Page 13 of The Bratva Contract
“I thought you were here to hash out merger terms with my father,” I say, aiming for flippant, as though his words, his voice, don’t threaten to unravel me into liquid want.
“He didn’t feel well.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t head back to the city and schedule some meetings, bribe a few cops,” I counter.
“There are things here I want to see. Staying is worth my time.”
“Is Dad insisting you meet face-to-face to settle things?” I ask, irritation flickering at the thought of people forced to wait on him.
“Not in so many words, but yes. That’s the gist. I need to be briefed on his organization in person, to take notes.”
“What was today’s lecture?” I ask mischievously, “When to collect the protection money or who the distributors are for the goods we put on the retail market at a substantial mark-up?”
“We didn’t get into the nuts and bolts of the organization today.”
“Let me guess,” I sigh as he moves to his seat across the table and I refuse to dwell on how much I miss his touch, the crackle of heat in his proximity. “He was bitching about me.”
I don’t like the way he meets my sarcasm, too serious, too sincere. He won’t laugh it off, and the resignation I wear like armor suddenly pinches.
“He does that a lot,” he says; it’s a statement, not a question. I shrug, probably pulling off my best impression of a disaffected teenager.
What if Dima claims I deserve better than my father’s contempt or pretends he sees me as more than a spoil of war in this bratva deal? I couldn’t stand that lie. I’d smash things and scream until he walked away and never looked back. I brace for the hollow reassurances, the sweet talk I loathe.
“My father didn’t like me much either. Fortunately, he’s dead now,” he says crisply and puts his napkin in his lap like that’s that. I feel a smile quirk at my lips.
“I hope you left that out of the eulogy,” I remark wryly.
“Wouldn’t have mattered if I had. I was always set to inherit the bratva. He could criticize all he liked, but I was bound to outlive him and take his seat. Maybe that’s what he hated, not me personally, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
It’s strange, this flicker of understanding, no, not friendship, but something shared with my future husband. We speak little during the meal, and I don’t mind. I feel lighter because he didn’t placate me with empty flattery; instead, he offered a shard of his own fractured past. A pitifully small kindness, yet still something to hold on to.
If I lie awake thinking about his kisses, his hands on my body, I’ll never confess to it. The next day, I start an outline of the pitch I want to make. My recommendations for upgrading his business software to safeguard against hackers and guard against internalirregularities. I want more from the rest of my life than to be a baby breeder. My best shot at a real partnership with Dmitri Petrov is to be practical and show him how my skills can improve the bratva. I can convince him, that this is what I’m good at. Preparation will be key. I won’t fool myself into getting all optimistic though.
CHAPTER 9
DIMA
Karina texts me twice, asking to meet. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I think about the long game. I can’t deal with her right now or pretend to care about flower arrangements, or whatever the fuck she’ll use to waste my time. I’m already buried; the impending merger has every minute spoken for. I need a way to tell her I don’t have time for this without insulting her. I buzz my secretary.
“May I ask your advice as a woman?”
She nods and folds her hands, waiting while I gather my thoughts. With her sensible orthopedic shoes and hair scraped back into a bun, she could be my mother, which is one reason I’m asking. I’ve got no other guidance.
“My fiancée wants to meet, probably about wedding plans. I’m slammed here. You know I don’t leave before ten most nights. How do I put her off without making her mad?”
“You don’t,” Olga says frankly. “This will be your wife, and you will raise a family together, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then you give her an hour whenever she asks. You don’t check the clock or huff and puff like you’re eager for her to leave. This is the one person you do not put off. Do you hear me?” She fixes me with a gimlet eye that would have shriveled me as a child. I almost laugh at her severity.
“I really don’t have time for this. She grew up in the business; she has to understand that her whims won’t take priority. If I give her an hour now, won’t she expect me to drop everything whenever she wants attention?”
“Yes. Which is exactly why you should do it. Start as you mean to go on in this marriage. Don’t cave on every little thing, but never refuse her your time. A woman doesn’t like to exist only for your convenience. She is a person, and a very beautiful one, judging by the photos from the party. She has the look of?—”
“Irina Shayk? I thought so at first, but her eyes are?—”
“A killer. I was going to say she has the look of a killer.” Olga’s tone is flat, but amusement sparks in her eyes. I shove my hands into my pockets and let it sink in: I’ve been babbling about how Karina outshines Irina Shayk while Olga was trying to warn me that, if I piss her off, Karina could shank me without blinking. I laugh in spite of myself.
