Chapter 2
Tigran
The funeral parlor smells like lilies and lies.
I stand beside my father’s casket, watching a parade of men who spent decades fearing Nicky Belsky now pretend to mourn his passing.
Each one approaches with rehearsed condolences and carefully neutral expressions, but I see the calculation behind their eyes.
They’re measuring me, testing whether the son will command the same respect as the father.
I will.
Viktor Petrov steps forward, his expensive black suit impeccable despite the early hour. He’s been my father’s lieutenant for fifteen years, and his loyalty was bought with generous payments and the promise of protection. Now, I’m sure he’s wondering if those promises died with Nicky.
“My deepest sympathies, Tigran.” Viktor’s accent still carries traces of Moscow despite two decades in Chicago. “Your father was a great man. His legacy will endure.”
“His legacy will evolve.” I shake his offered hand, applying just enough pressure to remind him who he’s dealing with now. “Changes are coming, Viktor. I trust you’ll adapt accordingly.”
Surprise, or maybe concern, flickers across his face. He clearly expected me to follow Nicky’s methods exactly, to rule through fear and violence the way my father did, but I’m not Nicky, and I have no intention of repeating his mistakes.
“Of course.” Viktor recovers quickly, but I catch the way he glances toward Dmitri Volkov, who controls our drug operations. “The organization requires stability during this transition.”
“The organization requires leadership.” I keep my voice low enough that the other mourners can’t overhear. “Stability comes from strength, not from clinging to outdated methods.”
Viktor nods, but he’s obviously filing away every word for later analysis.
By tomorrow, everyone in the Bratva will know that Tigran Belsky doesn’t plan to be a carbon copy of his father.
Some will see this as weakness. I hope others will recognize it as evolution.
Regardless of how they view it, the changes will happen.
The viewing continues for another hour, with each conversation becoming a delicate dance of respect and assessment.
I accept condolences from politicians Papa bought, judges he influenced, and business owners who paid him protection money.
They all want to know the same thing even though they don’t ask if the new boss will honor the old agreements, or if they will need to renegotiate their positions?
By the time the last visitor leaves, my patience is wearing thin.
I’ve spent the morning performing grief I don’t actually experience while managing the expectations of men who would replace me in a heartbeat if they sensed weakness.
Nicky taught me power is a performance, but he never mentioned how exhausting the show could be.
Dmitri approaches as I’m adjusting my father’s tie one final time. The funeral director will close the casket soon, and then we’ll proceed to the cemetery for the burial that will officially mark the end of the Nicky Belsky era.
“We need to discuss the Federoff situation.” Dmitri’s voice barely rises above a whisper. “Avgar has been making inquiries about our shipping contracts. He thinks your father’s death creates opportunities.”
I close the casket lid carefully, the soft thud echoing through the empty parlor.
Avgar Federoff has been waiting for this moment since Nicky forced him into the shadows fifteen years ago.
The Federoffs controlled significant territory before my father’s expansion, and Avgar never forgave the humiliation of being relegated to minor operations.
“Let him make inquiries.” I straighten my cufflinks, a habit I picked up during my years at Columbia Business School. “Desperation makes men predictable.”
“He’s been recruiting.” Dmitri sounds nervous, which is unlike him. “Street soldiers from Detroit, some muscle from the Torrino family in New Jersey, and the numbers aren’t in our favor if this turns into open war.”
I study Dmitri’s face, noting the tension around his pale blue eyes. He’s genuinely worried, which means the threat is real. Still, panic serves no one, and I need my lieutenants thinking clearly during this transition period.
“War is expensive and inefficient.” I walk toward the exit, expecting Dmitri to follow. “There are better ways to handle territorial disputes.”
“Your father would have already sent a message.” Dmitri’s voice carries a hint of challenge. “Something permanent and public, to remind everyone why the Federoffs stay in the shadows.”
I stop walking and turn to face him directly.
Dmitri is pushing to see if I’ll resort to Nicky’s methods when pressed.
