Page 2 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

ZOYA

S ix years ago

A pile of Italian dossiers lies open beside me on the velvet bench of the fitting salon, their thick cream-colored covers unblemished and new.

Ekaterina delivered them this morning with a single instruction.

Learn them . These aren't just profiles.

They're early-stage negotiations disguised as diplomacy, comprising names of powerful heirs, family lines, assets, loyalties, pressure points.

Tonight at the Baranov gala, I'm not meeting men.

I'm meeting trade routes, dowries, and political deals dressed in tailored suits.

Each file is a potential match. My father wants me to smile, impress, and pick one, although I'm certain he'll have a favorite.

Bending slightly, I trace the edge of one folder with a gloved fingertip, resisting the urge to tear it in half.

I'd rather memorize a poem, something useless and lovely.

"I've outlived my desires, my dreams of love have faded," Pushkin once wrote.

He died in a duel over honor. I am expected to endure mine.

Not that I mean to sound like a complete brat.

I love my Papa well, and he has provided for me and loved me as men in his position best can.

He's also very indulgent until duty eclipses choice.

If securing an alliance for the Baranov family via marriage is the way to keep ourselves afloat in what is definitely a troubled time, I supposed I should make concessions.

The Belvinis have outpaced us with their weapons trade, shifting from cold steel to drone tech, partnering with rogue defense contractors.

No one dares speak of the Molchanis out loud anymore, not with half the intelligence bureau rumored to answer their calls.

And us? The Baranovs are stretched thin. The ports are bleeding—new tariffs, digital oversight, EU crackdowns on trafficking. The Caspian pipeline isn't ours alone anymore. Smaller outfits nibble at our routes like carrion birds. Even the smugglers have lawyers now.

Papa says we need an alliance, or in other words, a marriage, but he has promised the man will be nothing if not respectable.

In families like mine, violence often goes hand-in-hand with maintaining a promising social facade, so I remain unsure as to whether the man chosen for me will be good behind closed doors.

Then again, Papa must have done his research.

I bend to open one of the dossiers and skim over the details, then another, then one more.

These men aren't strangers to violence, but violence is seldom a problem in securing the alliance of this family.

What'll matter most is what they can offer the Baranovs.

The tailor's fingers are cold where they brush my collarbone as he adds the final touches to tonight's outfit.

He balances a strip of pins between his lips, humming disapproval into the space between us as he adjusts the silk bodice of the gown.

His breath smells faintly of cloves and starch.

"Stand straighter," he mutters, tugging the fabric tighter across my ribs.

I comply without protest. My spine already aches, but that doesn't matter. Pain is just another kind of silence in this house, constant, instructive, ignored.

The gown is ice-blue, custom-fit with boning that curves like armor beneath my breasts.

It's meant to evoke innocence and nobility.

This room is my Papa's favorite because of how quiet it is inside.

The walls are paneled in dark wood. A map of Europe hides behind faux-brushstrokes on the far wall.

There are cameras embedded in the ceiling, invisible unless you know where to look.

I learned this the hard way when I sneaked a boy back home as a teenager.

No wonder Katya is the better soldier, I think with a dry smirk.

Risking a frown from the tailor, I dip slightly and flip open Matteo Ricci's file.

His file, I notice, has a red star-mark on it.

Papa's chosen one, then. He's thirty-four.

Oxford-educated. Controls Mediterranean freight out of Palermo.

Partial to Bordeaux. Rumored to have strangled a subordinate with his bare hands during a port skirmish.

His smile in the surveillance photo is charming, but very manufactured.

I rehearse the expression I'll wear when we meet—elegant, slightly warm, subtly impressed.

My lips stretch into the shape, but the feeling behind it doesn't arrive. Tit for tat, I suppose.

The oak door creaks open without a knock.

My papa, Valentin Baranov, steps through, casting a shadow that stretches farther than the chandelier's reach.

He smells like Amouage's Interlude Man and fairytales in old books that I never got around to finishing.

At sixty-three, he walks like the street brawler he once was.

The tailor goes rigid. "I'm just about finished, sir."

Papa waves him off with a flick of two fingers. "Leave us."

The man scuttles backward like he's been shot, muttering something about fabric and measurements, and disappears through the side exit.

I don't adjust the gown. I keep my arms at my sides, hands curled lightly.

"Straighten," Papa says, not looking at me as he moves toward the sideboard where a crystal decanter glows amber in the low light.

He pours himself a drink. "You've reviewed the files? "

"Yes, Papa."

He takes a sip from the glass in his hand, then raises a brow. "And?"

I keep my tone neutral, neither too interested nor too detached. "The Ricci family controls sixty percent of southern European distribution. If we merge trade interests, we gain access to Valencia and Civitavecchia. It bypasses the Belvinis’ chokehold at Messina."

He hums, not displeased.

"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."