Maria
An impromptu meal is served, and thankfully, there’s a choice of what to eat, including a generous salad with no meat.
Mikhail barely touches the food on his plate as he launches into why we are here. He looks relaxed as he speaks, and the serious topic sounds as commonplace as discussing the weather.
“I’m requesting no interference from the other Bratvas in my affairs in the city,” Mikhail states clearly. “I’m aware that we have already infringed upon other’s territories.” He nods toward Dimitri. “But the Ivanovs’ future plans will resolve this infringement quickly.”
Sorokin eyes me. “You trust your future wife a great deal, Mikhail Ivanov, to discuss such delicate matters openly in front of her.”
“I chose Maria to be my wife for many reasons …”
“Is that right?” Sorokin stares at me but not in a way that men have in the past. He’s trying to guess if I am worth fighting over. If I’m worthy of being the Bratva’s Helen of Troy. He throws down the gauntlet, and I pick it up.
“Mikhail asked me to marry him with a ring, not a shotgun,” I reply in an even tone. “We have agreed our marriage will be an advantage, and it’s based on a solid partnership.”
“Partnership.” Sorokin steeples his fingers. “Yet, your father abandoned us, Maria Zakharovna.” His eyes narrow suspiciously. “He chose your mother’s Italian Mafia over his own. What makes you different?”
“I am not my father.” I pause, letting my words sink in. “My loyalties lie with the Bratva, with my husband, and I am committed to finding a way to end this feud for good. I want what he wants.”
“Could you kill him?” Dmitri’s cool voice interrupts the brewing argument. He watches me with an unblinking gaze and waits for an answer. The air in the room vibrates with tension, but I refuse to let it throw me.
“To save my baby and to save Mikhail. Yes.”
I don’t know if I would do it, but anger spoke for me. I’ve come to accept that I’m a part of Mikhail, which means being a part of the Ivanov Bratva.
“Words are cheap,” Sorokin sneers, placing his fork down.
“I agree. Your passion is commendable, Maria Zakharovna,” Popov says, his voice measured but not unkind. “But actions always speak louder than words. You’ll have to prove yourself if you want our trust.”
Today, I wore a modest suit, imitating the style of suit the men wear except with a skirt. Standing, I shrug off the jacket and undo the buttons on the lower half of my silk blouse, pulling the fabric away to expose the scar at my side.
“Is this not proof enough? I’ve bled for my husband. For this Bratva. What more do you require of me?” The room is silent, and this is my moment. “I will do whatever it takes to bring about change and secure a lasting future. A dialogue between me and my family is not an indication of deceit. If there can be a truce, I will seek it. We all have better things to do than fighting over a patch of desolate land in New Jersey.”
“That patch of land brings in a billion each year,” replies Dmitri, smirking. “I wish you luck, but this is a hard hill to climb. And its slopes are littered with corpses.”
“My son will be a pakhan one day.” I meet their eyes, one by one, willing them to see the sincerity in my words. “If I cannot end this war, he will.”
“Very well,” Popov concedes, nodding his approval. “But remember, we will be watching closely. Do not give us reason to doubt you.”
Mikhail places his hand over mine as I sit down. “We understand,” he replies. “Maria has already proven her loyalty to me. I support her desire to seek a truce instead of more bloodshed. I’d rather break bread with my in-laws, not their heads.”
“And are you prepared to put aside your personal feud?” Popov asks. “Because if I recall, you swore a vow, Mikhail Ivanov, to avenge your brother. If your lovely wife secures a peace, will you break that vow?”
Mikhail takes his hand away, and my hand feels cold. “I’m not opposed to the other solution if they refuse our generous terms.”
“Very well, Mikhail Ivanov,” Popov concedes. “We will remain neutral in your feud. But remember, should you fail to defend our mutual interests, then we will be forced to act. These are our terms. Are they acceptable?”
Mikhail’s voice is low and resolute. “They are.”
The meal continues with no mention of business, and I’m given a glimpse into what pakhans talk about in private. I listen intently to the stories and the gossip, learning more about people I don’t know but who interest me. They share stories of escapades from years past, and slowly, I feel a longing to be connected to the Bratva. I want to belong here more than ever.
“If you will excuse me.” I stand and look toward the door. The hint is taken, and I’m escorted by a guard down the hallway to a bathroom so comfortable I could add a television and move in.
When I return to the hallway, I don’t immediately enter the dining room. I take a breath, lean against the wall, and stare at a massive canvas ofSt. George and the Dragon. Judging from the style, it has to be from the early Renaissance. The gold frame alone is worth as much as the property the mansion sits on. But before I can move away, the door opens, and Sorokin walks out. I compose myself quickly.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he comments on his acquisition, the way a father would take pride in an offspring.
I nod politely. “Raphael,” I state rather than ask.
His gaze lands on me. “Yes. Few people know that.”
“I studied art history,” I smile smugly. “I met Mikhail as I was about to begin my studies abroad.”
He grins at my lie, not showing whether he agrees with it or simply chooses to tolerate it. “Would you like to see the rest of my collection?”
“I would,” I speak with sincerity that he recognizes. “If it’s no trouble.”
“Then come with me, Maria Zakharovna.” His personality changes completely when he smiles. And I can tell this side of him is rarely seen, as his guards watch intently.
Mikhail enters the hallway, hearing Sorokin’s offer. “That is kind of you, but Maria should rest first.”
Sorokin notes my hand resting on my stomach and nods in understanding. The maid shows Mikhail and me to a private room that looks out onto the estate through large windows.
“There’s a vineyard here?” I ask.
“A private one.” Mikhail nods. “Rest a little. They want to talk business, and later, we’ll take a tour.” He pulls me into his arms and kisses me softly. Suddenly, I’m not tired anymore, but he insists I need to rest for the baby.
Stopping at the door, Mikhail turns before leaving and gives me a killer sexy wink. “You were right. You do have a gift for charming dangerous men.”