Page 25 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“I’ve been assuming unwanted obligations since the day I learned about this marriage.” I move closer to him. “Responsibility for other people’s lives comes with the territory of being your wife, whether I understand the details or not.”
“What if you learn things that make you want to distance yourself from this family? If you discover some of our methods conflict with your moral principles?”
“I’m not naïve. I already know you do business in a way that is contrary to my ethics, but I’m also pragmatic.” I reach out to touch his face, noting how he leans into the contact despite the tension in our conversation. “I’d rather deal with these issues as an informed partner than as an ignorant victim.”
“Partnership requires trust that goes both ways,” he says, his voice softer now. “It requires believing that we’re working toward the same goals even when we disagree about methods.”
“Then start trusting me with the truth about what those goals actually are.” I step closer, eliminating the space between us. “Start trusting me to handle information like an adult instead of protecting me like a child.”
When Tigran kisses me, it tastes like vodka and evasion. His mouth is warm and demanding, but I recognize this is a distraction from uncomfortable questions he doesn’t want to answer.
“You’re trying to change the subject,” I say against his lips when we break apart.
“I’m trying to show you some things are better demonstrated than explained.” His hands frame my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “Partnership takes time to build.”
“How much time?” I don’t pull away from his touch, but I don’t surrender to it either.
“Give me a few weeks to figure out how to include you without compromising security.” His voice drops to that persuasive tonehe probably uses during business negotiations. “Give me time to establish protocols that keep you safe while giving you the information you need.”
A few weeks. It’s not the immediate transparency I want, but it’s a timeline that suggests he’s at least considering my request instead of dismissing it entirely. “A few weeks,” I repeat, testing the timeframe.
Instead of confirming the deadline, he kisses me again, more insistently this time. He slides his hands into my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me.
I let him distract me because my body responds to his touch whether my mind approves or not. I let him carry me upstairs to our bedroom and demonstrate the kind of partnership that doesn’t require planning or protocols. I let him exhaust us both until we fall asleep tangled together, his arm draped possessively across my waist.
I don’t forget that he avoided my questions with physical passion instead of honest answers.
The next morning,Tigran is gone before I wake up. Irina brings my breakfast tray with a message that he’ll be in meetings all day and won’t be available for lunch or dinner. It’s convenient timing for someone who just promised to start including me in family business.
Over the following three days, Tigran maintains his pattern of early departures and late returns. He leaves before I’m fully awake and comes to bed long after I’ve pretended to fallasleep. Our conversations are limited to polite exchanges about mealtimes and social obligations that require my presence as his wife.
His absence gives me the opportunity I need to explore the mansion more systematically.
I start with the basement levels, timing the guards’ patrol routes until I identify a fifteen-minute window when the kitchen area isn’t monitored. The door near the service entrance is locked with an electronic keypad, but I can see through the small window that leads to a hallway lined with additional doors. One appears to house security equipment based on the multiple monitor screens visible through its window. Another contains what looks like filing cabinets and document storage.
The communications room on the second floor proves more accessible. During the afternoon shift change, I slip inside and discover sophisticated equipment that goes far beyond residential needs. Multiple computer terminals display information I don’t immediately understand, but the setup suggests serious data processing capabilities. Maps cover one wall, marked with symbols and notations that probably correspond to Belsky business interests throughout Chicago.
On the fourth day of Tigran’s convenient unavailability, I finally work up the courage to investigate the east wing. As expected, the renovation story falls apart under even casual examination. There are no construction vehicles outside, no sounds of power tools or workers, and no dust or debris that would indicate active building projects. What there is, however, is additional security that’s more elaborate than what protects the rest of the house.
It takes me three attempts to finally access it. The first time, I don’t have the keycard needed. The second time, I swipeIrina’s keycard earlier one morning when she brings breakfast, but it doesn’t allow me entry. For my third attempt, I manage to “accidentally” collide with one of the guards often hovering while carrying a stack of books. When he bends over to help me pick them up, I pluck his keycard from his belt and slip it in my pocket.
That’s the keycard that gives me entry when I sneak back to the east wing later in the afternoon, needing to do it before the guard realizes I’m the one who took his badge, which he’s sure to do upon discovering it missing. The light turns green, where it remained red when I tried swiping Irina’s, and the main doors open a second later. They’re thick and heavy, appearing to be blast doors disguised to fit in with the décor of the home.
The hallway beyond is dimly lit but clearly maintained. There’s no dust, construction equipment, or signs of renovation work. It’s just a long corridor lined with doors that lead to rooms I’m not supposed to see.
The first door opens onto an office space filled with computer equipment that looks more sophisticated than anything I’ve ever encountered, even in the guardhouse at Papa’s home. Multiple monitors display streams of data, financial information, and what appears to be surveillance footage from locations throughout the city.
The second door reveals a conference room dominated by a large table surrounded by chairs. The faint lingering odor of coffee suggests a recent meeting, and there is no dust to indicate this room is only used infrequently.
Maps of Chicago cover the walls, marked with colored pins connected by string that I assume indicate territorial boundaries or operational relationships. Red pins cluster in areas Irecognize from my childhood in the neighborhoods where honest businesses struggled and eventually failed.
The third door requires an electronic keycard I don’t possess. I try Estanof’s, but the light remains red. Slightly discouraged, I move on to the fourth, which is surprisingly unlocked. Inside, filing cabinets line the walls, and each drawer is labeled with codes that mean nothing to me. I pull open the nearest one and find folders containing what appear to be personnel files. There are names, photographs, addresses, and detailed backgrounds on dozens of people I don’t recognize, along with several that I do, including Irina and Estanof.
I’m photographing one of the files with my phone when I hear footsteps in the hallway.
My pulse suddenly skyrockets, and I quickly close the drawer and move toward the door. The footsteps grow closer, accompanied by voices speaking rapid Russian. I have maybe thirty seconds before whoever’s coming reaches this room.
The filing cabinet I was examining contains a folder labeled “Council Members—Current” that I grab impulsively before slipping out of the room and down the hallway toward what appears to be a second exit. I hope it is, or I’m going to be caught, since they’re coming from the direction I used to enter the wing. The voices grow louder now, close enough that I can distinguish at least two different speakers talking in Russian, which reminds me I plan to start learning the language.
