“No.”
Misha laughs. “No? That’s not an answer to my question.”
“Yes, it is.”
“He flirts with me at every event.”
“I literally punched him in the face for talking about you disrespectfully the other day.”
“Such a hard-ass,” she says. “What did he say?”
“I will not repeat it. But I will repeat this – stay away from him. He’s off limits.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a fucking loudmouth. Because he would use you once and then discard you. Because he fucking annoys me.”
“Maybe being used and then thrown away is exactly what I need right now,” Misha says, grinning.
“Pick literally anyone else. I mean it.”
I switch legs and start my next set. Misha still hasn’t done a single exercise, and we’ve been in here for half an hour.
“Papa called,” she says, wisely changing the subject.
Papa. She means Lars Barkov. She was only three when our parents were killed, barely old enough to remember them. For her, Lars and Volya became Mama and Papa, without question.
For me, it’s never been that simple.
I remember our parents as if it were yesterday. Wrong place, wrong time, caught in the crossfire of a turf war between Russian crime families. Barkov’s men accidentally shot them while Misha and I slept in the back of the car.
Lars and Volya adopted us because we had no one else to turn to. For Lars, it was penance to atone for killing two innocents.
“He wants me to consider a match,” she says when I don’t respond. “He has two men in mind. They’rereallyRussian.”
Whatever the hell that means.
“Do you want to do that? Have an arranged marriage?”
She shrugs. “You know I’m loyal to the family. If Lars thinks it’s best, I’ll consider it. I told him I need to be attracted to the guy, and he can’t be some meathead who beats his women.”
“Wow, your standards are very high,” I say sarcastically, unhooking myself from the machine.
“No one has standards as high as you, brother,” she says. “No one is good enough for you, andsomeoneneeds to make little Barkov heirs. I’m fine with it being me.”
I shake my head at this. Lars has approached me more than once about making a political match through marriage, as if we were royalty or something of the sort.
No thanks.
“Well, congratulations, I guess?” I say. “On your impending nuptials.”
“You’re so stupid,” she says. “He wants you to call him.”
“Of course he does.”
“I can’t tell if you’re annoyed.”
“I’m not,” I say. “But as you pointed out, I am hungry. Can you go order something? I’ll call him while we wait.”
