But I did? I want to ask, but I know it’s futile. Vik is a stubborn woman and doesn’t change her opinion easily.
When we were kids, our father pitted us against each other. He wanted to see who could be the smartest in school, who would be the prettiest as we got older, and who would be the most capable of landing a good husband. Because Mila was Father’s favorite, he never pitted her against Vik or me.
There’s been a strain between us ever since. We don’t exactly hate each other, but we don’t exactly like each other either.
We arrive at the reception, which is being held at our house. I didn’t want it to be because I figured it would be weird to have random men coming and going from our most intimate place. But Vik insisted. She said we should be proud of our home—our parents’ home—and we should welcome the guests into it.
Our house is a large mansion in the suburbs on the city's outskirts. Father didn’t think it would be appropriate for us to grow up within the city, seeing as he thought the city was for vagabonds and degenerates. I always thought that sounded old-fashioned, but I guess my father was an old-fashioned sort of guy.
He became ruler of the Bratva when he was thirty, which was back in the ‘80s. He learned how to rule in a day when women weren’t as respected as they are now—if women are even respected today because, right now, it doesn’t feel like it. The way those men laughed at our pain says we’re not respected at all.
Father was in his seventies when he died. Mother was only in her fifties. They had a large age gap, which I know made my mother uncomfortable. I always got the sense she never quite wanted to be with our father. She would shy away from his touch. She would leave the room when he entered it. That’s how it had been since I was a little girl. My father didn’t seem to mind it. I think he liked having a younger, pretty trophy wife on his arm to parade around for his men. It’s sickening, the thought of that. The way he could shelter my sisters and me but not our mother.
Honestly, the way he tried to shelter us only showed just how old-fashioned he was. It was like he was obsessed with us being innocent. I was never sure why—not until today when I saw the men looking at us with lust-filled eyes. These men—these adult, much older men—want us for our innocence.
We have to protect it even more at all costs.
Vik glides out of the car with a gracefulness I always envied. The three of us are all ballet dancers—something my father insisted we become. We all know how to move gracefully, but Vik is the best of us. She’s picturesque. Her body is the perfect ballet body—tall and lithe. Mila and I are a little shorter, with Mila being the most round out of us. She’s petite and light, which works in her favor, but I’m just average. Average height, average weight. Not too thin but not too fat. Not too tall, but not too short. I’ve always been invisible compared to my more striking sisters.
That’s ok. I’ve grown used to it. In fact, it works in my favor. Men don’t look at me like they do them. Maybe I’ll get out of this situation scot-free.
We enter the house, which is somehow already filled with the men from the funeral. Our maid, Sarah, must have let them in. Seeing them in our house without our permission sends me into a panic. I grip my chest to calm my heartbeat, but I have to bend over to catch my breath.
“Stand up straight,” Vik says. “Don’t embarrass us, Sofiya.”
I suck in a breath and do as Vik says. I will not embarrass our family. I will help protect our family.
We enter the living room where men are lounging on the couch, their feet on the coffee table as if this is a casual get-together with friends rather than a funeral. There are men everywhere. In the hallways, in the kitchen, eating food and laughing. Spit leaves their mouths as they laugh. It’s disgusting. It’s a violation how they take over our home.
“What do we do?” Mila asks, her doe eyes widening.
I want to curl into my bed and cry. That’s what I want to do.
But once again, Vik answers for us. “We talk. We accept condolences. And then we get these men out of our house.”
We stand in a line in the living room, each trying to look strong. For Vik, it comes easy. But Mila looks scared, and I’m sure I don’t look any different.
A man approaches us—the same one who smiled at me back at the funeral. The one with the large belly. “Ladies, I am Boris Smirnov. I’d like to talk to you in private. Right now.”
Vik blinks. “We’re being good hosts. We can’t leave.”
“If you want to be a good hostess, you’ll come with me right now.” His tone is light, but his words are slightly threatening. Who is this man, and why does he think he can talk to us like this?
“If you have something to say, then say it.” Vik crosses her arms. “We’re not going anywhere, especially alone with you.”
Boris chuckles darkly. “Trust me, Viktoriya, you’ll be safe nowhere. Not anymore. Not now that your father is dead.”
“How dare you?” she gasps. “You don’t get to speak to me like that.”
“Maybe we should go,” Mila offers. “Hear what he has to say.”
“Don’t be naive,” Vik scolds, and Mila looks like she wants to cry even more. Mila has a tendency to be so innocent that I’ve silently nicknamed her the Disney princess.
“Talk,” Vik orders Boris. “If you have something to say, then say it.” More men are starting to look in our direction. I feel so exposed even though I’m covered in a chaste black dress.
“Fine, then. I was a partner with your father in his business. He left me this”—Boris pulls out a letter from his pocket— “in the case of his death. I shall read it to you now.” He opens the letter and clears his throat. “Boris, take care of my daughters. See to it they’re married and taken care of. You were always a good partner to me. Be a good man to my daughters.” He smiles smugly at us as he closes the letter. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Let me see that.” Vik rips the letter from his hands. She skims it. “It’s Father’s handwriting. I recognize it.” She looks up at Boris. “So, you’re supposed to help us get married? Then you should know I’ll only marry a man worthy of my standing.”
Boris nods. “I understand. Which is why I wanted to tell you, Viktoryia, that you and I will be married.”
Mila gasps. I remain in stunned silence. And Vik, well … she looks so aghast it would be funny if the situation weren’t so un-funny.
“I’m not going to marry you,” she says, making Boris frown. His expression clearly shows he never thought he would get rejected. “I just told you I’ll only marry a man worthy of my standing. And you …” She looks him up and down with a sneer on her face. “Are not worthy of my standing.”
Boris straightens up and sniffs, trying to look cool even though he just got rejected by a beautiful, much younger woman than him in front of all these men. A few of them are laughing again, but most look angry—as if how dare Vik turn down a marriage proposal.
“I am more than worthy of your standing, Viktoryia,” Boris says. “I worked with your father. I was practically the leader of the Bratva.”
“Practically, but not actually,” she says, shutting him down with only four words. It’s impressive.
“Now that your father is dead, someone will take over, and that someone will be me.”
Vik waves a dismissive hand. “I’m done with you now. What did you say your name was?”
“Boris. Smirnoff,” he says through gritted teeth. The anger radiating off him scares me, but Vik seems unrattled.
“Well, Boris Smirnoff, I will choose the man who will become my husband. And it’s not you. Now, leave my sight. I’m tired of looking at you.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. I’m doubly impressed. If I had an ounce of my sister’s confidence, I could take over the world. Or, at least, take control of my life. Because right now, I feel very out of control.
