Chapter 3
Zita
Ispend two hours rejecting every dress Papa’s assistant brings to my room.
“The navy silk makes you look professional,” Francesca insists, holding up the garment like it’s a peace offering.
She’s been Papa’s personal assistant for eight years, and today, she’s tasked with making me presentable for my future husband.
Her usually perfect composure is starting to crack.
“He specifically requested you wear it.”
I remember his preference from last night, but I never agreed then, and I won’t now. “I don’t want to look professional.” I push away the dress and continue pacing my bedroom. “I want to look like someone no sane man would consider marrying.”
Francesca’s smile becomes strained. “Your father specifically requested the navy dress. You know how he can be when he’s thwarted…”
I do. He can become downright petulant, and she clearly doesn’t want to deal with that.
What’s one more capitulation in my recent string of them?
“Fine.” I snatch the dress from Francesca’s hands.
“I’m not wearing makeup though, and I’m definitely not pretending to be excited about this arrangement. ”
An hour later, I stand in front of my mirror wearing the navy dress and Nonna’s pearl necklace, looking like a woman preparing for her own execution. I look elegant, sophisticated, and completely miserable.
Papa appears in my doorway precisely at six-thirty, wearing his best charcoal suit. “You look beautiful, Zita. So much like your mother…”
“I’d like to think she’d be horrified that you’re forcing me into an arranged marriage, if she ever thought about me at all.” I adjust the pearl necklace, wishing it felt less like a collar. “She left because she couldn’t stand your business arrangements, remember?”
Papa’s face hardens. “Your mother left because she was selfish and couldn’t appreciate the sacrifices necessary to protect our family. Don’t make the same mistake.”
The comparison stings because part of me knows he’s right.
Mom was selfish for abandoning me instead of fighting to change things from the inside or taking me with her when she fled.
Maybe I’m being selfish now for resenting an arrangement that will benefit both families financially, but another part of me thinks Mom was the only one brave enough to escape before it was too late.
I just don’t understand why she thought it was acceptable to leave behind six-year-old me, which is why I can never forgive her or truly understand her actions.
“Belsky will arrive at seven,” Papa says, checking his watch. “Viktor Petrov will accompany Tigran, along with a legal advisor. This is your opportunity to make a good first impression.”
“Or his opportunity to make one on me.” I walk past him toward the staircase, my heels making sharp, angry sounds. “This arrangement benefits you, Papa. Not me.”
I hear him following behind me, his footsteps heavier and more deliberate. “This arrangement protects you from a world you don’t understand yet. Tigran Belsky could have demanded any woman in Chicago. The fact that he’s honoring his father’s contract shows respect for our family.”
“How thoughtful of him to honor a contract that treats me like livestock.” I reach the bottom of the stairs and turn to face Papa directly. “Did you even ask what I wanted? Did it occur to you that I might have my own plans for my life?”
Papa’s expression softens slightly, and for a moment, I see the man who used to help me build sandcastles during family vacations. “Zita, I know this is difficult, but sometimes, we have to accept circumstances beyond our control and make the best of them.”
“You created these circumstances.” My voice rises despite my intention to stay calm. “You chose to make deals with criminals. You chose to sign a contract that treated your daughter like a bargaining chip, so don’t pretend this is something that happened to us instead of something you caused.”
The doorbell chimes before Papa can respond, its melodious sound echoing through the foyer like a funeral dirge. My future husband has arrived, and I’m still arguing with the man who sold me to him.
Papa straightens his tie and assumes the confident posture he uses for important meetings. “Remember, Zita. First impressions matter in business and in marriage. Tonight sets the tone for everything that follows.”
Moments later, he personally opens the front door, and three men enter our home with confident bearing.
I recognize Tigran immediately from the videos of him that were on the news yesterday and, to a lesser extent, today.
He’s taller than I expected, easily six-foot-two, with black hair and gray eyes that catalog every detail of our foyer.
He wears a perfectly tailored black suit. Everything about him whispers expensive and dangerous, from his Italian leather shoes to the way he assesses our house like he’s evaluating its worth.
