Page 2 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“Zita.” His voice sounds strained. “We need to talk.”
I don’t move from my position on the leather sofa. “About Nicky Belsky?”
Papa closes the door behind him and walks to his desk with slow, deliberate steps. He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he stands behind his chair like it’s a shield between us. “About your future.”
The words make me stiffen. I’ve been dreading this conversation for years, even though I never knew exactly when it would come. There’s something in Papa’s posture, and the way he won’t quite meet my eyes, that tells me everything I need to know. This isn’tjust about Nicky’s death. This is about the contract Papa signed ten years ago, the one he thought he could avoid forever.
“Tell me.” I keep my voice steady. It’s the same tone I used during my business classes at Northwestern, before graduating in the spring.
Papa reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a folder I recognize. He’s shown it to me before, years ago, when he explained why certain business relationships required careful handling. The folder contains legal documents, contracts, and agreements that bind our family to obligations I’ve never fully understood.
“The agreement I made with Nicky included certain provisions that become active upon his death.” Papa opens the folder and spreads several documents across his desk. “Provisions that affect you directly.”
I stand up and walk to the desk, forcing myself to look at the papers even though I already know what they’ll say. The legal language is complex, full of whereas clauses and binding stipulations, but the basic terms are simple enough. In exchange for protection and business opportunities, Papa promised that his daughter would marry Nicky’s son when Nicky died.
“You sold me.” The words come out flat and emotionless, which is better than the alternative. I could scream or cry or throw the papers across the room, but that won’t change anything. The contract exists, and I’ve known about it for a few years, since overhearing Papa discuss it one evening on a late-night phone call. Nicky is dead, and I belong to his son now, according to the archaic agreement my father made on my behalf.
“I protected you.” Papa’s voice carries a defensive edge I’ve never heard before. “Nicky wanted guarantees that our families would remain connected. Marriage was the only way to ensure your safety and the survival of our business.”
I look up from the documents to study his face. Papa has always been handsome in a classic Italian way, with sharp cheekbones and expressive dark eyes that helped him charm investors and close impossible deals. Tonight, those eyes look haunted. “You protected your business. I was just part of the price you were willing to pay.”
Papa walks around the desk to stand closer to me. “Zita, you don’t understand what it was like back then. Nicky had the power to destroy everything we built. Our shipping contracts, our construction permits, and our political connections could have all disappeared with one phone call. I had to make a choice between certain destruction and a future that protected both of us.”
“A future that protected you,” I correct sternly. “I don’t remember being asked what I wanted.”
“You were twelve years old.” Papa’s voice rises slightly. “Children don’t make decisions about complex business arrangements.”
“And now I’m twenty-two and perfectly capable of making my own choices.” I gesture toward the contracts. “Except I don’t have any choices, do I? This is happening whether I agree or not.”
Papa doesn’t answer immediately. He walks to the window that overlooks our garden, where Mom used to grow tomatoes and basil before she left us. The view always made him nostalgic,back when he still talked about her without bitterness creeping into his voice.
“Tigran isn’t like his father,” he says finally. “He’s educated and sophisticated. He went to university in Moscow and studied business at Columbia. From what I hear, he’s trying to modernize the family operations and move away from the more violent aspects of his father’s methods.”
“How reassuring.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “My future husband is only moderately involved in organized crime.”
Papa turns back to face me. “This marriage will give you more power and influence than you could ever have running Lo Duca Enterprises. The Belsky family controls resources that dwarf our little shipping company. You’ll have access to opportunities I could never provide.”
“Opportunities to do what? Launder money? Intimidate honest business owners? Help destroy more neighborhoods like ours?”
“Opportunities to build something better.” Papa’s voice takes on a passionate edge. “Tigran is young, intelligent, and reportedly interested in legitimizing more of the family business. With your education and his resources, you could transform the Belsky empire into something respectable.”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. Papa is talking about my arranged marriage like it’s a hostile corporate takeover where I’m supposed to civilize the barbarians through the power of love and good business sense. “You want me to reform the Russian Mafia through marriage?”
“I want you to make the best of the situation we’re in.” Papa’s voice softens, and for a moment, he sounds like the man who used to read me bedtime stories and help me with my mathhomework. “I know this isn’t what you planned for your life, Zita, but sometimes circumstances require us to adapt our expectations.”
I look back at the contracts spread across his desk. My entire future is reduced to legal language and binding signatures. I’m facing marriage to a man I’ve never met, whose family destroyed everything I loved about my neighborhood, and a life tied to an organization built on fear and violence, no matter how sophisticated Tigran might be.
“When do I meet him?” I ask with resignation, which is the best I can manage right now.
“Tomorrow. He’s requested a private dinner to discuss the arrangements.” Papa seems relieved that I’m not fighting this harder. “I think you’ll find him more reasonable than you expect.”
“What if I don’t? What if we’re completely incompatible, or he turns out to be just as ruthless as his father?”
Papa doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle but inflexible. “Then you’ll make it work anyway. The contract doesn’t include provisions for personal compatibility, Zita. This is about family honor and business obligations, not romance.”
The finality in his words settles over me. I’ve spent my entire life believing my education and intelligence would give me choices, and I could build a future based on my own abilities and decisions. I’d pushed the existence of the contract to the back of my mind, somehow allowing myself to believe I’d find a way out, or Papa might do the decent thing and change his mind.
Tonight, I’m learning everything I thought I controlled was just an illusion. Papa has been planning this moment since I was twelve years old, and my feelings about it were never part of his calculations.
