Page 8 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
The casual cruelty of his worldview stuns me. He’s talking about Mrs. Petrucci’s bakery like it was a weak company that deserved to fail. “Those weren’t businesses that couldn’t compete.” My voice rises despite my efforts to stay controlled. “They were families who built honest lives that got crushed by people who don’t care about anything except power.”
“Honest lives were built on outdated models.” Tigran cuts his meat like he’s dissecting something in a lab. “The families you’re mourning refused to adapt to changing circumstances.”
“Their failure to pay extortion money, you mean.” I set down my fork, no longer pretending to eat. “Their failure to bow down to criminals.”
Papa’s face has gone pale, but Tigran seems almost amused by my outburst. “You have strong opinions about situations you don’t fully understand.” He settles back in his chair. “That level of passion could be useful if properly directed.”
“Properly directed toward what? Helping you destroy more neighborhoods?”
“Properly directed toward building something better than what existed before.” Tigran’s voice takes on a patient tone. “Yourfather understands the benefits of smart partnerships. Perhaps you’ll learn to appreciate them as well.”
The condescension ignites something dangerous in my chest. “I understand partnerships perfectly. This arrangement benefits you and my father. I’m just the commodity being traded to seal your deal.”
Tigran’s expression finally shifts from cool amusement as a flicker of irritation crosses his features. “You’re not a commodity. You’re a woman entering into a marriage that will provide opportunities neither of us could access independently.”
“Opportunities to do what, exactly? Play hostess at parties for criminals? Smile prettily while you discuss which businesses to destroy next?”
“Opportunities to influence the direction of two major organizations.” Tigran’s voice hardens. “Your education and intelligence could contribute to strategic decisions… unless you prefer to spend your life complaining about problems instead of solving them.”
I arch a brow, not hiding my skepticism. “You want me to believe marrying you will give me the power to change how your organization operates?”
“I want you to consider that your assumptions about my organization might be as outdated as the business models you’re defending.” Tigran’s tone becomes glacial. “That level of open-mindedness might be beyond your capabilities.”
The insult strikes at my intellectual pride. He’s suggesting I’m too narrow-minded to understand his world. “My capabilities include recognizing criminal enterprises regardless of how sophisticated their marketing becomes.” I stand up abruptly, mychair scraping against the floor. “Excuse me. I seem to have lost my appetite.”
I walk toward the dining room exit without waiting for permission. Behind me, I hear Papa calling my name, but Tigran doesn’t say anything at all, which somehow feels worse than anger or disappointment.
I reach Papa’s study and pour myself a glass of whiskey from the bottle he keeps for business meetings. The amber liquid burns slightly going down, but it doesn’t ease the tension building in my shoulders. Tigran is cold, calculating, and completely convinced of his own superiority. He views the destruction of my neighborhood as natural evolution and dismisses my concerns as naïve idealism.
The study smells like the cigars Papa smokes, leather, and old books. Family photographs line the shelves, including several of Mom before she left. She looks young and hopeful in those pictures, before she learned what Papa’s business relationships really cost.
I wonder what she would think of this evening, and the man Papa expects me to marry. Would she tell me to fight harder, or would she understand that some battles can’t be won? She chose escape, but I don’t have that option. The contracts on Papa’s desk make sure of that.
Footsteps in the hallway announce someone’s approach. I brace myself for Papa’s lecture about proper behavior during important negotiations. Instead, Tigran appears in the doorway, looking completely unruffled by our hostile exchange.
“Your father suggested I apologize for offending you.” He enters without invitation and closes the door. “But I’m not sure what I should apologize for.”
“You could start with comparing the destruction of family businesses to natural evolution.”
“Both statements were accurate observations based on economic realities.” He approaches Papa’s desk. “If you found them offensive, perhaps the problem is your perspective rather than my honesty.”
“My perspective is based on watching good people lose everything because criminals decided their neighborhoods were profitable.”
He lifts a shoulder. “My perspective is based on understanding that economic systems evolve regardless of individual preferences.” His voice remains calm. “Your good people were casualties of changes they couldn’t prevent.”
I glare at him. “Changes your father implemented deliberately.”
“Perhaps,” Tigran concedes with a shrug, “But conquest has already occurred. The question now is what we do with the results.”
The casual way he acknowledges responsibility while dismissing moral implications makes my chest burn. “What we do is admit that some victories aren’t worth celebrating.”
“Just as some defeats aren’t worth mourning indefinitely.” Tigran moves closer. “Your neighborhood businesses were already struggling before my father’s organization expanded. We accelerated existing trends rather than creating new problems.”
“You provided the final push that destroyed them.”
“I don’t pretend anything.” His gray eyes meet mine with directness. “I accept responsibility for my family’s actions while recognizing that dwelling on past decisions serves no productive purpose.”
I sniff, though a small part of me knows that assessment is accurate.
