Page 39 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
Yet what choice do I have? How do I protect the woman I’m falling in love with without becoming the monster she already sees when she looks at me? I have no idea, but Avgar Federoff has forced my hand. I have to protect her even if it makes her hate me.
15
Zita
The clock on the nightstand reads two-thirty-seven when I finally give up the pretense of sleep. My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind refuses to quiet, replaying the afternoon’s terror in vivid detail as I recall the screech of tires against asphalt, the black SUV filling the rearview mirror like a predator closing in for the kill, and Papa’s hands gripping the dashboard as our driver swerved onto the sidewalk while pedestrians scattered in panic.
I shift beneath the Egyptian cotton sheets, trying to find a position that might trick my racing heart into slowing down. The bedroom is silent except for the soft hum of the security system, which is a constant reminder that danger lurks beyond these walls. Even here, in what should be my sanctuary, I can’t escape the weight of being a target.
The irony isn’t lost on me. This afternoon, I was furious about Tigran’s protective restrictions. Tonight, every shadow in theroom feels like a threat. The bravado I wore like armor this afternoon has cracked, revealing the frightened woman beneath.
I press my palms against my eyes, willing away the images that flash behind my closed lids. The bedroom door opens with a soft click, and I force myself to remain still, to breathe deeply as if sleep has finally claimed me. Tigran moves through the darkness with silent grace, his footsteps muffled by the Persian rug. I hear him pause beside the bed and feel his presence even with my eyes closed.
“I know you’re awake,” he says quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion and something that might be concern. I abandon the pretense and sit up. “You should be asleep,” he says quietly, settling into the armchair beside the window rather than approaching the bed directly.
“So should you.” I pull the sheet around myself. “I suspect we’re both having the same problem.”
In the dim light filtering through the curtains, I see the strain written across his features. “The person who leaked your schedule has been dealt with.”
The euphemism hangs between us, its meaning clear. A few weeks ago, such casual reference to violence would have horrified me. Tonight, it brings only a grim satisfaction that makes me question who I’m becoming in this world. “Was it someone I knew?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“Maria Volkov. She worked in the kitchen staff and had access to the household schedule through the head cook. Avgar offered her more money than she could make in ten years of legitimate work.”
I vaguely remember her as a quiet woman in her fifties who always smiled when she saw me in passing. She once sneaked me a cupcake from a tray the head chef hadn’t finished decorating yet. She also asked about my father’s health and complimented my choice of flowers for the dining room once. The betrayal stings more than it should, considering we barely knew each other. “How long was she reporting on my movements?”
“Since shortly after our wedding.” His tone suggests he blames himself for the security breach. “It was long enough for them to establish your patterns, your preferences, and your vulnerabilities.”
The thought that my daily routines were being catalogued and sold makes my skin crawl. Every shopping trip, every visit to my father, and every moment of normality I tried to maintain was all observed and documented by people planning my destruction. “She’s gone, right?”
“Yes.” His response is flat, emotionless, but I catch the flicker of something that might be regret in his eyes. “Maria knew too much about our security protocols and you. In this business, loose ends get people killed.”
I nod slowly. “People like me.”
“People like you.”
The honesty is brutal but necessary. Tigran’s world operates on calculations I’m only beginning to understand, where mercy can be more dangerous than cruelty, and protecting one person often requires sacrificing others.
“Are you going to be sick?” he asks, studying my face.
I consider the question seriously, taking inventory of my physical response to learning that I’m indirectly responsible for Maria’s death. My stomach churns, but it doesn’t rebel. My hands shake, but they don’t tremble uncontrollably. Whatever moral foundations I thought I possessed are adapting to realities I never imagined I’d have to accept. She betrayed me, making her own choices, and I have no reason to feel guilty. “No,” I say finally. “I don’t think I am.”
“Good.” He moves from the chair to the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell vodka and gun oil mixed with his cologne. “There’ll be more difficult decisions ahead, and I need to know you can handle them.”
“More difficult than this?”
“Much more difficult than this.” He takes my hand beneath the sheet, and his fingers are warm against my cold skin. “The Federoffs have escalated beyond business disputes. They’re targeting you personally now, which means our response will be personal as well.”
“What kind of response?”
“It ends with Avgar’s entire organization in the ground.” There’s no emotion in his voice, just cold certainty. “We’ll send a message to every other family that might think attacking my wife is an acceptable move.”
My wife.
The possessiveness in those words should irritate me and trigger the independence that’s defined my entire life, and which I so fiercely fought for earlier in the day. Instead, it makes me feel warm, safe, and protected.
“You’re shaking,” he says, brushing his thumb across my knuckles.
I look down at our joined hands and realize he’s right. My entire body trembles with aftershocks of adrenaline and fear that I’ve been suppressing since the moment that SUV appeared in our rearview mirror. “I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if they’d succeeded… If they’d forced us off the road completely, or if they’d taken me instead of just sending a message.”
