Page 7 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“Good evening, Claude.” Tigran’s voice carries traces of a Russian accent that makes every word sound deliberate and controlled. “My father spoke highly of your business relationship.”
Tigran’s attention shifts to me with the same cool assessment he gave our foyer. His gray eyes meet mine, and I see no warmth or curiosity in his expression. He’s evaluating me like a piece of property he’s considering purchasing.
“You must be Zita.” He approaches with confidence. “I’m Tigran Belsky.”
He extends his hand, and I have no choice but to take it. His grip is firm and warm, lasting exactly long enough to be polite whileconveying nothing personal. When he releases my hand, I resist the urge to wipe my palm against my dress.
“Mr. Belsky.” I keep my voice professionally neutral. “Thank you for coming.”
Surprise, then irritation, flickers across his expression, as if my composed response disrupts his expectations. He clearly expects me to be nervous or intimidated, and maybe even grateful for this arrangement.
“Shall we proceed to dinner?” Papa gestures toward the dining room, but there is subtle tension in his voice. He orchestrated this evening carefully, and my quietly defiant attitude is already threatening his plans.
The dining room has been transformed for tonight’s dinner. Our finest china and crystal catch the light from the chandelier, and fresh flowers create centerpieces that smell like a funeral parlor. I end up seated directly across from Tigran, forced to maintain eye contact throughout the meal while Papa and Viktor discuss business arrangements at one end of the table.
Viktor Petrov, a man in his fifties with silver hair and careful composure that comes from years of managing dangerous situations, sits to Tigran’s right. The legal advisor, introduced simply as Mr. Volkov, arranges documents in a leather portfolio, ready to clarify contract details if questions arise.
Before the appetizers even arrive, Tigran leans forward slightly and fixes me with his calculating stare. “I understand you have reservations about this arrangement.”
The directness of his approach catches me by surprise, but I refuse to let him see any weakness. “I have reservations about being sold to the highest bidder, yes.”
Papa clears his throat in warning, but Tigran raises a hand to stop him. “Let her speak. I prefer honesty to false politeness.”
“Then here’s some honesty.” I set down my water glass with deliberate force. “Your family destroyed my neighborhood. You turned honest businesses into money laundering fronts and forced good people out of their homes. Now you expect me to smile and play the grateful bride in your expansion plans.”
Tigran’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch Viktor shifting uncomfortably in his peripheral vision. “Your neighborhood adapted to economic realities. Change is inevitable.”
“Extortion isn’t economic reality. It’s criminal behavior dressed up in business terminology.”
“Careful,” Tigran says softly, and suddenly, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. “You’re speaking about things you don’t understand with the arrogance of someone who’s never had to make difficult choices.”
“I understand perfectly.” I lean forward to match his posture. “I understand your father’s organization destroyed families and communities for profit, and you’re continuing his legacy. I understand my father sold me to maintain his political connections.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Papa looks like he wants to disappear into his chair, and Viktor has stopped pretending to eat entirely. Only Tigran watches me with those cold gray eyes, as if I’m a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.
“You’re exactly what I expected,” he says finally. “A spoiled, sharp-tongued liability, who thinks moral outrage substitutes for practical understanding.”
The words are like a gauntlet. Before I can decide whether to throw my drink in his face or laugh, Viktor clears his throat softly from farther down the table. “This is a lovely home, Miss Lo Duca,” he says, attempting diplomacy.
“Thank you, but I can’t take much credit. My mother designed most of the interior.” I cut into my appetizer with more force than necessary. “Before she decided she couldn’t tolerate my father’s business methods anymore and left.”
The comment lands like a grenade. Papa’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth, but Tigran doesn’t react at all. His expression remains neutral and controlled. “Family businesses often create complex loyalties,” he says finally. “Not everyone is suited for the demands of expansion and modernization.”
His response suggests Mom was too weak to understand the realities of Papa’s world, which is the dismissive attitude I expected.
“Or perhaps she had too much integrity to compromise her values for financial gain.” I meet his gaze directly. “Some people believe there are things more important than profit.”
Tigran sets down his fork and studies my face with renewed interest. “Integrity is a luxury most people can’t afford when family security depends on practical decision-making.”
“Family security.” I repeat his words. “Is that what we’re calling this arrangement? A security measure?”
Papa clears his throat loudly. “Zita, perhaps we should focus on getting to know Tigran better.”
“You blame my family for changes in your neighborhood.” Tigran’s voice remains calm, but I detect an edge underneath.“That’s understandable. Change is always difficult for people who prefer familiar patterns.”
“Change?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Is that what you call it when honest businesses are forced to close because they can’t pay protection money?”
“I call it evolution.” Tigran’s response is delivered with confidence. “Markets adapt to new conditions. Businesses that can’t compete are replaced by organizations that can.”
