Page 19 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of thrown birdseed, congratulations, and photographers capturing moments that will probably appear in tomorrow’s society pages. Everyone seems to interpret my aggressive kiss as passion rather than a declaration of war, which suits my purposes perfectly.
As we walk back down the aisle together, Tigran’s security team has relaxed slightly now that the ceremony has concluded without incident. Whatever threats they were prepared for apparently didn’t materialize, though their continued vigilance suggests the danger hasn’t completely passed.
“That was quite a performance,” Tigran says as we pose for photographs outside the cathedral.
“That wasn’t a performance.” I arrange my features into a smile that looks genuine for the cameras while speaking through gritted teeth. “That was a preview of what our marriage is going to be like.”
“Good,” he says, and there’s something dangerous in his voice that I didn’t expect. “I was beginning to worry you’d be boring.”
The reception will follow at some exclusive venue where we’ll continue this elaborate charade for several more hours. We’ll dance appropriately, accept congratulations graciously, and convince everyone that this arranged marriage represents something meaningful rather than simply expedient.
As I sit in the limousine that will transport us to the next phase of today’s performance, I realize something important has changed. I’m no longer just Zita Lo Duca, the reluctant daughter being traded for political advantage. I’m now Zita Belsky, and if my new husband thinks marriage will make me compliant or grateful, he’s about to discover how wrong he is.
The war has officially begun, and I intend to win it.
8
Tigran
The presidential suite at the Palmer House feels like a gilded cage designed for two prisoners. I close the door behind us and engage the security locks while Zita stands in the center of the opulent room, still wearing her wedding dress but looking like she’s preparing for battle rather than a wedding night. The cathedral train spreads around her feet like spilled silk, and the elaborate beadwork catches light from the crystal chandelier overhead. She looks beautiful, furious, and completely untouchable.
The reception ended an hour ago after five hours of political theater disguised as celebration as we traded handshakes with judges, heard toasts from city council members, and took photographs with business associates who needed to be seen supporting our alliance. Every conversation served multiple purposes, and every moment reinforced the message that the Belsky organization had successfully expanded its influence through marriage.
Now it’s just the two of us, and the performance we’ve been maintaining all day can finally end.
“Your security team is very thorough,” Zita says, walking toward the panoramic windows that overlook downtown Chicago. “I counted at least twelve guards disguised as hotel staff between the lobby and this floor.”
She noticed. Of course, she did. Zita Lo Duca—Zita Belsky now—is too intelligent to miss the precautions that kept today’s ceremony from becoming the bloodbath Avgar Federoff might have been planning.
“The world we live in requires careful management of potential threats.” I remove my tuxedo jacket and drape it over the back of an antique chair that probably belongs in a museum. “Today’s event attracted attention from people who don’t necessarily wish our families well.”
“People like the Federoffs?” Zita turns from the window to face me directly. “Is that why your men looked like they were expecting a war instead of a wedding?”
The question catches me by surprise. I hadn’t realized she knew enough about our organizational conflicts to identify specific rival families, let alone understand why they might pose threats during important ceremonies.
“You know about the Federoffs?” I loosen my tie while studying her expression for signs of how much she actually understands about our current situation.
“I know enough.” She reaches behind her neck to unfasten the intricate clasp holding her elaborate necklace. “I know they’ve been challenging your authority since your father died, and they see our marriage as either opportunity or threat. I know todaycould have ended very differently if they’d decided to make their move.”
She’s remarkably well-informed for someone who claims to want nothing to do with my family’s business operations. Either Claude has been sharing more strategic intelligence with his daughter than I realized, or Zita has been conducting her own research into the circumstances affecting her future.
“How do you feel about marrying someone whose enemies might have turned your wedding into a crime scene?” I remove my cufflinks and set them on the marble-topped dresser, noting how she watches my movements with the wariness of someone who’s not sure what to expect next.
“I feel like I married someone whose life is as dangerous and complicated as I thought it would be.” Zita struggles with the hidden fasteners on her dress, the elaborate construction making it impossible to remove without assistance. “I feel like my father sold me to a man whose world will never be safe or normal or anything close to what I wanted for my future.”
The bitterness in her voice is so sharp it could cut glass. She’s not just angry about today’s security measures or the political implications of our marriage. She’s mourning the life she thought she was going to have, the choices she believed she would get to make, and the future she’s been forced to abandon.
“Do you want help with that?” I gesture toward her dress, noting the frustration building in her posture as she continues to struggle with fastenings designed to be managed by multiple assistants.
“I want a lot of things I’m not going to get.” Zita gives up on the dress and turns to face me fully. “But yes, I need help getting out of this costume so I can stop pretending to be someone I’m not.”
I approach her slowly, giving her time to change her mind or step away if my proximity makes her uncomfortable, but she stands her ground with the defiant courage that’s been impressing and frustrating me since our first meeting.
The dress fastens with dozens of tiny buttons and hidden hooks that require the utmost patience to manage properly. I work from the top down, starting at the high collar that frames her elegant neck. My fingers brush against her skin as I navigate the intricate closures, and she shivers slightly at the contact.
“Are you cold?” I pause in my work to meet her gaze in the antique mirror positioned across from us.
“I’m angry.” Zita’s reflection looks back at me with raw honesty that’s both refreshing and dangerous. “I’m furious about today, about this marriage, and having my entire future decided by men who see me as an asset rather than a person.”
