Page 48 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
I nod. “We chose each other in a series of moments and choices—when you gave me that emerald ring, when I stopped trying to find loopholes in our marriage contract, and when we both decided to build something real instead of simply enduring something forced upon us.”
“What have we built?”
I study his face, noting the way exhaustion has softened his usually sharp features, the way vulnerability has replaced the cold authority he wears like armor in public. “Trust and something that feels dangerously close to the kind of marriage I never thought I wanted.”
“Dangerous because it makes us both vulnerable?”
“Dangerous because it makes us both want things we can’t afford to lose.” I move closer. “Caring about each other could be the thing that gets us both killed.”
“We won’t allow that.” He pulls me down onto his lap, careful to avoid jarring his injured shoulder. “We need to be smarter about protecting what we’ve built though.”
I sink against him, still being careful to avoid the bandage. “How do we do that?”
“We have to eliminate the threats against us by rooting out any remaining traitors in our organization, and making it clear to everyone that attacking my wife is a death sentence.”
The promise in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it brings a comfort I never expected to find in threats of violence. “What do we do after we eliminate the threats?”
“We keep each other safe and try to run the organization with more planning and less violence.”
“I’m sure that’s a life of which your mother would approve.”
His expression softens. “I’d like to think so.”
When he kisses me, it’s with tenderness and something deeper, like recognition or maybe gratitude for finding something real in a world built on lies and violence.
18
Tigran
Claude’s office building rises forty-three stories above downtown Chicago, its glass and steel facade reflecting the gray November sky like a mirror. From the street, it looks like any other corporate tower in its anonymous sterility, where middle management shuffles papers and discusses quarterly projections, but I know better. This building houses the nerve center of Claude Lo Duca’s empire, the legitimate face of operations that stretch from shipping contracts to political campaigns.
“Fifteen minutes,” Viktor reports through my earpiece as our convoy pulls into the underground parking garage. “The perimeter is secure, snipers are in position, and Lo Duca’s people have swept the building twice.”
I adjust my suit jacket, appreciating the familiar weight of the Glock beneath my arm. Beside me, Zita stares out the window at the concrete walls of the garage, her hands folded in her lap with stillness from barely controlled tension.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask, studying her profile in the dim light.
“No.” She turns to face me, and I see exhaustion and determination in her dark eyes. “That doesn’t matter, does it? We can’t keep hiding in the mansion while Avgar picks us off one by one.”
The restaurant attack three days ago proved that nowhere is truly safe as long as the Federoffs are planning our destruction. It’s better to take the fight to them on our terms, with our allies, than wait for the next ambush.
“Your father has more experience with this kind of coordination than he’s letting on,” I tell her as we step out of the armored sedan. “The Lo Duca family didn’t survive three generations in Chicago politics by playing nice.”
“I know.” Her voice carries a note of something that might be pride or worry. “I’m sure he’s been preparing for this conversation since the day he signed that marriage contract.”
The elevator ride to the forty-third floor is silent except for the soft hum of machinery and the quiet rustle of fabric as my men check their weapons one final time. Dmitri and Viktor flank me, their expressions professionally neutral despite the tension radiating from both of them. They don’t like this meeting. There are too many variables, too many people with divided loyalties, and too many opportunities for betrayal.
I don’t like it either, but leadership requires accepting calculated risks. Sometimes, you have to trust that the benefits outweigh the dangers while still preparing for the worst.
The elevator doors open to reveal Claude’s reception area of polished marble and expensive art designed to impress visitingpoliticians while intimidating rival businessmen. His secretary, a sharp-eyed woman in her sixties, nods respectfully as we pass.
“Mr. Belsky,” she says formally, “Mr. Lo Duca is waiting for you in the conference room.”
The penthouse conference room occupies the entire north corner of the building, its tall windows offering a panoramic view of the city that Claude’s spent decades learning to control. He stands at one of those windows now, his hands clasped behind his back, and looks somber.
“Tigran.” He turns when we enter, his weathered face creased with lines that speak to years of difficult decisions. “Thank you for coming.” Then he turns his attention to Zita. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Papa.”
