Page 46 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
Sitting here with my blood seeping through sterile bandages, I find myself wondering if my father was wrong about that too. If maybe the strength that comes from having something worth protecting outweighs the vulnerability that protection creates.
“Are you sorry?” I ask. “That you care?”
“No.” The answer comes without hesitation. “Are you?”
“No.” I reach for her hand, pulling her back within reach. “But we need to be smarter about it. Tonight proved that our enemies are watching and waiting for opportunities to use our connection against us.”
“Then what do we do?”
“We eliminate the enemies who think my wife is an acceptable target.” I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. We’re both completely fucked if our enemies figure out how much we actually mean to each other. Maybe being fucked is worth it if it means having someone who looks at me like I’m worth saving.
Maybe my father was wrong about more than I realized.
17
Zita
Ican’t stop moving. My bare feet whisper against the marble floors as I pace the mansion’s corridors like a caged animal, my silk robe trailing behind me with each restless turn. Three hours have passed since we returned from the restaurant after I watched my husband kill three men without hesitation. Everything I thought I understood about Tigran Belsky might be completely wrong.
The images replay in my mind on endless loop. I keep seeing Tigran moving through the chaos with lethal precision, his body shielding mine from bullets, and blood spreading across his shirt. I can’t forget the way he looked at me, checking for injuries before acknowledging his own, as if my wellbeing mattered more than his survival.
No one’s ever protected me like that. Not my father, despite his wealth and political connections. Not the bodyguards he hired who kept a professional distance and treated me like a job rather than a person, nor the guards I have here. Tigran threwhimself between me and death without hesitation, calculation, or anything but pure instinct to keep me alive.
I find myself at the door to Tigran’s study, my hand raised to knock before I fully realize where my wandering has led me. I can hear the soft murmur of his voice speaking in rapid Russian to someone on the phone. He’s always tending to business, even with a fresh bullet wound in his shoulder and the doctor strongly suggesting twenty-four hours of rest.
I don’t knock. Instead, I turn the handle and step inside without invitation, the same way I invaded his conference room weeks ago. Just as I’ve been invading his carefully ordered world since the moment we met.
Tigran sits behind his massive desk, his shirt replaced by a simple black t-shirt that accommodates the bulky bandage on his left shoulder. Multiple monitors display security footage from tonight’s attack, frozen on frames that show masked gunmen breaking through the restaurant’s entrance. His phone is pressed to his ear, and his free hand moves across a tablet, scrolling through what looks like personnel files.
He looks up when I enter, taking in my restless energy and disheveled appearance. Without breaking his conversation, he gestures for me to take the chair across from his desk. I ignore the invitation and move to the window instead, staring out at the mansion’s grounds where armed guards patrol in patterns Tigran designed himself.
“Da, understood. Twenty-four hour surveillance on all known associates. No exceptions.” He ends the call and sets the phone aside, but his attention remains focused on the screens displaying evidence of tonight’s violence. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you, per Dr. Kozlova.” I turn from the window to face him directly. “I suspect we’re both having trouble with that.”
“I couldn’t shut down my brain,” he says with a small smile then winces when he moves too quickly. “Perhaps I should have accepted more painkillers than the local anesthetic.”
“You’re too stubborn.” I say it with affection instead of admonishment while moving around the desk to stand beside his chair, close enough to see the exhaustion in his eyes. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Protect me.” The question comes out rawer than I intended, carrying all the confusion and growing attachment I’ve been trying to suppress. “You could have died.”
For a moment, I think he’ll deflect the question with business talk or cold pragmatism. Instead, he turns in his chair to face me fully, his expression more open than I’ve ever seen it. “You’re my wife and my partner,” he says simply. “Protecting you isn’t a choice I make. It’s who I am.”
“That’s not an answer. That’s a deflection.”
“What answer do you want, Zita?” His voice carries an edge of frustration that suggests I’m pushing him toward territory he’d rather avoid. “What will satisfy your need to understand my motivations?”
“The truth.” I lean against the edge of his desk, forcing him to maintain eye contact. “The real reason you were willing to take a bullet for me. Is it our partnership or…something else?” I’m not even sure what answer I want as I ask the question.
“There were many reasons.” He reaches up to touch my face, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone with surprising gentleness.
“That’s still not an answer. I guess… I want to know if saving me was a duty or a choice. If I’m a duty, I understand your actions. If I’m a choice…” I throw up my hands. “I want to know how you’re thinking and feeling.”
A vulnerability I’ve never seen before flickers across his face. “You want to know what drives me?”
“Yes.”