It’s a reasonable question from his perspective.
Violence was my father’s primary language, and many of our associates expect me to speak it fluently.
“My father ruled through fear.” I keep my voice steady and controlled.
“Fear is temporary. Respect lasts longer.”
“Respect doesn’t stop bullets.” Dmitri’s challenge is more direct now. “Avgar remembers what the organization was like before your father consolidated power. He thinks you’re too young and too educated to maintain control.”
“Then he’s made his first mistake.” I continue toward the exit, ending the conversation. “Schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning with all department heads, and full attendance is required.”
Dmitri nods and steps aside, but I imagine he’s mentally composing the report he’ll give to the other lieutenants. They’re all wondering if I’m strong enough to hold my father’s empire together, or if the Bratva will fragment under my leadership?
I’ll answer that question tomorrow, but not the way they expect.
I have a little surprise.
The funeral proceeds without incident. We bury Nicky in Graceland Cemetery.
The headstone is simple black granite with his name, dates, and nothing else.
He wouldn’t have wanted flowery epithets or religious symbols.
Nicky believed in power, profit, and the importance of making examples out of enemies—nothing illogical or without concrete proof.
By evening, I’m alone in my father’s study, surrounded by the artifacts of his thirty-year reign.
There are maps of Chicago marked with territorial boundaries, photographs of political allies, and filing cabinets full of contracts that bound dozens of businesses to Belsky interests.
Everything in this room represents someone’s submission to Nicky’s will.
I retrieve the marriage contract from his top drawer. Those twenty pages of legal language will bind me to Claude Lo Duca’s daughter. A woman I’ve never met will become my wife whether either of us wants the arrangement.
I pick up the document and read through it again, noting the precision of every clause.
Nicky negotiated this deal ten years ago, when the Lo Duca girl was twelve years old and I was twenty.
Even then, he was planning for contingencies, ensuring his death wouldn’t weaken the organization’s position.
The terms are straightforward. The marriage must take place within six weeks of Nicky’s death.
The clauses include provisions for combined financial assets, shared business interests, and heirs who will inherit both empires.
Claude gets protection and access to our shipping networks.
I get legitimacy and political connections that will help transition the Bratva toward more respectable operations.
What I don’t get is a choice.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I spent four years at Columbia studying business strategy and international relations, learning how modern organizations operate without relying on intimidation and violence.
I came back to Chicago with plans to modernize the family business and build something sustainable that didn’t require constant warfare to maintain.
Something fresh, bordering on legitimate.
It was only a few months ago that Papa revealed this plan to me, after getting grim news from his cardiologist. I still remember how my stomach ached, like someone had punched me in the gut, when Papa revealed my future wife, Zita Lo Duca, was already selected on the basis of business rather than compatibility or affection.
I’ve seen her photograph in the Chicago Tribune’s society pages, usually at charity events.
She has dark hair, intelligent eyes, and a polished appearance that comes from an expensive education and careful grooming.
She’s beautiful in a classic way, but beauty means nothing in this context.
What matters is whether she’ll be an asset or a liability in the life I’m trying to build.
The background report Viktor compiled suggests she’s more than decorative.
She has a business degree from Northwestern, is fluent in Italian and English, and has been involved in her father’s shipping operations since her early teens.
She’s not some sheltered princess who’ll collapse under the pressure of being married to a Bratva leader.
She’s also not someone who chose this life. The contract makes no provisions for her consent or preferences. She’s as much a pawn in this arrangement as I am, which means our marriage will begin with mutual resentment.
My phone buzzes with a text from Claude Lo Duca: Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. My home. Time to meet your future bride.
I set aside the phone and pour myself Russian vodka Nicky imported specially from Moscow.
The liquid burns going down, but it doesn’t numb the frustration building in my chest. Tomorrow, I’ll meet the woman who will share my name and my bed, and we’ll both pretend this arrangement makes sense for everyone.
Not just our fathers.
Not just for the public.
But for us. Somehow, it has to work for us.