Page 12 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
It’s a kind of strength I’ve rarely encountered, and I’m not sure whether it makes her an asset or a liability in the world we’ll inhabit together. For the first time since this arrangement began, I’m curious about what our partnership might actuallybecome. She won’t be the submissive wife I expected, but she might be exactly the partner I need for the organization I’m trying to build, if she can bend enough to meet me roughly halfway.
5
Zita
Ispend three nights reading every word of the marriage contract, searching for loopholes that don’t exist.
The document sits spread across my desk like a legal spider web, twenty-three pages of clauses and subclauses that bind me to Tigran Belsky more completely than actual chains ever could. I’ve highlighted relevant sections in different colors—blue for financial obligations, yellow for territorial jurisdiction, and pink for breach penalties that would destroy my family’s business empire overnight.
The contract is airtight. Whoever drafted it anticipated every possible avenue of escape and systematically closed them off. International jurisdiction means I can’t flee to another country and claim the agreement is invalid. Specific performance clauses mean a court could literally force me to marry Tigran if I refuse. Financial penalties mean Papa would lose everything he’s built if I break this arrangement.
I’m trapped, and the lawyer who created this cage knew exactly what he was doing.
My laptop glows in the darkness as I compose another email to another attorney, this one a family law specialist in Boston who doesn’t know Papa’s name or reputation. I’ve been reaching out to legal professionals across the country, presenting my situation as a hypothetical case study for a Northwestern research project.
So far, twelve lawyers have told me the same thing. A properly executed contract between consenting parties is legally binding, regardless of whether the parties remain enthusiastic about their obligations. Never mind I was just a child when this draconian agreement was signed.
The thirteenth lawyer might have different advice. Or the fourteenth. I have to keep trying because the alternative is accepting that my life belongs to someone else now.
“Zita?” Francesca’s voice echoes softly from the hallway. “Your father wants to see you in his study.”
I check the clock on my laptop screen. It’s past midnight, which means Papa either can’t sleep or he’s discovered something that requires immediate attention. Given my recent activities, I suspect it’s the latter.
“Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.” I close the laptop and gather the contract pages, stacking them in the manila folder where I keep all the documents related to my arranged marriage, including the contract and the wedding planning. The folder has grown thick over the past few weeks, filled with schedules, guest lists, and correspondence with vendors who are probablywondering why the bride seems so unenthusiastic about her own ceremony.
Papa’s study smells like brandy and expensive cigars, the scents that always remind me of late-night business meetings and decisions that affect other people’s lives. He sits behind his massive mahogany desk, still wearing his business suit despite the late hour. The computer monitor in front of him displays what looks like an email exchange, and his expression suggests the contents have made him very unhappy.
“Sit down, Zita.” He gestures toward the leather chair across from his desk without looking up from the screen. “We need to discuss your research project.”
The way he emphasizes the last two words tells me everything I need to know. Someone has betrayed my attempts to find legal counsel, and Papa knows exactly what I’ve been doing with my evenings.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I settle into the chair and arrange my features into an expression of innocent confusion. “What research project?”
Papa turns the monitor so I can see the email displayed on screen. It’s from Jennifer Morton, a family law attorney in Seattle, responding to my inquiry about hypothetical contract enforcement scenarios. The message includes detailed analysis of the legal principles involved and several questions about the specific circumstances that would help her provide more targeted advice.
“Jennifer Morton forwarded your email to her colleague David Volkov, who happens to be married to Amanda Volkov, who works for the same law firm that represents Tigran’sorganization.” Papa’s voice remains calm and controlled, but I see anger building behind his dark eyes. “Small world, isn’t it?”
The connections seem impossibly coincidental until I realize they probably aren’t coincidental at all. Tigran’s legal team likely has relationships with attorneys across the country, and information about someone researching contract enforcement would naturally find its way back to them.
“I was curious about the legal principles involved.” I keep my voice steady despite the sinking feeling in my stomach. “Academic interest in contract law isn’t a crime.”
“Academic interest.” Papa closes the email and leans back in his chair. “Is that what you call thirteen separate consultations with attorneys in eight different states?”
Thirteen. He knows about all of them, which means Tigran’s people have been monitoring my communications more thoroughly than I realized. They’ve been watching every email I sent, every phone call I made, and every desperate attempt to find a way out of this arrangement. The thought is unnerving and infuriating all at once.
“I have the right to seek legal counsel.” I lift my chin and meet his stare directly. “Especially regarding contracts that affect my entire future.”
“You have the right to seek counsel about your own affairs.” Papa stands and walks around the desk, his movement deliberate and intimidating. “You don’t have the right to shop for opinions that support predetermined conclusions about family obligations.”
“Family obligations.” I repeat the phrase with all the bitterness I can manage. “Is that what we’re calling human trafficking now?”
Papa’s hand slams against the desk with enough force to make me jump. “Human trafficking? You think being married to one of the most powerful men in Chicago constitutes human trafficking?”
“I think being sold to someone I’d never met until recently for business purposes fits the definition perfectly.” I stand to match his aggressive posture. “What would you call it when a woman’s consent isn’t required for her own marriage?”
“I would call it a good decision.” Papa’s voice rises to match mine. “It’s the difference between maintaining our position and watching everything we’ve built get destroyed by people who don’t share our scruples about business methods.”
“Our scruples?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “You signed a contract with the Russian Mafia, Papa. What scruples are you talking about?”
