Page 32 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“Trust.” She says the word like she’s testing its weight. “That’s not something that comes easily in this business, is it?”
“No. It’s not.” I study her face, noting the way she unconsciously touches her throat when she’s thinking deeply. “But without it, we’re just two people trapped in a legal contract, making each other miserable until one of us gets killed.”
“Is that what you think will happen? That one of us will get killed?”
The question is delivered with forced casualness, but I catch the thread of real fear beneath it. She’s starting to understand the reality of the world she’s married into. Part of me wants to lie and offer false reassurances that would ease that fear, but she deserves the truth. “In this business, everyone dies eventually,” I say simply. “The question is whether we die from old age after carefully managing this business, or if we die young from doing something stupid.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is steady. “Then we’d better not be stupid.”
The pragmatism in her response shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but it does. Most women would have flinched at my bluntness or perhaps demanded promises I couldn’t keep. Zita simply accepts the reality and asks how to move forward.
“There’s something else,” I say, reaching into my desk drawer for a small velvet box. “Something I should have given you weeks ago.”
I slide the box across the desk to her, watching as she opens it with careful fingers. Inside is a ring, with a platinum band set with a single emerald surrounded by diamonds. I bought it almost on a whim a few days before the wedding even though she’d rejected an engagement ring when we signed the documents.
“It’s beautiful,” she says with confusion, “But I already have a wedding ring.”
“The wedding ring marks you as my wife according to the law and the church.” I nod toward the new ring. “This one is ostensibly an engagement ring I should have given you when we signed the contracts, but?—”
“I refused to accept it, remember?”
I nod. “I remember, but I hope you’ll accept it now. Other than being an engagement ring, it’s also a symbol of sorts.”
She looks intrigued and starts turning it over as though searching for an engraving or secret mark. “What kind of symbol?”
“One that marks you as my partner according to me.”
She lifts the ring from its velvet nest, studying it in the light. “An emerald.”
“To match your eyes when you’re angry.” The admission slips out before I can stop it, revealing more than I intended. “Which seems to be most of the time.”
“Only around you.” She smiles. “My eyes are hazel, not green, though.”
I shake my head. “They turn green when you’re furious… Especially when you’re furious with me.”
“Then I suppose this ring will be very appropriate.” She slides it onto her hand, next to her wedding band, and holds her hand up to admire the effect. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I stand and move around the desk, stopping close enough to catch her scent but far enough away to maintain some semblance of professional distance. “Being my partner comes with responsibilities and risks you might not be prepared for.”
“Such as?”
“Such as learning to shoot properly.” I study her face for any sign of revulsion or fear. “I also want you to understand the financial operations well enough to spot discrepancies. You also need to know which of my men can be trusted and which ones are looking for opportunities to advance their own interests.”
She tilts her chin, meeting my gaze directly. “And in return?”
“In return, you get a voice in decisions that affect our future. You get access to information that will help you protect yourself when I’m not around, and you get the truth about this business instead of pretty lies designed to keep you comfortable and ignorant.”
“The truth about everything?” She’s asking whether I’ll share the dark parts of my world, including the violence and moral compromises that keep theBratvafunctioning. She’s askingwhether I’ll trust her with secrets that could destroy us both if they fell into the wrong hands.
“Everything,” I confirm, “Including things you might wish you didn’t know.”
She stands and comes around the desk to lean on the space beside me. I want to touch her, but I force myself to keep my hands at my sides. “I don’t want to be protected from reality,” she says. “I want to understand it well enough to help shape it.”
The conviction in her voice steadies and reassures me that I’ve made the right choice. My father warned me about when a woman stops being an obligation and starts being a necessity. When her safety becomes more important than the business, it’s time to cut her loose. There’s a kneejerk reaction to distance myself, but staring into her eyes quells it. My father was right about a lot of things, but not this. “Then we understand each other.”
“Do we?” She steps close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her. “Two days ago, you had me bent over your conference room table. Yesterday, you gave me an overview of your organization like you were a bored tutor, and now you’re talking about business partnerships. I’m not sure which version of you is real.”
She’s right, of course. I’m compartmentalizing, trying to separate the man who lost control with her from the leader who needs to maintain authority, but maybe that separation is the real lie. “Both versions are real. There’s the man who wants you and the leader who needs you. Can you handle both?” I ask with a hint of challenge.
