Page 13 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

“Mira, my dear. Come sit by your father,” he said with such uncharacteristic bonhomie that she almost choked. Her father was never warm and gooey; he was cold and ruthless even to his lovers, and especially to her. But he could be charming when he wanted something.

What did he want now?

She searched his gaze and understanding clicked. Of course. He wanted to talk about the famous marriage and that’s why he was buttering her up so clumsily. Well, for once, she wanted to talk about the marriage too. She wanted to tell him where he could stuff it now that she was no longer a virgin, because last she heard, it had been a heavy requirement for whatever lecherous fellow he’d hoped to marry her off to.

She remained standing rather than take his offered seat. “I’d rather stand, Father.”

Just then, one of his men strode forward to whisper something to him, and all traces of good humor vanished from his face. “That Nikolai bastard! How did he manage to kill the men without coming into my dungeons?”

“A kill switch,” she heard the man mutter, after throwing an uncomfortable glance her way. “They all had implanted chips.”

Her father looked at her, too, then reined in his temper with visible effort as he looked back at his man. “Document all the information we were able to get from them. Then get me everything you can on Nikolai. It’s time to end that bastard once and for all. A curse on the day he was born!” he ranted.

The man nodded and strode away smartly without another word.

Mira had seen her father express varying degrees of emotions, including hatred, because after all he was Russian and could hold a grudge for a century. But never had she seen him show this much hatred toward any individual. This Nikolai was practically a curse word in her home; she heard the name every time something bad happened or was about to happen. Her father blamed him for everything. Even one time when she was much younger, about eight years old, she’d left the chicken coop open and all the chickens had escaped and caused a nuisance at her birthday party. Her father’s diatribe had blamed Nikolai.

Who was he? Mira would have to pay more attention to her father’s conversations with his men from now on. Whoever this person was, he was an interesting character. Her father had been after him for as long as she could remember, but it seemed the man was somehow able to elude her father.

He must be very masterful, intelligent, and brave enough to be crazy to have pulled off such a feat. No one ever escaped Oleg Dostoevsky. Mira had even heard whispers that sometimes the FBI covertly approached her father for help catching a dangerous fugitive they were after. He was that connected and powerful.

Who was this Nikolai person?

As though he’d heard her thoughts, her father glared at her. “Your suitor will be here at six p.m. sharp for the engagement. Get that simpering maid you love so much to do something nice with your hair.”

“Simpering maid…?” Mira demanded, choosing to focus first on the least upsetting of everything he’d said.

He waved a hand expansively. “The little girl that went to fetch you.”

She glared at him. “Sarah is not a maid, simpering or otherwise.”

He frowned, his brows snapping together over his eyes; then he forced himself to relax back against the chair. “Whatever you say, Mira, dear. Just get ready.”

She stiffened her spine as she looked down her nose at her own father like one of those ancient aristocrats. “That said, I won’t be getting ready for any engagement.”

Startled silence reigned and then her father’s lover launched into a nervous laugh.

Mira threw her a disgusted look. “Whoever you are, this doesn’t concern you. Get lost.”

“Don’t you dare speak to her like that,” her father barked.

Mira turned to him. “We need to talk, Father. And believe me, you don’t want her to hear what I have to say.”

Her father stared silently into her eyes, not moving so much as a muscle. She took his silence to mean he was ordering her to speak, regardless of the presence of his lover whose name she didn’t even know. She would bet he didn’t know the woman’s name either; he changed them like shirts.

Mira shrugged. It was his funeral.

“Your friend wanted your little virgin daughter, didn’t he?” she asked.

“So?” he barked.

“I’m not a virgin anymore,” she announced, feeling a weight lift off her shoulders as she said those words.

Her father erupted from his seat as though his pants had suddenly caught on fire. “Say again?” he spat.

Trembling with a little trickle of fear, Mira nevertheless lifted her chin and stared him down. “You heard me the first time. I’m not going to be marrying your friend anymore. I’ve lost my virginity. Tell him to try the next virgin,” she finished with uncharacteristic bitterness.

Undiluted hatred flashed across her father’s face and Mira realized that her father truly despised her in that moment. She half expected him to hit her, but something inside of her told her he wouldn’t dare. No matter how incensed her father was, he never struck a woman, which was ironic given how ruthless he was as master of his Bratva.

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