Page 7 of Merciless Union
“How did your father handle it?” she asks, pulling away to lie back down.
I glance towards the door. “He’s, uh … he’s handling as best he can. It’s tough for him.”
She smiles, cupping my cheek. “And how are you feeling? I know a funeral was not how you wanted to spend your day.”
I feel tears pricking at my eyes. “I’m fine. I’m just happy to be home.” A tear slips down my cheek.
“Oh, honey.” She wipes the tear away with her thumb. “Remember what I told you before?”
I sniffle. “Don’t cry for you until you’re gone.”
“That’s right. I’m still here. So focus on that.”
I nod, wiping another tear away. “I can do that.”
I hug my mother again, then head to the attic where my painting studio is. It’s always been my dream to go to art school, but girls born within the mafia only have one outcome—marriage. It’s something I’ve been preparing myself for my entire life.
I slip an apron over my black dress, pick up my palette, and dab some paint on my brush before running it over the blank canvas before me. I don’t really pay attention to what I’m painting. My main focus is on how I’m feeling.
I get lost in the movement of my wrist, the soft sound of the brush on the canvas, and the creak of the old attic. I only stop when I feel the need for a break.
I step back and observe what I’ve painted so far. It’s surprisingly light—filled with pastel blue, cheery green, and soft yellow—given I just returned from a funeral. It’s hope more than anything.
Hope that my mother will beat this cancer within her somehow.
“It’s beautiful,” a deep voice says behind me.
I squeak, dropping my brush as I spin around, clutching my chest. My eyes widen when I see Maxim.
What is the new head of the Bratva doing in my attic?
“Arina,” my father says, breathless as he comes up behind Maxim. “Sorry for intruding. There’s something we need to discuss.”
Maxim steps out of the way to let my father pass, though his eyes never leave mine. His gaze is both clinical and electric.
“Sorry, so sorry,” my father blusters as he approaches me. “You remember Maxim Petrov?”
“Uh, of course,” I manage to get out. He still hasn’t removed his eyes from mine. It’s like he’s holding me prisoner with his gaze.
My father clears his throat. “Well, you know he’s just become the leader of the Bratva.” He turns to Maxim. “Again, so sorry for your loss.”
“And yours as well,” he replies. “I know you and my father were close.”
My father looks like he could fall over from happiness by Maxim’s acknowledgment. “Yes, yes, we were.”
Maxim takes a step forwards. “And that’s why I’m here. I want to reward that closeness and ask that you remain loyal to me.”
“Of course, of course,” my father says. He turns back to me. “And Arina, he wants to reward my loyalty to him through marriage. To you.”
I blink, taking a step back. “Marriage?” I look between my father and Maxim.
My father holds his hands up. “I know it’s soon. But Maxim came over here, straight after the funeral, to ask for your hand in marriage. I gladly gave it, of course. You’d be married to the leader of the Bratva. Isn’t that exciting?”
I look at Maxim. “You … want to marry me?” My heart flutters at the thought. I don’t know him, but within the mafia, it’s an honor for any woman to be asked to marry a powerful man like him.
Maxim tilts his head to the side, observing me. “It’s more of an alliance of power. Your father has the respect of many I need on my side. Our marriage would solidify his loyalty to me.”
My heart drops to my stomach. “Oh.” I shake my head. Why would I think this would be anything different? To men like Maxim, marriage is a bargaining tool, not affection. He’s not interested in me. He’s only interested in what my father can do for him.
