathering,Zoyechka."
"I know."
He tilts his head. "You had your education. Your independence."
A sliver of annoyance slides up my spine, but I push it down and school my face into what I hope is nonchalance. "And now it's time to pay for it."
His eyes narrow slightly. "It wasn't a debt. It was a gift. And gifts, my dear, are given with expectations."
I look past his shoulder at the map of Europe on the wall. Countries marked in red and black. territories claimed, territories desired. "I understand my responsibilities."
"Do you?" He inches forward, takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Because your sister never needed to be reminded where her loyalties lie."
It's not lost on me that in this moment, he is less my Papa and more the head of this family. My face gives away nothing. My heart thuds against my ribs, but my voice remains steady. "I'll make you proud."
"See that you do." He releases me. "The Riccis respect strength, tradition, and family above all else. Remember that when he speaks to you."
"I always remember everything," I say softly.
A shadow passes across the doorway. Ekaterina stands watching, one shoulder against the frame. Where I am dark, she is light, with honey-blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, pale eyes assessing me. Three years older and infinitely more trusted. She lifts a single brow. "The first guests are arriving. You should be downstairs." Her gaze lingers on my neckline, then trails down to the hem of the dress. "Well. At least you'll make an impression."
Papa nods, giving a passing glance her way. "Make sure security keeps eyes on the mezzanine, and have the staff rotate the drink trays every ten minutes. We don't want anyone lingering."
"Already handled." Ekaterina's smile is genuine where mine is manufactured.
"Good." He drains his glass. "The gala must appear to be nothing more than a cultural exchange." He strides from the room, patting Ekaterina's shoulder as he passes. I look away, smoothing the dress over my hips.
Ekaterina watches me in the reflection of the tall mirror, arms folded across her chest. "You know, if I didn't know better, I'd almost believe you enjoy this part."
I keep my back to her. "What part is that?"
She leans in slightly, voice soft, pleasant. "Being the beautiful, irresponsible one."
The last thing I need right now is provocation, so I brush past her into the corridor, the train of the dress dragging like chains behind me. The hallway stretches long and narrow, portraits of stern-faced Baranov patriarchs lining the walls. I make it three steps before her hand closes around my arm.
"Don't walk away from me," she hisses, pulling me into an alcove. This close, I can smell her perfume, expensive and French, like crushed flowers and steel.
"What do you want?" I ask.
