Page 51 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
Underneath the grief, the shock, the trauma, and the nightmares, burns something else. Something that tastes like copper and feels like broken glass in my throat.
Rage.
Pure, molten fury at the man who brought this violence into my world, at the organization that painted targets on everyone I love, and at the husband who promised to protect me and instead got my father killed.
I find Tigran in his study, exactly where I expected him to be. Always working, always planning, and always calculating the next move. He looks up when I enter, looking me over in an assessing fashion as if assuring himself I won’t break. I hope he’s more confident in that than I am.
“The funeral is in two hours,” he says quietly. “Are you ready?”
“Ready?” The word comes out as a sharp and bitter laugh. “Am I ready to bury my father? Ready to stand over his grave and pretend this is anything other than your fault?”
Pain and regret cycle through his expression but are gone so quickly I might’ve imagined it. “Zita?—”
“Don’t.” I step closer to his desk, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “Don’t you dare try to comfort me. Don’t you dare act like you give a shit about my grief when you’re the reason I’m grieving.”
“I understand that you’re in pain?—”
“You understand nothing!” The words explode out of me, carrying all the fury and heartbreak I’ve been choking down for three days. “You dragged me into this world. You made me a target! Every bullet fired in that office was because of you, because of what you represent, and because of the enemies you’ve made.”
Tigran stands slowly, moving around the desk with careful, deliberate steps. I back away from him, not trusting myself not to lash out, not to try to hurt him the way he’s hurt me.
“You’re right,” he says simply.
The admission stops me abruptly. I was prepared for denials, cold logic, for him to explain why my father’s death was necessary or strategic or unavoidable. I wasn’t prepared for acknowledgment. “What?”
“You’re right. This is my fault.” His voice is steady, but I catch the weight underneath the words. “I brought you into a world where loving someone makes them a target. I made you vulnerable to my enemies. I failed to protect the people who mattered to you.”
“Then why?” My voice cracks on the question. “Why did you make me care about you? Why did you make me think we could build something real when you knew it’d end like this?”
“Because I was selfish.” He takes another step closer, and there’s something raw in his expression that I’ve never seen before. “For the first time in my life, I found someone worth risking everything for, and I thought I could keep you safe while keeping you close.”
“You were wrong,” I shout at him, my voice echoing off the study’s wood-paneled walls. “You were wrong, and now Papa is dead, and it’s your fault. If I’d never met you or married you, he’d still be alive!”
As I say them, the words resonate. Papa would still be alive if not for the marriage contract he signed, which was his fault and Nicky’s. He’d still be alive if not for his alliance with the Belskyfamily. I recognize it’s unfair to blame Tigran but can’t seem to stop the anger giving voice to these ugly words.
“You’re right,” Tigran says again, and his calm acceptance of my accusations only makes my rage burn hotter.
“Stop saying that.” I grab the first thing within reach—a crystal paperweight from his desk—and hurl it at his head. He dodges easily, and the heavy glass shatters against the bookshelf behind him. “Stop being so fucking reasonable when I need you to fight back!”
“What would fighting back accomplish?”
“It’d give me someone to hate without feeling guilty about it.” The confession tears out of my throat before I can stop it. “It’d let me blame you completely instead of feeling this…rage toward him for setting all this in motion along with your father. It would let me stop caring about you and what happens next.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Tigran stares at me with understanding while I tremble with the aftermath of my own honesty. I’ve just admitted the thing I’ve been trying to deny for three days. Even in my grief and fury, I can’t stop caring about him. I can’t stop needing his strength when mine fails.
“Zita—”
“No.” I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together pieces that feel like they’re falling apart. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
He moves closer anyway, slowly like he’s approaching a wounded animal. When he reaches for me, I try to pull away, but my body betrays me. Instead of retreating, I collapse against his chest, beating my fists weakly against his shoulders as sobs tear through me.
“I hate you,” I whisper against his shirt. “I hate you so much.”
“I understand.” He folds his arms around me, holding me steady as I fall apart completely. The steadiness in his voice tells me he knows this kind of grief, this need to blame someone when the real enemy is too far away to hit. “When my mother died, I raged at everyone except the man who killed her. Grief makes us lash out at the people closest to us.”
“He was all I had left. After Mom left, he was the only family I had, and now he’s gone because of you.” It’s untrue and unfair when I say it.
“I know.” His calm acceptance of blame that isn’t fully his makes me angrier for some reason.
