Page 22 of The Bratva's Secret Baby
“My husband is dead,” I say.
“Yes.” He stirs his tea and places the spoon on the saucer.
He measures his words before he adds, “And that makes you relevant.”
There it is.
He talks about family and keeping things steady. About how the council needs everything in its place. He says trouble draws the wrong kind of attention, and that women like me become pieces on the board whether we want to or not.
“You would be protected,” he says. “Placed well and respected.”
“Owned,” I reply.
He doesn’t deny it. “Marriage resolves many things.”
He pauses long enough to let it hang.
“My grandnephew, Sergei Orlov,” he continues, voice smooth, as if I don’t already know. “He’s just the sort of man you deserve. Rich beyond measure. Handsome in a way that turns heads without effort. A man of accomplishment with business interests across Europe and Asia, in real estate, logistics, and shipping. He has taste. Taste and power.”
He unfolds the picture he’s painting slowly, one stroke at a time. He taps the spoon on the table.
“That’s rare,” I observe.
“Isn’t it,” he says, leaning forward slightly.
“Sergei’s one of the younger councilmen. He’s interested in you. Not just in your name, but in you—your grace, your wit.” He takes a sip of tea. “Last week, he told me he’s done chasing fortunes. Said he wants something real now.”
“Like marriage,” I note.
“He would keep you safe,” Mikhail says, the words coming faster now. “He’ll be a husband who adores you. A home of your own. A proper life fit for a lady.”
“I’m not sure,” I say, my voice trailing off as I look down at my teacup and pretend to cool it with a slow stir.
My blouse sticks to my back. Sweat beads under my arms. My hands burn inside my gloves. I press one palm hard into my thigh, just enough to keep steady and hold his gaze.
Why is Dominik so late?
I can’t pull out my phone. Not here, not now. I sit still and watch the door. We set the time and the place three days ago. He has never missed one.
“Not sure, why?” the man asks, his brows lifting.
“You see,” I say flatly, “I don’t like being told what to do. Especially not now.”
It doesn’t put him off.
“I’m not telling you to rush. There’s no need,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a laugh as if I’ve just delivered the funniest line he’s heard all day.
“All I’m saying, Mrs. Markova, Ana,” he corrects himself with a casual wave, “is meet Sergei. Get to know him. How about the Derby at Central Hippodrome next week? Or a visit to the flower festival? Both are excellent opportunities. You can enjoy good company, a fine atmosphere, no pressure.”
“I’m not interested.”
“That’s understandable,” he says, as if I’ve commented on the weather. “You’ve had time to adjust. But the council’s patience is not unlimited.”
“I don’t belong to the council.”
His eyes harden. “You belong to the structure that kept you alive this long.”
I lean back in my chair. “That structure beat me. Paraded me. Used me as proof of power.”
