Page 3 of The Bratva Contract
“Bah! I don’t do emails!” he says.
“No, but everyone else uses it,” I insist.
“You’re wasting my time with this little project,” he says. “Go have your nails painted or your hair done like your mother. There is no place for you in the bratva, daughter.” A frustrated groan slips from me.
“Look at this!” I tap the binder. “I understand this business well enough to create cybersecurity software tailored to your exact needs. Other families already use it, and they love it. Why does my own father refuse to consider my contribution?”
“Sons work in the business. Daughters enjoy the money and protection and marry well and have babies.” He clears his throat a few times and takes a drink of water.
“That’s it? Get my nails done and have a baby?” Fury pulses through me. “I’m no child, Papa. I’m twenty-four. I was the youngest to finish an engineering degree, yet you show no pride in my work. What will it take?”
“For you, my daughter, only that you make a proper wife for a man worthy of siring the heir to the Kozlov organization.”
“I should be the heir!”
“Your brother was the heir, God rest his soul,” my father says and crosses himself piously.
“Ivan is gone. I miss him, too,” I say, my voice cracking. “You’re right, he should be here, but he died in that car accident. I’m here, alive and more than capable of running the business. I’ve proven again and again that I understand the inner workings. Why won’t you?—”
I break off when he starts to cough in earnest. My heart sinks. He isn’t well. Upsetting him won’t get me what I want. He needs to step back from a leadership role and concentrate on his health and move somewhere warm by the sea. My shoulders sag. I go around his desk and rub his back, taking the pills out of his drawer and offering them to him. He waves them away stubbornly. “I’m fine,” he chokes out, “don’t fuss over me.”
I keep offering him the pills until he takes one and throws it back with some water just to get me to stop. Relieved that he took it, I kiss the top of his head and gather my tablet and binder and slip out. That was a waste of time and effort, I think to myself. He’s so old fashioned he really thinks I’d be better off getting a fresh balayage at the salon and shopping for more shoes or jewelry. I was never the one he could fob off with expensive things. Ironically, that was my brother Ivan who always wanted a new watch, a new gun or car or boat. His love of fancy things killed him, after taking a curve too fast in his new Ferrari at eighteen. I was a child half his age then, but I remember it, how my father transformed overnight from a vital and commanding crime lord to something ossified, rigid and cautious. Like the loss of his son aged him decades all at once.
He will never let a woman lead his organization. He would accept a son-in-law to act as a sort of underworld regent to the throne until a grandson comes of age. But that’s my only access to power in the bratva. That is, as a bride, and a breeder for the next generation of Russian crime bosses. I log back in tomy work portal and get the interpreter on board for a call with a potential client. When the screen bursts to life with the view from the man’s villa, he’s outdoors, overlooking the sea, lemon groves on a hill in the background, I wonder why I don’t conduct meetings like this in person. That place is gorgeous and my city view is decidedly chilly and gray by comparison.
If I were willing to dump my company and play mob wife, I could wake up to a view like that tomorrow. But I’m not sacrificing the firm I built or the innovations I’ve shepherded into the world. If Papa won’t let me inherit the bratva, I’ll build my own legacy and let his rivals pay me for the privilege. The thought tastes sour, but it’s all I have.
CHAPTER 3
DIMA
“Here? In my office?” I demand.
“Yes, sir,” my secretary says patiently.
“I thought Sergei Kozlov was an invalid. It’s in my calendar as a call, not a meeting.”
“Apologies, sir. That was my understanding as well, but he’s here with two security agents and an escort I can only assume is a health aide. Should I send him in?”
I shake my head, equal parts amused and surprised. The old man has crawled out of hiding to see me. When he requested a meeting, I assumed it was about his failing health. He probably wants me to take over the Kozlov organization now that his only son is gone. A man like him would never pass the reins to a lieutenant; for his kind, it’s family or nothing.
“Sure, send him in. Not the entourage, just the man himself,” I say.
Within moments, a raw-boned old man, who can’t be much past seventy but he looks about a hundred and twelve, is wheeled in. He wears a suit twenty years out of style, but his dark eyes are sharp and miss nothing.
“Sergei Kozlov,” I say by way of greeting.
“Young Mitya,” he replies, using my father’s diminutive for me. I bristle at the familiarity. “Did your papa never teach you how to address your elders?”
“Perhaps I was called Mitya when you met me, but it has been decades since anyone dared use that name. If we can dispense with the formalities, maybe you can explain why you showed up here today.”
“We have an appointment.”
“For a call. I didn’t imagine you’d leave that penthouse for anything short of a natural disaster.”
“You might say that is what brings me here, young man.”
“I’m hardly young any longer. There’s gray in my hair.”
