Mafia Boss’s Arranged Bride by Bella King

Chapter 3

Annika

“Have you brought the wine?” my mother shouts from the dining room, where she has already finished her afternoon vodka.

“Yes, mama,” I sigh as I bring her one of the three bottles I had picked up for her.

“You may as well bring another one over right away; we have company tonight,” she slurs a bit as she vaguely gestures toward the kitchen.

“Who is coming here, and why?” I ask, carefully placing two bottles on the table.

“The Ivanovs, dear, your future in-laws. And, of course, your fiancé,” she giggles drunkenly at the thought.

Ugh! I had bought myself a bottle of wine for the sole purpose of enjoying the last of my freedom, and here he is, practically breaking down the front door and ruining the last ounce of freedom I have.

This poor man has never met me, and he has already made an enemy of himself.

“You need to make sure you look presentable, please,” my mother says. “Do not put me in a position to lie about your mental status. At least brush your hair and fix your makeup. You look like you’ve attended a funeral in the rain.”

I glare at her as she pours herself the first glass of wine for the night, sure to be joined by many more as the cover of darkness falls deeper over the city.

The warmth that had enveloped me on my walk home has disappeared, and in its place lies a quiet, stagnant resentment, the kind of incurable irritation that accompanies a disappointing meal after a long day.

I walk down the hallway to my bedroom, and my reflection in my mirror appears far more haggard and unimpressed than she had before. I step closer to the mirror and study the streaks of makeup running down my cheeks from the rain, almost hesitating to wipe them away.

When I reemerge from my bedroom, I can hear the distinct clamoring of Russian houseguests. My mother’s ever-slurring speech is giddy and eager, my father’s voice commanding and present. I hesitantly approach the living space where everybody has gathered.

“Annika!” shouts a terrifying man I have never seen before. “You are more beautiful than your father has described you!” he continues, standing up to approach me.

My body language tenses immediately, and this tension worsens as I realize that the person approaching me is much more intimidating than the panic in my brain can understand.

My gaze is met by a young man with a vaguely familiar face.

Michail Ivanov.

His body language is confident in a quiet, calculated sort of way as if he knows something important that nobody else does. His bone structure is absolutely flawless, maddeningly so. With a jawline that could cut glass, I’m partially anticipating that he could bite me in half and snap my spine to pieces in one swift motion. His eyes are a deep honey brown that captures the low evening light beautifully.

Almost immediately, I break eye contact.

Fuck, I have lost the upper hand already. I’ll be reduced to a starstruck peasant in a matter of seconds if I try to have a conversation with him, and I am sworn to be his wife in a very short period of time.

I attempt an awkward little wave as I make my way toward the kitchen for a glass of wine. Perhaps if insultingly attractive men constantly barraged my mother, I would understand her compulsion to drink nonstop just a bit better.

Michail’s physical appearance almost has me blind with envy. If I were a man, I’d want to look like him. It’s not that I’m attracted to him in a sexual way, but more like I’d like to have him up on the shelf, looking down at me like a polished artifact to show the guests.

Weird. I’m supposed to marry this man, not muse over him like he’s a doll.

My father approaches me as I finish my first glass of wine in a matter of minutes. “Annika, I know you are under a lot of pressure here, but please do not drink yourself half asleep tonight. Do not embarrass me. There is much at stake,” he says with the effortless melodrama of a man who takes only himself very, very seriously.

I sigh heavily. I wish everybody would leave me alone.

Michail’s mother watches me like a vulture, sizing me up. I had seen this look only once before, in the eyes of a woman who had just forgiven her husband for cheating and presumed that I was looking to be his next meal.

Hysterical attachment comes easily to mothers of boys, and I am sickened at the thought of her angrily passing the baton to me as his new surrogate mother. I decide now that, no, I will not make myself smaller. I will be exactly as I am, Michail’s insecure mother be damned.

The wine dissipates throughout my bloodstream like sugar in tea, warming my whole body and brightening my disposition.

As my parents fight for the favor and attention of our guests, I feel Michail’s eyes creeping back towards me. He has been so quiet for the entire night, just observing the flow of conversation and the entropy of rational thinking as the wine and vodka runs out. He doesn’t talk much.

Suddenly, I am incredibly self-conscious again, and I find myself obsessively adjusting my dress and smoothing my hair in order to appear more put together.

When I look closer at him from my periphery, I’m not met with the judgement and expectation I typically expect from men. He studies me like a faraway deer in a field, curious but benevolent. The wine in me has started to flourish in my belly like a flower, my blood feels effervescent in its vessels.

I’ve also decided that I’m not too fond of Michail. There’s something about him that’s just… off.