Page 3 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"Fuck," the second man mutters beside me, following my gaze. "That's Rostova's daughter."

"I know who she is." My voice is flat. I turn my attention back to the man in the navy suit, who's still talking about inspection schedules, but I'm aware of her presence now. It's impossible not to be. She moves through the crowd like a queen among peasants, and everyone bends to her will. Men stumble over themselves to speak with her, women watch her with barely concealed envy, and she accepts it all with a smile that's as cold as it is beautiful.

She's everything I despise. Entitled. Spoiled. Born into power she did nothing to earn and wielding it like a toy. I've built my empire with blood and bullets and clawed my way to the top through sheer fucking will. She was handed everything on a silver platter and probably thinks she deserves it.

We finish our discussion about the shipment, and I'm about to suggest we move on to the next topic when I notice her approaching. She's cutting through the crowd with purpose, her eyes locked on our group, and I know with absolute certainty that she's coming for me.

The men I'm standing with notice her approach too. It's fucking comical the way they suddenly straighten, suck in their guts, and smile.

She stops in front of us, and up close, she's even more stunning. Her eyes are blue, bright and sharp, and there's intelligence behind them that surprises me. The heart-shaped birthmark below her right ear is visible when she tilts her head, a small imperfection that somehow makes her more attractive.

"Good evening." Her voice is smooth, cultured, with just a hint of an accent that speaks of expensive schools and private tutors.

"Evening." I keep my tone polite but distant. She's Ivan Rostova's daughter, which requires respect, but that doesn't mean I have to encourage her.

"I don't believe we've met." She extends her hand, and I notice the way her breasts shift beneath the silk with the movement. The dress is designed to draw attention to them, and it's working. They're full and high, the kind that would fill a man's hands perfectly, and the neckline shows just enough to make you want to see more.

I shake her hand once, brief and professional, then release it. "We've met," I say, "but I'm Pakhan Samuil Galkin."

Does she really not recognize me? I've been to her home a lot of times throughout the years to do business with her father, and I've seen, and met, her on several occasions. My eyes narrow slightly. Maybe she doesn't remember me. Maybe she looked at me as some kind of peasant or servant beneath her notice.

"Princess Anastasia Rostova." She lets her name hang in the air like I should be impressed or intimidated or whatever reaction she's used to getting from men.

"I know." I turn back to the men, dismissing her. I've got business to conduct, and I don't have time for spoiled princesses who think they're entitled to my attention.

"I was hoping we could talk." She steps closer, inserting herself into our circle, and I catch the scent of her perfume. Something expensive and floral, not too strong or overpowering, but just the right amount to be intriguing.

I glance at her, keeping my expression neutral. "About what?"

"About your work. I've heard impressive things."

"Have you." It's not a question. I shift my weight, and her eyes drop to my chest for a fraction of a second. The vine tattoo is visible above my collar, dark ink against my skin, and I see the moment she notices it. Her pupils dilate slightly, and there's a flicker of interest in her eyes.

The man in the navy suit clears his throat. "We should probably finish our discussion, Boss."

"Yeah." I'm already turning away from her, my attention back on business where it belongs. "We should."

I expect her to leave, to take the hint and move on to someone who'll give her the attention she's clearly seeking. Instead, she stands there for another moment, and I can feel her eyes on me. Then, finally, she walks away, her hips deliberately swaying beneath the silk.

The second man watches her go, his expression hungry. "Fuck, I'd give my left nut for a night with that."

"Show some respect," I growl in a deep, low voice. I may not want the princess sniffing around me for attention, but I won't tolerate such disrespect either, especially from a fucking politician who survives only because the Bratva allows it.

He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing, and then nods. When he opens his mouth to apologize, I hold up a hand and shake my head. There's nothing he can say, so he needs to keep his damn mouth shut.

We move through the evening, and I conduct the business I came here to do. I speak with a city councilman about zoning permits, with a judge about an upcoming trial, and with three different Bratva leaders about territory and tribute. It's all necessary, all part of maintaining the empire I've built, but it's exhausting in a way that violence never is.

And through it all, I catch her watching me. She's not even subtle about it. Every time I glance across the room, her eyes are on me. She's pretending to be engaged in conversation with whoever's standing near her, but her attention keeps drifting back to me. It's amusing in a way, this spoiled princess who's probably never been told no in her entire life, suddenly fascinated by the one man who didn't fall at her feet. But it also sets off alarm bells. What is she really up to?

By the time the evening starts winding down, my patience for this bullshit is wearing thin. I excuse myself from a conversation with a banker whose name I've already forgotten and step outside onto the terrace. The night air is cool against my skin, and I take a moment to breathe, to let the tension ease from my shoulders.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Gregory's name flashes on the screen.

"Talk to me." I keep my voice low, scanning the terrace to make sure I'm alone.

"The situation in the east is handled." Gregory's voice is steady, professional. He's been with me since he was twelve, when his parents were killed in a car accident. At first, I took him in out of duty since he is part of the Bratva family. But he became like a son to me, and when he got old enough, I started bringing him into the business more and more. Now, he is my right-hand man, my sovietnik.

We discuss a few more details and then disconnect. My eyes seek out the shadows near the far end of the terrace, partially hidden by a column. Benedikt, the princess's personal bodyguard, stands there, looking back at me.