Page 14 of Bratva Bride
He opened the Code to a marked page. The old Russian text was handwritten, faded but still legible. The original words of men who'd survived Stalin, survived the gulags, survived immigration to a country that didn't want them. Men who'd built rules because they knew what happened without them.
"We need a different solution," I said. "An older solution."
I stood up slowly, and the room went quiet the way it does when a gun gets cocked—that particular silence that means everything is about to change. The Ice King didn't speak often at Council meetings. That was Alexei's role as Pakhan, Dmitry's role as enforcer. I was the calculator, the one who sat behind screens and made numbers dance until they revealed their secrets. When I spoke here, in this room where words carried the weight of blood, people listened because they knew I'd already run every variable.
"Article Seven, Subsection Three of the Code." My voice came out flat and precise, each word measured to the gram. No emotion. Just data. Just solution. "Krovniy brak. Blood marriage between warring families to enforce peace."
The silence deepened. Became something physical, pressing against eardrums. Even Alexei stiffened beside me, his controlslipping just enough that I felt the tension radiating from his shoulder. He hadn't known this was coming. I'd kept this calculation to myself, knowing he'd try to stop me if he knew.
Besharov's weathered eyes narrowed with something that might have been approval or might have been calculation. Hard to tell with a man who'd played this game since before I was born. His grandson shifted forward slightly, interested. The younger generation always found the old traditions fascinating—exotic rules from a world they'd never lived in but somehow still inherited.
"There is historical precedent." I pulled up the files on my tablet, months of research I'd done in the three days since the bombing. Well, truth was, I'd been researching this for longer. Since I'd first seen Anya Morozova's file. Since I'd recognized the anxiety in her eyes. Since I'd realized she was brilliant and trapped and no one was coming to save her.
"1973. The Kuznetsov-Orlov war. Dozens dead in six months. The families were destroying each other, bringing federal attention, threatening the entire Brooklyn operation. The Council enforced Article Seven." I swiped my tablet, projecting the historical documents onto the wall behind Besharov. Old photographs appeared—men in seventies suits, wide lapels and wider ties, standing at an altar while two young people got married to stop a war.
"Mikhail Kuznetsov's daughter married Pavel Orlov's son. Neither family wanted it. Both families fought the Council's decision. But the marriage happened, the war ended, and the peace held for thirty-two years until both pakhans died of natural causes." I let that sink in. Thirty-two years of peace from one strategic marriage. The math was undeniable.
"That was different time," Sergei Kozlov grunted. "People believed in that shit then. Honor. Tradition. Now it's just—"
"1989." I cut him off, swiped to the next document. "The Sokolov-Baranov conflict. You should remember this one, Pavel. You were there."
Pavel Sokolov's eyes flickered with memory. He'd been young then, maybe thirty, watching his family tear itself apart in a territorial dispute that started over dock access and escalated to shootings in broad daylight.
"Seventeen dead in three months," I continued. "Your uncle's daughter married Baranov's eldest son. The peace held until the Baranovs relocated to Chicago in 2001. Twelve years of stability from one marriage."
I swiped again. The original Code appeared on the wall, handwritten Russian in fading ink. The article was clear, unambiguous. When families couldn't find peace through negotiation or territory division, when the violence threatened the entire organization, blood marriage was the Council's nuclear option. Couldn't be refused. Couldn't be negotiated. The families either accepted or faced combined judgment from all other families.
"The rule exists for exactly this situation," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the way my pulse hammered in my throat. "Two families locked in escalating conflict. Civilian casualties drawing federal attention. Traditional negotiation failed. The Code demands union through blood."
"This is archaic," Viktor said, but there was something in his voice. He was acting—I could tell. I hoped no-one else could. "We're not in the old country. This is America. The twenty-first century. Forced marriages—"
"Strategic marriages," Besharov corrected quietly. "The Code doesn't demand love. It demands peace."
I pulled up the final slide. Simple text. Clinical. Mathematical.
"The Morozovs have one unmarried daughter. The Volkovs have three unmarried sons." I let my eyes meet Viktor's across the table. "The math is simple."
"Not that simple," Viktor said slowly. "Three sons means three options. The Council would need to approve the specific match."
This was the moment. The calculation I'd been building toward. Each word had to be perfect, had to sound logical rather than personal. Had to seem like strategy rather than what it really was—the only way I could think of to get Anya Morozova out of her father's house without starting another war.
"Alexei is Pakhan," I said. "His marriage would create a power imbalance. The Morozov organization would be seen as subordinate, absorbed rather than allied. That violates the spirit of Article Seven, which demands equality between families."
Alexei's head turned slightly toward me. I didn't meet his eyes. Couldn't. He'd see too much.
"Dmitry is our enforcer," I continued. "His reputation for violence would make the marriage seem like a threat rather than peace. The Morozov soldiers would see it as conquest disguised as alliance."
Dmitry made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been irritation. Hard to tell with him.
"I'm the strategist. Behind the scenes. No territorial ambitions, no enforcement role. A marriage to me maintains the balance between families. Pure alliance, no absorption."
Obviously, therealreason that Alexei and Dmitry would married were Eva and Clara. There was no way I’d ask my brothers to give up their Littles. I, on the other hand, was happy to live in a sham marriage forever.
"You've thought about this," Besharov observed. His tone gave nothing away, but those ancient eyes saw everything. Saw through my calculated words to the calculation underneath.
"I think about everything," I replied. Which was true. Just not the whole truth.
The room erupted in discussion. The Kozlovs objecting because peace between Volkovs and Morozovs meant less opportunity for them. The Sokolovs supporting because stability meant better business. The Besharovs conferring quietly among three generations, weighing tradition against practicality.
