Page 15 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva
Viktor’s heart attack? I told her once in passing at the church that he was killed, and she’s still choosing to believe he died of a heart attack. There’s innocence and then there’s just…blind. But I let it slide. I’ve troubled her enough.
“And?” I inquire, curious to understand why she’s looking so confident, so certain. I sit up straighter, preparing for when she gives me a hundred different reasons why I must let her go. I’ll have to be strong when I tell her no.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” she asks. “He was in extreme financial duress, and it got to him, so he stole from you. Now, he’s left his restaurants and his debts to my brothers.”
“Is that so?” I ask, playing along with her wild idea, curious as to where she’s going with this.
“Mm-hmm.” She bites her lower lip in concentration and twirls a strand of hair nervously around her finger. “So, tell me, how much did Viktor owe you?”
“What?” I ask, incredulously.
“You own hotels and casinos, and my cousin stole from you. You’re evidently rich and like your money, so I understand why you’re upset.” She motions around her. “You knew who I was. You obviously have been keeping tabs on my family and my brothers must be so stressed out by these debts that they’ve been avoiding you. I get it. It’s not easy to collect what you’re owed. But—” She lays her palms on my desk again with force. “You don’t know my brothers. They aren’t cheats. They aren’t crooks. They’ve done everything for our family, for me. They will pay you back someday, but it’s evidently hard for them to do so on your timeline.”
“Right,” I say, wondering just how active her imagination is to come up with such a ludicrous read on the situation. She’ll believe anything, won’t she, except for the fact that her brothers are Bratva?
“So, I was thinking, we could make a deal,” she says seriously, meeting my gaze.
Suddenly, I’m interested.
I lean forward, resting my arms on the desk and folding my hands in front. “A deal?” I inquire.
“Now that I’m here,” she tells me. “Now that…we’re married.” Her voice chokes a little on those two words, “I thought I could negotiate a little so you can go a little easy on my brothers. They’re under a lot of stress, you understand?”
Of course, they’re under a lot of stress. The Zolotovs, the Orlovs, and my entire fucking family are at their heels.
“You want to negotiate with me?” I ask, impressed by her confidence.
“Yes!” she nods and, to my surprise, reaches out and grabs a pen and paper from my desk. Right on top, she writes out her name and then she writes mine, Ilariy, before she stops, the pen hovering over the sheet, her face turning an adorable color of red.
“You don’t even know my full name, do you?” I ask, amused. I can’t help but feel the corners of my lips tug, but I try to hold back the laughter. She’s willing to negotiate, to write out a contract, without even knowing who she is dealing with.
“I…” she mumbles, embarrassed. “Sorry. What’s your full name?”
“Ilariy,” I say, watching her face carefully. Despite knowing she’s innocent, I still can’t help but fall back on my suspicious nature. “Ilariy Letvin,” I say finally, watching her face for a reaction, a recognition. But I see none.
She just stares at me and nods, like I’m telling her the weather.
She writes down my name on the paper and looks up at me again, ready to negotiate.
“You sure you want to negotiate with a Letvin?” I ask, incredulously.
She shakes her head in confusion. “Okay, am I supposed to know that name?” She looks at me like I’m a pompous ass, like I’ve grown two heads or something. My name truly means nothing to her, and once again, that familiar guilt when it comes to her washes over me like a torrential rain.
I lean back against the chair and sigh. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”
“Right.” She clicks her tongue like she’s rather proud of having put me in my place, and then her eyes go back to the paper.
“So—” She scribbles something. “How much do my brothers owe you?”
“Stop with the money,” I growl. “It’s not about that.”
“They owe you, don’t they?” she fires back.
“Yes,” I say, but don’t bother explaining for what exactly. It’s not like she’ll believe me.
“So just tell me how much!” she insists.
“Why?” I ask, “Think you can pay me back?”
