Page 81 of Bratva Bride
The casualty reports came next, passed around the room like communion wafers. Names, ages, years of service. One of the Morozov dead had been nineteen—somebody's son playing at being a tough guy, now reduced to a line on paper. Viktor let that detail linger, let the room feel the weight of youth destroyed.
"The marriage treaty between our families was meant to ensure such tragedies would end." His pale eyes found mine across the room, and I saw the calculation behind the performed sorrow. "Yet my daughter has been a Volkova for barely three weeks, and we have more bodies, more federal attention, more instability than before the union."
He turned slowly, addressing each family in turn like a professor delivering a lecture. "I entrusted my only child—mymost precious asset—to Volkov protection. I gave her in good faith, believing she would be safe, that her union would herald a new era of cooperation."
Asset. Not daughter, not person—asset. The word lodged in my throat like a shard of glass.
"The bombing targeted a worksite where both our families operated," Viktor continued, his voice dropping to force people to lean in. "A symbol of our alliance. The exact shift change when maximum damage would occur to both organizations. Someone knew to strike there. Someone had intelligence about our cooperative operations."
The implication slithered through the room like poison gas. Either the Volkovs had leaked the information, or worse—they'd orchestrated it themselves. I felt the mood shift, suspicious glances shot at our table, alliances reconsidered in real time.
Ivan's hand found mine under the table, squeezing hard enough that bones ground together. Not comfort—shared rage with nowhere to go. His thumb pressed into my palm in a rhythm I recognized as prime numbers, his anxiety management technique when everything threatened to explode. Two. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven.
"Furthermore," Viktor said, and something in his tone made everyone lean forward, "I have concerns about the marriage's legitimacy under our traditions."
My stomach dropped through the floor, through the earth, into whatever hell waited below. Here it came—the trap he'd been building toward.
He pulled out a leather-bound copy of the Code, older than the one Besharov held, tabs marking specific passages. "Article Twelve, Subsection Three: 'A blood marriage must be consummated within the first lunar month to be considered valid under bratva law.' It's been three weeks since my daughter's wedding."
The room stirred, uncomfortable shifting and cleared throats. Nobody wanted to think about the mechanics of my marriage bed, but now they had to.
"I have intelligence," Viktor continued, and his eyes flicked to Ivan with naked satisfaction, "suggesting my daughter and her husband did not share a bed until their recent holiday to the Maldives. That's eighteen days after the wedding. Well past the acceptable timeframe for consummation under our traditions."
Intelligence.
He'd had someone watching us. Tracking which rooms we slept in. Monitoring our movements through the penthouse. The violation of it made bile rise in my throat.
"If the marriage was not properly consummated according to tradition," Viktor delivered the killing blow, "then the treaty it represents is void. Invalid. A contract signed but never executed."
The room erupted.
Alexei shot to his feet with violence in every line of his body. "You dare question my brother's honor? Question whether he's fulfilled his obligations as a husband?"
But Viktor just smiled—that cold, reptilian expression I'd seen before destroying business partners. "I question nothing. I merely request verification, as is my right under the Code. Medical examination to confirm consummation. Unless, of course, there's a reason to refuse such verification?"
Medical examination. The words hit like physical blows. He wanted me inspected like livestock, violated by some doctor's clinical assessment of whether I'd been properly claimed. The humiliation of it was the point—either we refused and looked guilty, or we submitted and I endured state-sanctioned assault.
"This is barbaric," Mikhail Besharov protested, but his voice lacked conviction. The law was the law, even the parts that belonged in darker centuries.
"This is tradition," Viktor countered smoothly. "The same tradition that has governed our families for generations. Or are the Volkovs above the old laws now? Too modern to respect the codes that built our world?"
It was perfectly played. Attack tradition, and you attacked the foundation of bratva authority. But embrace it, and you endorsed examining a woman like property, checking her value through violation.
Ivan's hand had gone still in mine. Not relaxed—frozen with the kind of control that preceded violence. I could feel him calculating angles, probabilities, how many men he could kill before they stopped him. The answer wouldn't be enough. Never enough to prevent what was coming.
"Twenty-three years ago," Viktor added conversationally, "in Chicago, the Dmitrov family tried to pass off an unconsummated marriage as valid. When the truth emerged, the resulting war killed forty-three people. The Code exists to prevent such deceptions. To ensure treaties are built on solid ground rather than convenient lies."
Every word was a scalpel, cutting away our defenses with surgical precision. He'd researched precedents, found historical justification, wrapped his cruelty in the flag of tradition. This wasn't emotional reaction to the bombing—this was weeks of planning, maybe months, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Sergei Kozlov leaned back in his chair, satisfaction radiating from every pore. He'd known this was coming. Maybe he'd even coordinated with my father, provided the bombing that gave Viktor his excuse. The Sokolovs maintained their stone-faced neutrality, but I saw the patriarch's wife shoot me a look of pity. She knew how this ended. They all did.
"Well?" Viktor asked, voice mild as discussing weather. "Will the Volkovs submit to verification? Or shall we consider the marriage invalid by default?"
The trap snapped shut with audible finality. Submit to examination and endure that humiliation, or refuse and admit guilt. Either way, my father won. Either way, I went back to him.
Either way, everything we'd built in three weeks crumbled into nothing.
For ninety minutes, I became meat.
