Page 8 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Across from me are three men who all want something.
Anton Morozov wants protection for his warehouses near the port.
Grigori Levin wants access to my transport routes.
Pavel Orlov wants financing for a chain of clubs that will launder more money than it earns honestly.
All of them have worked, in one way or another, under my father. Now they are sitting at my table.
Anton speaks first. “The port authority is still loyal to your father.”
I take the folder Viktor places in front of me and open it. “No. The port authority is loyal to whoever pays them on time and keeps their sons out of prison.”
Grigori gives a careful smile. “That sounds like loyalty to me.”
“It’s not,” I say. “It’s business.”
No one argues.
Good.
My father built his power on fear, debt, and blood ties. Old rules. Old men. Old grudges. He believes men remain loyal because they once kneeled.
He’s wrong.
Men remain loyal while the hand above them stays strong. The moment it shakes, they start looking for another one.
And my father’s hand has been shaking for years.
He just thinks no one has noticed.
Pavel leans forward. “If we move the warehouse contracts to you, he’ll know.”
“He already knows,” I say.
The room goes still. Pavel sits back. Anton stops tapping his thumb against the table.
Viktor remains unmoved beside the door.
“My father is not blind,” I continue. “He knows I’m taking territory. He knows his men are answering my calls. He knows the families in the north are tired of paying him for protection he no longer provides.”
Grigori watches me closely. “Then why hasn’t he stopped you?”
I look at him. “Because he can’t decide whether I’m still his son or already his enemy.”
No one laughs. They’re smart enough not to.
But the truth is uglier than that.
My mother was not his wife. Not in the church. Not on paper. Not where it mattered to men like him. But she was loyal to him in a way his wife never was. She loved him when he had nothing but ambition and a loaded gun.
And he repaid her by hiding her.
Then forgetting her.
Then letting her die with doctors who came too late because no one in the main house wanted the embarrassment.
I close the folder. “So,” I say, “we stop pretending this is a negotiation. You are here because you already know where power is moving. You want to be early enough to be rewarded, but not so early that you bleed for it.”
