Chapter 9 #2
The conversation continues around topics I’m apparently not qualified to discuss, but I listen carefully to every word.
There are details about shipping schedules, personnel changes, and financial arrangements that sound innocuous until you consider who’s making them and why.
This is my education in how criminal organizations conduct business through euphemism and misdirection.
In some ways, I might as well be invisible.
I lean into that, settling into silence and paying attention while picking at the salmon and quinoa salad.
After lunch, I wander the mansion again with more deliberate curiosity.
The library contains books in Russian, German, and English, including several volumes about Chicago history and politics that suggest my husband takes his local influence seriously.
The ballroom has a grand piano that looks like it’s been recently tuned, and sheet music on the bench includes both classical compositions and what appear to be Russian folk songs.
Really, it’s the smaller details that reveal the most about my new home.
After figuring out what to look for, I notice security cameras positioned to monitor all the main traffic areas.
There are phones in every room that probably connect to some kind of central monitoring system, and more than a few have discreet buttons built into the wall that don’t seem to have speakers, so I don’t think they’re intercoms. More likely, they’re panic buttons.
“Mrs. Belsky?” Another security guard appears as I’m examining what looks like a temperature control panel that seems far too complex for basic climate management. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m just trying to understand how the environmental systems work.” I close the panel and turn to face him with a smile I hope looks innocent. “The house is so beautifully maintained. I’m curious about the technology that makes it all possible.”
“Perhaps I could arrange for someone from our technical staff to give you a proper explanation?” His offer sounds helpful, but something in his tone suggests this is less about customer service and more about ensuring I don’t investigate things I shouldn’t see.
“That would be wonderful.” I continue walking toward the east wing, noting how he follows at the same discreet distance his colleague maintained earlier. “I’m particularly interested in the renovation work that’s apparently happening in the restricted areas.”
“I’m afraid that area isn’t safe for visitors right now.” He moves slightly to block my path without making the gesture obvious. “Construction work, you understand. Insurance liability concerns.”
“Of course, though I’m not likely to sue my husband.” I change direction toward the main staircase, filing away his reaction for future reference. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with important improvements.”
That evening, Tigran finds me in the library reading a biography of some Russian political figure whose name I can’t pronounce correctly. He settles into the leather chair across from mine with a glass of what looks like expensive vodka.
“How was your first full day as Mrs. Belsky?” he asks, and I catch something in his tone that might be genuine curiosity.
“Educational.” I close the book and study his face, noting tension that suggests he’s had a long day managing complex problems. “I’m learning a lot about the intersection of architecture and security.”
“What conclusions have you reached?” Tigran takes a slow sip of his drink while watching my expression.
“I’ve concluded that you live in a beautiful fortress designed to keep threats out and assets in.
” I pour myself wine from the bottle he brought with him.
“I’ve concluded that my new role involves being monitored constantly while being excluded from any meaningful participation in the decisions that affect my life. ”
“You’re not being excluded. You’re being protected.” Tigran leans forward slightly. “There’s a difference between keeping you safe and keeping you isolated.”
“Is there? Because from my perspective, both look remarkably similar.” I meet his stare directly. “Both involve other people making choices about where I can go, what I can see, who I can talk to, and what information I’m allowed to access.”
“What would you consider ‘meaningful participation?’” Tigran’s question seems genuine rather than dismissive.
“For one, being included in discussions about threats to our family instead of being told not to worry about them.” I stand and walk to the window that overlooks the mansion’s elaborate gardens.
“It would look like understanding the business operations that fund our lifestyle instead of pretending the money comes from legitimate sources.”
“Some knowledge carries risks along with benefits.” Tigran joins me at the window. “Some information can’t be unknown once you have it.”
“Most of the time, ignorance carries even greater risks.” I turn to face him. “How can I make smart decisions about my safety and my future if I don’t understand the dangers and opportunities we’re actually dealing with?”
Tigran doesn’t answer immediately, and I can see him weighing competing considerations behind his careful expression. Including me in discussions means acknowledging that our marriage has become more than what it was intended to be. On the other hand, who wants a vengeful wife?
“What if I told you that meaningful participation means accepting responsibility for decisions that could affect other people’s lives?” he asks finally. “Would you want that knowledge if it comes with obligations you might not want to assume?”
“I’ve been assuming unwanted obligations since the day I learned about this marriage.” I move closer to him. “Responsibility for other people’s lives comes with the territory of being your wife, whether I understand the details or not.”
“What if you learn things that make you want to distance yourself from this family? If you discover some of our methods conflict with your moral principles?”
“I’m not na?ve. I already know you do business in a way that is contrary to my ethics, but I’m also pragmatic.
” I reach out to touch his face, noting how he leans into the contact despite the tension in our conversation.
“I’d rather deal with these issues as an informed partner than as an ignorant victim. ”
“Partnership requires trust that goes both ways,” he says, his voice softer now. “It requires believing that we’re working toward the same goals even when we disagree about methods.”
“Then start trusting me with the truth about what those goals actually are.” I step closer, eliminating the space between us. “Start trusting me to handle information like an adult instead of protecting me like a child.”
When Tigran kisses me, it tastes like vodka and evasion. His mouth is warm and demanding, but I recognize this is a distraction from uncomfortable questions he doesn’t want to answer.
“You’re trying to change the subject,” I say against his lips when we break apart.
“I’m trying to show you some things are better demonstrated than explained.” His hands frame my face, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “Partnership takes time to build.”
“How much time?” I don’t pull away from his touch, but I don’t surrender to it either.
“Give me a few weeks to figure out how to include you without compromising security.” His voice drops to that persuasive tone he probably uses during business negotiations. “Give me time to establish protocols that keep you safe while giving you the information you need.”
A few weeks. It’s not the immediate transparency I want, but it’s a timeline that suggests he’s at least considering my request instead of dismissing it entirely. “A few weeks,” I repeat, testing the timeframe.
Instead of confirming the deadline, he kisses me again, more insistently this time. He slides his hands into my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me.
I let him distract me because my body responds to his touch whether my mind approves or not.
I let him carry me upstairs to our bedroom and demonstrate the kind of partnership that doesn’t require planning or protocols.
I let him exhaust us both until we fall asleep tangled together, his arm draped possessively across my waist.
I don’t forget that he avoided my questions with physical passion instead of honest answers.
The next morning, Tigran is gone before I wake up. Irina brings my breakfast tray with a message that he’ll be in meetings all day and won’t be available for lunch or dinner. It’s convenient timing for someone who just promised to start including me in family business.
Over the following three days, Tigran maintains his pattern of early departures and late returns.
He leaves before I’m fully awake and comes to bed long after I’ve pretended to fall asleep.
Our conversations are limited to polite exchanges about mealtimes and social obligations that require my presence as his wife.
His absence gives me the opportunity I need to explore the mansion more systematically.
I start with the basement levels, timing the guards’ patrol routes until I identify a fifteen-minute window when the kitchen area isn’t monitored.
The door near the service entrance is locked with an electronic keypad, but I can see through the small window that leads to a hallway lined with additional doors.
One appears to house security equipment based on the multiple monitor screens visible through its window.
Another contains what looks like filing cabinets and document storage.