Page 1 of Daddy's Reluctant Queen

1

SOFIA

“You look like an escort.”

Adam rattles the insult off in Russian as I survey my appearance in the mirror. The word he uses isputana, a crude word for a prostitute. He’s always poking fun at my appearance, especially when we have to be dressed up.

I’m turned around and looking at myself over my shoulder, just to double-check that the back still looks as good as it does in the front. I fought for the right to wear this evening gown. The moment my father saw it, he flipped, and if I’m being honest, it was for good reason. This dress is backless and it clings to my hips like Saran Wrap. The material is made from fine, smooth silk that feels cool on my skin. The neckline dips down into a deep V that stops right between my full breasts. And to make matters worse, the entire ensemble is a deep crimson red—the same shade as my favorite lipstick.

I fling my long, dark hair over my shoulder as I regard my brother with a raised eyebrow. Then, with a smirk, I answer in English, “Maybe I am… for the right price.”

He snickers. “I can’t believe Papa let you buy that dress. Much less allowed you to wear it tonight. You’re going to have to beat the men off with a stick, you know.”

That makes me laugh. I walk over to my vanity and check my makeup one last time under the warm lights around the glass. Red, red lipstick. Check. Eye makeup that highlights my bluish-gray eyes. Check. Face to beat the gods. Check and Double-check.

“Relax,” I tell him. “I’m the daughter of the Pakhan. I could walk into that ballroom naked and no one would touch me.”

“Except Papa,” he says. “He’d wring your neck.”

I pause and look him up and down. My brother always looks good cleaned up. He’s tall and blond with sparkling blue eyes and the way of smiling that almost looks like he knows something you don’t. He’s wearing a dark cashmere and silk suit and a cream dress shirt with the first four buttons undone, showing a hint of his chest.

Adam’s only a couple of years younger than me, but he’s never been the kind of little brother who followed me around like younger siblings tend to. Still, he’s always tried to be my protector and my moral compass. I’ve never really needed the former, but he comes in handy sometimes for the latter.

I button the bottommost button on his shirt and he sighs. “Seriously?”

“No one wants to see the three hairs on your chest,” I say, and he chuckles. “Come on. Let’s make our entrance.”

We walk together out of my bedroom and down the hallway to the top of the stairs leading into the living room and foyer. Theballroom is in the east wing of the house, which is annoying in these heels. Whenever there’s a party and I decide to wear these things, I have the thought of kicking them off until we get to the door. Sometimes, I wish we had a conveyor belt to take us through this massive mansion we call home.

“You know,” he says as we walk, “I heard through the grapevine that Papa’s thinking of naming me his successor tonight.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

He scoffs. “Why did you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like that’s a ridiculous thing. You know, I am his only son. A lot of Bratva leaders ask their sons to be the one to run things after they kick off.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t trying to say anything bad. I guess I’m just…” I pause, looking for the right word. “Curious. That’s all. I mean, who told you that he was thinking about saying something tonight, anyway?”

“Does that matter?” He sighs. “Listen, I know I’m not exactly some badass seventeenth-level black belt with sniper training likesomepeople.”

I burst out with laughter. “Seventeenth level? What kind of black belt has seventeen levels?”

“Exactly my point.” His joyful mood darkens as he glances around us. He’s looking out for any ears that might be listening. “What I mean is that you’re built for this life,” he says a little more softly. “You’re trained to fight. You know how to handle money and you know how to talk the talk. You even know Fenya.”

“I don’t know it all that well,” I say. “It’s not like I’ve spent time in a Russian jail.”

“Face it. If you had been born male, Papa wouldn’t even be looking my way to succeed him.”

That makes me sigh with sadness. I hate it when he gets down on himself like that. “You know, he also has the option of choosing somebody from the actual Bratva to succeed him. He doesn’t have to consider you at all.”

He gives me a side glance. “Thanks.”

“All I’m saying is that he’s thinking of you when he doesn’t really have to. I mean, we’re not the royal family. You don’t automatically inherit the role as Pakhan at birth, you know. It has to be given, and he’s chosen to give it to you. Presumably.”

“I know. I know.” He says the second ‘I know’ a little lower, and I get the feeling that there’s more to this whole conversation than just whether or not he’s been chosen to lead the Bratva.