Forced Marriage Vows

5. Anastasia

CHAPTER 5

Anastasia

I nstead of going straight to my apartment and sleeping for two days, I decide to pay a visit to my family’s home. I drive onto the compound, parking in front of the house and stepping out of the car. A few of the guards offer me short nods of acknowledgment when they see me.

As soon as the doors to my childhood home open, I’m rewarded with the loud noises of the dozens of people inside the building. I pretend not to notice the men lounging around or the women with them drinking, smoking, and engaged in all sorts of debauchery as I find my way to my father’s office.

This house is the center for our organization. Which consists of criminals and murderers. The Russian mafia is a well-organized cog with commanders and generals and people hoping to curry favor in order to reach the top. They’re not necessarily good people. And they’ve made this home their base of operations.

“Ana,” someone calls from one of the rooms I pass.

It’s a woman’s voice. Familiar. I pretend not to hear her, my steps carrying me farther away before she can stop me. The last thing I need is idle chitchat with anyone.

My father’s office door is wide open and he looks to be in a tense meeting. Four men are seated at the table with my father at the head, looking over them with contempt in his eyes.

His gaze is especially trained on Ivan Volkov. He’s a powerful man in the Bratva, nearly as powerful as my Papa. He got married a couple of weeks ago to an Italian princess, a ballsy move. And I heard there was even more drama at the wedding. He’s a man who plays by his own rules. That’s all the information I have on him, though. Oh and the fact that he’s incredibly hot.

The other men are Yuri Zakharov and Damien Morozova, who is Mikhail’s father. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to either of them. In fact, my father’s gone out of his way to keep me away from them all. Mostly because he doesn’t trust anybody.

I linger at the doorway for a couple more seconds until my father notices me. When he does, his expression clears and he smiles. People always tell me I’m the only person who can draw that kind of smile from him. He claps his hands together, getting to his feet.

“Everyone out,” he orders. “My daughter is here,” he adds in Russian.

The men all turn to me. I don’t flinch away from the sudden attention. They all get to their feet, clearing out of the room and paying me no mind as they leave. I step inside once they’re gone, heading over to give my father a hug. I haven’t seen him in weeks.

“How are you, zvezdochka ?” he asks, calling me his little star as he tends to do.

“Fine. What’s going on?” I ask, stepping out of his arms. We both take a seat on the couch. “That meeting looked tense.”

He frowns. “They’re all out to get me,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They’re turning against me, Anastasia. I can feel it.”

“Maybe you’re just being paranoid?” I suggest, but he shakes his head.

“Be more careful. If anything goes wrong, you could easily be used against me. Coda will be shadowing you until I’m sure there’s no more danger.”

Oh, great. A bodyguard. I haven’t had one since I moved out of the house. It was hard to prove to my father that I could be independent and take care of myself, but I did it. Getting a bodyguard now feels like backsliding.

But judging by the look on his face, he’s not going to be taking no for an answer.

“I’m sure Coda and I will have lots of fun,” I mutter.

He arches an eyebrow. “Not too much fun.”

I laugh at that. I would never touch the six-foot-tall Russian. Never again, at least. Been there, done that. I realized at nineteen that dating your bodyguard can be problematic. Coda and I are friends now. We have a good relationship. He trusts me enough not to tell my father that he’s slept with me before, because he really doesn’t want to die.

“Enough about my conspiracy theories. How are things with you?”

“Fine. I flew out to L.A. for Ant’s birthday a couple days ago.”

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 loyal soldat , 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.

“You don’t? Well, that’s too bad. I’m sure someone will snatch you up soon. You really are so beautiful, Anastasia,” she says on a soft sigh. “If only my daughter was half as pretty as you. I’ve been trying to secure her a husband but my efforts haven’t been working out.”

Extremely weird thing to say but definitely not the worst thing I’ve heard from her.

“I’m sure she’ll find a husband soon. And if she doesn’t, being single and unmarried is all the rage these days. It’s certainly better than being in an unhappy relationship,” I say.

The older woman narrows her brown eyes, switching to Russian. “Don’t make jokes like that, Anastasia,” she warns.

“I won’t if you let me leave,” I tell her, my patience already spent.

She huffs out a breath but doesn’t say anything further as I make my way to the exit, glad to be out of the house. Sometimes I can’t help but mourn what it used to be. There was a time we were happy in the mansion. It was just us and a few help milling about.

Anthony was here, my papa was here, and my mother as well. But that’s all in the past. All that’s left now are the painful memories. Memories that I can’t help but hold on to.

“Yo,” someone calls. “Are we leaving or not?”

I whirl around from the door into the house to find Coda standing beside the driver’s seat of my car. He has a wide smile on his face and I can’t help but arch an eyebrow as I take him in. He’s changed. I haven’t seen him in about a year, not since I moved out of the house.

In that time, he’s grown out his black hair and is even sporting some hair on his chin. It suits him, makes him appear even more rugged although I’m not sure he needs it. He’s all muscle—the only thing that makes him appear less threatening is the constant mischievous look in his dark eyes.

I step down the steps, my smile rising unbidden as I step into his waiting arms.

“Hey, partner,” he murmurs into my hair.

He’s only a couple of inches taller than me. I don’t need to tilt my head all the way back to look him in the eye. Unlike someone else.

The image of Mikhail Morozova rises in my mind. I’ve been thinking about him far too often since our encounter behind the club. I wish I could stop, but I keep wondering why he did what he did.

I never thought he noticed me, but that shows he notices me way more than I think I’m comfortable with.

“Terrorize anyone lately?” Coda asks in that Southern drawl of his that “makes the ladies melt,” in his own words.

He’s Russian but was adopted into a family in Tennessee when he was thirteen. The family moved here to Chicago, and he somehow found his way into the Bratva. He’s never told me how.

“You bet,” I reply with a smile. “But it’s nice to see you. I like the beard. And the hair.”

He runs a hand through his hair with a smile. “I knew you would, baby. But you’re not getting in my pants.”

I laugh. “Get over yourself, Coda. Seriously.”

“Not happening. Anyway, now that we’re stuck together, we’re going to have lots of fun. There’s this bar we’ve got to check out. They have all-you-can-drink nights on Thursdays.”

“How is that fun?” I say on a frown.

“Oh, right. Forgot how weak you are when it comes to drinking.”

I punch his arm. “Take that back!”

“It’s true, though,” Coda says, laughing. “Remember that time you puked on the sidewalk and proceeded to sit down beside your puke, crying about it.”

I wrinkle my nose in disgust. “That wasn’t me.”

“Sure it was. It’s one of my priceless memories.”

“I really hate you,” I tell him with a glare.

He throws an arm around me. “No, you love me. And we’re going to have the best time over the next few days.”

“Can’t wait,” I say dryly.

He tells me to get in the car while he opens the driver’s seat door so he can take me home. Coda spends the entire time talking, telling me about what he’s been up to since the last time we saw each other. I try my best to listen to him, but my mind is all over the place.

I think of Mikhail Morozova. I think of my father and his fear that someone is conspiring against him. I think of Anthony and his constant refusal to open up to me, to stay away from our father. I wish my brother understood that by choosing to do that, he’s choosing to stay away from me as well.

Sometimes, I blame Mikhail for that. Because when Anthony left, it was with him. He got to stay with my brother when I didn’t have to chance to.

But I’m grateful to him, as well. For protecting Anthony when no one else could.

Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover everything I feel for that man. It’s dangerous, this blossoming fixation.

Mikhail Morozova is like a puzzle. One I find myself wanting to solve.