She was, though Misha would never understand why she bothered using those smarts to support their father. It didn’t matter how intelligent Mariya was, how dedicated, or how efficient. She was a woman; worse, she was their father’s daughter, and that fact alone forced her to the sidelines despite being much more invested in syndicate matters than Misha. Other women might be taught to fight, to shoot, and yes, to kill, but they were a different breed in Vasiliy’s eyes. They were boy-babas{6}, soldiers, lower-class fighters who had nothing in common with his little princess. Mariya was lucky to be allowed access to the paperwork part of the business.

Misha, on the other hand, had never had a choice in the matter, though luckily he had the right temperament for this kind of work. He was fast, strong, and ruthless, passed every test with flying colors, but he didn’t feel particularly passionate about what he did. If he hadn’t been his father’s son

—the only son, the firstborn—he’d have done something else and never worried about it. Mariya though…. Mariya was a leader. She had the brains

for it and the determination to get shit done. The only thing she was lacking was one measly Y chromosome.

Had Misha not been so distracted by his own problems, he might’ve called his father on his unthinking sexism for the nth time, knowing it’d lead nowhere, but unwilling to ignore the man’s archaic attitude. As it was, he merely grunted an affirmative and reached out to snag the edge of the Texas road map half-buried under a heap of printouts. I-10. I-10 West….

“Your mother, she sends her regards,” Vasiliy continued, oblivious to his son’s preoccupation. “She is working very hard right now.” He paused for effect, which was lost on Misha, who was busy scanning the map. Then Vasiliy dropped his bomb. “She is preparing your engagement party. It’s on Friday.”

Waitafuckingminute. Misha straightened in his chair, finger still on the blue line of the interstate. “You’re not funny,” he told his father.

“Good,” Vasiliy shot back, “because I’m not joking.”

Misha’s unoccupied hand tightened around the phone once again. “I told her to cancel the damn party. I’m not coming.”

“Your mother wants you to meet your fiancée. I want you to meet your fiancée. Your fiancée wants to meet you. So we are having a party and you will be there, Mikhail.” Vasiliy’s tone brooked no argument, which might’ve cowed most of his underlings, but sure as hell didn’t impress Misha.

“No, I fucking won’t. I didn’t want a fucking fiancée,” Misha snapped, finally giving up on the map to focus all of his attention on his father. “I didn’t choose my fucking fiancée. That was all Mama’s idea. She did the same shit to Mari and don’t think I forgot how that worked!” To call it tag teaming was sugarcoating it; Anna Tokarev and her husband had emotional blackmail down to an art form. “I’m not gonna marry her. No way, no how. You want more heirs, feel free to tell Mari two perfectly fine daughters aren’t enough.”