Page 9 of Scarlet Vows
“Urgent how?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge anything until you’re here. But… it’s about your future.”
I sigh. Okay, I’m intrigued enough to go. “Forward me the address. I’m on my way.”
And with that, I take the first turnoff and make my way back onto the freeway toward Chicago.
I call the mansion and let Magda, the woman who runs the household, know I’m going to be late.
“Can you repeat that?”I stare at Jordan Smith, who’s perhaps a few years older than my thirty, and is pretty in a no-nonsense way.
My last name belongs to my long-dead father. At least, that’s what my mother led me to believe. She was my only relative. Her family, and his, all died. And when she died, I was essentially alone and put into the system.
This woman’s now telling me that my mother’s father, my grandfather Belov, was alive until last week?
Questions crowd in, but I crush them for now.
The estate lawyer raises her brows over the tops of her black-rimmed glasses. “Your grandfather Aleksandr died. And as there are no other heirs, you’re now set to inherit his multimillion-dollar bratva empire.”
“The Belov Bratva?”
I’ve heard of them.
Fuck me.
Demyan used to rib me about the Russian-based empire being mine since we share the same last name.
But there are a lot of people with the name Belov who are no relation.
Maybe she has this wrong.
“My grandfather died when I was a baby. How can this be possible?”
“It is.” She pushes over some documents I can only stare at. “But there’s more.”
The words blur and jump on the pages in front of me, and I’m aware it’s just the shock of it all hitting me.
“More?”
“Yes.” She nods. “Your grandfather added a condition. In order to receive your inheritance and title, you must be married to someone from a respectable bratva family for a period of no less than twelve months.”
“That’s… insane.”
“Are you married, Mr. Belov?”
I frown, straightening the papers in front of me. “No. Single. But?—”
“Good. I believe you work in this… bratva industry?”
I almost correct her but realize she’s covering bases. And there are some bratva who operate exclusively—supposedly—on the up and up in clubs and strip bars and whatever.
But I just say, “That’s right.”
“You have thirteen months from the date of his death to fulfill the will’s stipulations. Which means you have one month from the date of his death last week to find a wife.”
“Why does it matter?” I ask. “If I’m married or not? He never made himself known. Why doImatter?”
“The marriage clause is to ensure the longevity of the Belov Bratva,” she says gently. “There’s a handwritten note that’s been typed up. I have both.” She slides them to me. “Essentially, your grandfather says your mother refused an arranged marriage and ran off with the love of her life. She brought shame on the Belov name.”
