Page 23 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“Good morning, Mrs. Belsky.” Irina appears in the doorway carrying a silver tray laden with coffee service and what looks like enough breakfast for three people. She’s the head housekeeper, a stern woman in her fifties, who speaks accented English and watches me with careful assessment that suggests she’s reporting my behavior to someone in authority.
Mrs. Belsky. The name still sounds foreign when people use it, like they’re talking about someone else entirely. “Good morning, Irina.” I sit up in bed and accept the coffee she offers, noting how she arranges the tray perfectly. “Where is my husband this morning?”
“Mr. Tigran is in meetings. He asked me to tell you that lunch will be served at one o’clock, and he hopes you will join him in the dining room.” Irina’s tone suggests this isn’t really a request despite the polite phrasing.
“Of course.” I take a sip of coffee that’s perfectly prepared according to preferences I never stated. Either Tigran has been paying closer attention than I realized, or his staff has been observing my habits more carefully than I’m comfortable with. “Will there be guests joining us?”
“Just family today.” Irina arranges fresh towels in the attached bathroom efficiently. “Mr. Viktor and Mr. Dmitri will be present for business discussions.”
Family. Viktor and Dmitri aren’t blood relatives, but I’m learning that theBratvadefinition of family extends beyond genetics to include anyone who’s earned sufficient trust and responsibility within the organization. It’s a concept I’m still trying to understand, this idea that loyalty can create bonds stronger than the ones people are born with.
After Irina leaves, I explore the mansion, needing to understand my new prison thoroughly. The house dates back to the 1920s and was built by some railroad magnate who apparently shared the Belsky family’s taste for ostentatious displays of wealth and power. Every room tells a story about money and influence, from the library lined with leather-bound books in multiple languages to the ballroom that could accommodate a hundred guests without crowding.
What strikes me most is how much the house feels like a fortress disguised as a home. Windows are reinforced with security glass that looks normal until you notice how thick it is. Doors are solid hardwood with locks that seem more sophisticated than standard residential hardware. The artwork includes several pieces positioned to conceal what I suspect are cameras or other surveillance equipment.
“Mrs. Belsky?” A voice behind me makes me turn around quickly. One of Tigran’s security men stands in the hallway, dressed in an expensive suit that doesn’t quite conceal the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “Is there something you need, or somewhere you’d like to go?”
“I’m exploring my new home.” I keep my voice pleasant despite the irritation building in my chest. “Getting familiar with the layout and amenities.”
“Of course.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps I could give you a tour? I could point out areas that might be of particular interest?”
“That’s very kind, but I prefer to explore on my own.” I continue walking toward what looks like a study or office space, noting how he follows at a discreet distance. “I learn better through independent observation.”
“I understand, but some areas of the house are restricted for security reasons. Mr. Tigran asked me to ensure you’re aware of the boundaries.”
Boundaries. Of course, there are boundaries. I’m free to wander my new home as long as I don’t stray into spaces that might reveal too much about how my husband actually makes his money. “Which areas are restricted?” I ask, though I suspect the answer will be vague and unhelpful.
“The basement levels, Mr. Tigran’s private office, and the communications room. Also, the east wing is undergoing renovations and isn’t safe for visitors.”
Renovations. I make a mental note to investigate the east wing when this helpful escort isn’t monitoring my movements so carefully. “I guess I’m not really a visitor though, am I?” I say with deliberate obtuseness that makes his lips tighten I stroll on, ignoring him as he follows behind me for the rest of the morning as I acquaint myself with the surroundings.
At lunchtime, I find my own way to the dining room where Tigran requested my presence. It is a monument to excess that could easily seat twenty people for formal dinner parties. The table is polished mahogany that reflects the crystal chandelier hanging overhead, and portraits of stern-looking men in dark suits watch the proceedings from gilded frames.
Tigran sits at the head of the table reading what appears to be financial reports while Viktor and Dmitri discuss something in rapid Russian at the opposite end. They all look up when I enter, their conversation stopping abruptly though I don’t speak Russian. Yet.
“Zita.” Tigran stands and moves to pull out the chair to his right, the gesture polite but somehow possessive. “I hope you slept well.”
“Very well, thank you.” I settle into the offered seat and accept the glass of wine that appears immediately at my elbow, though I don’t usually indulge in day drinking. “Your home is quite impressive. There are so many interesting architectural details and security features.”
Amusement with a touch of wariness flickers across Tigran’s face. “You’ve been exploring.”
“I’ve been getting acquainted with my new pris…surroundings.” I take a sip of wine that’s smooth and clearly expensive. “I’m taking time to learn about the history and current functions of the various rooms and amenities.”
Viktor and Dmitri exchange a look that suggests they find my curiosity either entertaining or concerning. They’ve switched to English since I joined them, but their conversation remains carefully neutral and business-focused.
“The shipping contracts from Rotterdam need to be renewed before the end of the month,” Viktor says, consulting a tablet covered with what look like logistical schedules. “The port authority is asking questions about some of our cargo manifests.”
“What kind of questions?” Tigran’s tone becomes sharper.
“The usual concerns about inspection protocols and documentation accuracy.” Dmitri cuts into his salmon. “It’s nothing that can’t be managed through appropriate channels.”
Appropriate channels. It’s becoming clear the Belsky organization has developed an extensive vocabulary for discussing illegal activities in terms that sound like legitimate business operations. I don’t know for sure this business discussion is about illegal operations, but I sense it is from the way they carefully discuss everything, which only makes me pay closer attention.
“Do you have an update on the Federoff situation?” Tigran asks, his voice low enough that I have to strain to hear clearly.
“He’s been quiet since the wedding.” Viktor glances in my direction, perhaps assessing how much I should be allowed to hear. “Our intelligence suggests they’re regrouping rather than retreating.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” I ask before I can stop myself.