“Tigran.” Papa extends his hand with unconvincing warmth. “Welcome to our home.”
“Good evening, Claude.” Tigran’s voice carries traces of a Russian accent that makes every word sound deliberate and controlled. “My father spoke highly of your business relationship.”
Tigran’s attention shifts to me with the same cool assessment he gave our foyer. His gray eyes meet mine, and I see no warmth or curiosity in his expression. He’s evaluating me like a piece of property he’s considering purchasing.
“You must be Zita.” He approaches with confidence. “I’m Tigran Belsky.”
He extends his hand, and I have no choice but to take it. His grip is firm and warm, lasting exactly long enough to be polite while conveying nothing personal. When he releases my hand, I resist the urge to wipe my palm against my dress.
“Mr. Belsky.” I keep my voice professionally neutral. “Thank you for coming.”
Surprise, then irritation, flickers across his expression, as if my composed response disrupts his expectations. He clearly expects me to be nervous or intimidated, and maybe even grateful for this arrangement.
“Shall we proceed to dinner?” Papa gestures toward the dining room, but there is subtle tension in his voice. He orchestrated this evening carefully, and my quietly defiant attitude is already threatening his plans.
The dining room has been transformed for tonight’s dinner.
Our finest china and crystal catch the light from the chandelier, and fresh flowers create centerpieces that smell like a funeral parlor.
I end up seated directly across from Tigran, forced to maintain eye contact throughout the meal while Papa and Viktor discuss business arrangements at one end of the table.
Viktor Petrov, a man in his fifties with silver hair and careful composure that comes from years of managing dangerous situations, sits to Tigran’s right.
The legal advisor, introduced simply as Mr. Volkov, arranges documents in a leather portfolio, ready to clarify contract details if questions arise.
Before the appetizers even arrive, Tigran leans forward slightly and fixes me with his calculating stare. “I understand you have reservations about this arrangement.”
The directness of his approach catches me by surprise, but I refuse to let him see any weakness. “I have reservations about being sold to the highest bidder, yes.”
Papa clears his throat in warning, but Tigran raises a hand to stop him. “Let her speak. I prefer honesty to false politeness.”
“Then here’s some honesty.” I set down my water glass with deliberate force. “Your family destroyed my neighborhood. You turned honest businesses into money laundering fronts and forced good people out of their homes. Now you expect me to smile and play the grateful bride in your expansion plans.”
Tigran’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch Viktor shifting uncomfortably in his peripheral vision. “Your neighborhood adapted to economic realities. Change is inevitable.”
“Extortion isn’t economic reality. It’s criminal behavior dressed up in business terminology.”
“Careful,” Tigran says softly, and suddenly, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. “You’re speaking about things you don’t understand with the arrogance of someone who’s never had to make difficult choices.”
“I understand perfectly.” I lean forward to match his posture. “I understand your father’s organization destroyed families and communities for profit, and you’re continuing his legacy. I understand my father sold me to maintain his political connections.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Papa looks like he wants to disappear into his chair, and Viktor has stopped pretending to eat entirely. Only Tigran watches me with those cold gray eyes, as if I’m a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.
“You’re exactly what I expected,” he says finally. “A spoiled, sharp-tongued liability, who thinks moral outrage substitutes for practical understanding.”
The words are like a gauntlet. Before I can decide whether to throw my drink in his face or laugh, Viktor clears his throat softly from farther down the table. “This is a lovely home, Miss Lo Duca,” he says, attempting diplomacy.
“Thank you, but I can’t take much credit. My mother designed most of the interior.” I cut into my appetizer with more force than necessary. “Before she decided she couldn’t tolerate my father’s business methods anymore and left.”
The comment lands like a grenade. Papa’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth, but Tigran doesn’t react at all. His expression remains neutral and controlled. “Family businesses often create complex loyalties,” he says finally. “Not everyone is suited for the demands of expansion and modernization.”
His response suggests Mom was too weak to understand the realities of Papa’s world, which is the dismissive attitude I expected.
“Or perhaps she had too much integrity to compromise her values for financial gain.” I meet his gaze directly. “Some people believe there are things more important than profit.”