Page 6 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
“What will you do if she objects to those challenges and marriage to aBratvaleader isn’t what she wants for her future?”
The question forces me to consider something I’ve been avoiding since learning about the arrangement. What if Zita Lo Duca takes one look at my world and decides the cost is too high? What if our marriage begins with hostility instead of cooperation?
“She’ll adapt, and I’ll find ways to make the partnership work anyway.” I walk toward the door, ending the conversation. “Some obligations can’t be avoided, Viktor. They can only be managed more or less successfully.”
The rest of the day passes in meetings with attorneys, accountants, and business managers who handle the legitimate aspects of our operations. By five o’clock, I’m exhausted but satisfied that the transition is proceeding smoothly despite external pressures.
At six o’clock, I change into my best suit and prepare to meet the woman who will share my name.
The drive to the Lo Duca mansion takes twenty minutes through Chicago traffic that reminds me how much this city has changed since my father first established our operations here. New construction mingles with old architecture, legitimate businesses operate alongside less legitimate ones, and federalagents probably monitor our movements through surveillance technology that didn’t exist when Nicky was building his empire.
Tonight, I’ll discover whether Zita Lo Duca can adapt to the realities of my world, or whether our marriage will become another challenge I’ll need to manage. Either way, the Lo Duca alliance is too important to abandon, and I’ll be married in six weeks to a woman I barely know. The rest are just details that need to be negotiated and managed as efficiently as possible.
3
Zita
Ispend two hours rejecting every dress Papa’s assistant brings to my room.
“The navy silk makes you look professional,” Francesca insists, holding up the garment like it’s a peace offering. She’s been Papa’s personal assistant for eight years, and today, she’s tasked with making me presentable for my future husband. Her usually perfect composure is starting to crack. “He specifically requested you wear it.”
I remember his preference from last night, but I never agreed then, and I won’t now. “I don’t want to look professional.” I push away the dress and continue pacing my bedroom. “I want to look like someone no sane man would consider marrying.”
Francesca’s smile becomes strained. “Your father specifically requested the navy dress. You know how he can be when he’s thwarted…”
I do. He can become downright petulant, and she clearly doesn’t want to deal with that. What’s one more capitulation in my recent string of them? “Fine.” I snatch the dress from Francesca’s hands. “I’m not wearing makeup though, and I’m definitely not pretending to be excited about this arrangement.”
An hour later, I stand in front of my mirror wearing the navy dress and Nonna’s pearl necklace, looking like a woman preparing for her own execution. I look elegant, sophisticated, and completely miserable.
Papa appears in my doorway precisely at six-thirty, wearing his best charcoal suit. “You look beautiful, Zita. So much like your mother…”
“I’d like to think she’d be horrified that you’re forcing me into an arranged marriage, if she ever thought about me at all.” I adjust the pearl necklace, wishing it felt less like a collar. “She left because she couldn’t stand your business arrangements, remember?”
Papa’s face hardens. “Your mother left because she was selfish and couldn’t appreciate the sacrifices necessary to protect our family. Don’t make the same mistake.”
The comparison stings because part of me knows he’s right. Mom was selfish for abandoning me instead of fighting to change things from the inside or taking me with her when she fled. Maybe I’m being selfish now for resenting an arrangement that will benefit both families financially, but another part of me thinks Mom was the only one brave enough to escape before it was too late. I just don’t understand why she thought it was acceptable to leave behind six-year-old me, which is why I can never forgive her or truly understand her actions.
“Belsky will arrive at seven,” Papa says, checking his watch. “Viktor Petrov will accompany Tigran, along with a legal advisor. This is your opportunity to make a good first impression.”
“Or his opportunity to make one on me.” I walk past him toward the staircase, my heels making sharp, angry sounds. “This arrangement benefits you, Papa. Not me.”
I hear him following behind me, his footsteps heavier and more deliberate. “This arrangement protects you from a world you don’t understand yet. Tigran Belsky could have demanded any woman in Chicago. The fact that he’s honoring his father’s contract shows respect for our family.”
“How thoughtful of him to honor a contract that treats me like livestock.” I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn to face Papa directly. “Did you even ask what I wanted? Did it occur to you that I might have my own plans for my life?”
Papa’s expression softens slightly, and for a moment, I see the man who used to help me build sandcastles during family vacations. “Zita, I know this is difficult, but sometimes, we have to accept circumstances beyond our control and make the best of them.”
“You created these circumstances.” My voice rises despite my intention to stay calm. “You chose to make deals with criminals. You chose to sign a contract that treated your daughter like a bargaining chip, so don’t pretend this is something that happened to us instead of something you caused.”
The doorbell chimes before Papa can respond, its melodious sound echoing through the foyer like a funeral dirge. My future husband has arrived, and I’m still arguing with the man who sold me to him.
Papa straightens his tie and assumes the confident posture he uses for important meetings. “Remember, Zita. First impressions matter in business and in marriage. Tonight sets the tone for everything that follows.”
Moments later, he personally opens the front door, and three men enter our home with confident bearing. I recognize Tigran immediately from the videos of him that were on the news yesterday and, to a lesser extent, today. He’s taller than I expected, easily six-foot-two, with black hair and gray eyes that catalog every detail of our foyer.
He wears a perfectly tailored black suit. Everything about him whispers expensive and dangerous, from his Italian leather shoes to the way he assesses our house like he’s evaluating its worth.
“Tigran.” Papa extends his hand with unconvincing warmth. “Welcome to our home.”
