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I lean back in my chair, absorbing everything. The vast network we command is a testament to our strength and unity. These calls, these meetings, they're a constant reminder of the empire we've built, brick by brick, deal by deal.
I feel an undercurrent of admiration as I listen. My brothers, each formidable in their own right, have shaped the Bratva into an unparalleled force. However, as the reports continue, a small part of me can't help but let my mind wander back to that letter.
The chatter dims as all eyes settle on me. Leo, with that ever-present scowl of his, says, "So, little brother, enjoying wedded bliss?"
Nikita chuckles softly, her dancer's grace evident as she reaches for her glass and takes a sip of her drink. "Who would've thought Damien would finally get tied down?”
Sandra, her eyes sharp and calculating, joins in, "It must be true love," she says with a hint of mischief.
Andrei smirks, "Or perhaps he's just drawn the short end of the stick."
I can feel a familiar warmth creeping up my neck, but I keep my composure. "Oh, the joys of matrimony," I remark dryly, taking a sip from the glass in front of me. "Don't you worry, I have everything under control."
Sensing an opportunity to change the subject, I steer the conversation to a more professional note. "Speaking of control, I've made progress with the Turks. Ahmet, their leader, has shown interest in our proposal."
Andrei's playful demeanor instantly changes. His eyes narrow, and he leans in slightly, his voice a shade colder, "Ahmet is not someone to play games with, Damien. I've dealt with his kind before. They're cunning, ruthless."
Roman, always the voice of reason, adds from the screen, "Andrei is right. Ahmet has a reputation, and not just in Turkey. You should tread carefully."
Leo, taking a moment to adjust the cufflinks on his shirt, casually says, "Maybe I should handle this. I've had my dealings with the Turks in the past. It might be more judicious."
For a moment, I feel cornered, the weight of their collective experience bearing down on me. But I'm no pushover. This is my deal, my opportunity, and I won't back down.
"Have a little faith in me," I retort, looking Leo squarely in the eyes. "I've been preparing for this for months. I know what's at stake, and I can handle Ahmet."
A tense silence follows. Samuil, breaking the lull, chimes in from New York. "Damien's got the mettle. He's proven himself time and again. Let him take this one."
After what feels like hours but is only a few seconds, Andrei exhales slowly. "Fine. But know this, little brother," his gaze unwavering, "if things go south, if you make even a single mistake, Leo will step in. This isn't just about you. It's about our family’s legacy."
I nod, appreciating the gravity of what's been said. The rest of the meeting continues, but Andrei's words linger in my mind, a poignant reminder of the responsibility I shoulder, not just as a brother, but as a member of the Bratva.
Andrei's words echo in my brain as I leave the restaurant, and I can't help but feel frustrated. Despite the recognition and respect I've earned in the organization, it feels like, to them, I'm perpetually the little brother, always needing guidance and never trusted with any real responsibility. I’ve brokered deals and led missions, yet one mention of a name like Ahmet Sahin, and suddenly, I'm back to square one, my credibility in question.
The sharp bite of the cool night air feels refreshing, momentarily distracting me from my frustration. As the car pulls up, my driver offers a respectful nod, undoubtedly having noticed my somber mood. With practiced ease, I slide into the plush leather interior, allowing the gentle hum of the engine to soothe my racing thoughts.
From the inner pocket of my coat, I retrieve Mariya’s letter. The paper is slightly crumpled from the number of times I’ve read it. I trace my fingers over the words, feeling the emotion behind each line. Her resolve, in some way, mirrors mine. I can't help but smile at the lipstick imprint, a cheeky sign-off from my reluctant bride.
Considering our rather unconventional circumstances, I've kept my distance. But if I'm being honest with myself, the letter tugs at something within me. Maybe it's time I penned a response. Perhaps this could be a bridge, a way to reach an understanding.
I pull out a notepad from the compartment beside me. "Happy wife, happy life," I speak under my breath, trying to find the right words. But what do you say to a woman whose life you've irrevocably altered?
The car’s gentle movement and the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows create a cocoon of comfort as I start to write. The pen feels heavy, and I hesitate, thinking of what to say. How do you bridge the chasm with words? The pressure of the pen’s tip against the paper feels almost cathartic, and slowly, the words start to flow.
Line after line, I pour my thoughts and intentions onto the page, hoping to capture the essence of my feelings and concerns. I want to be honest but not intimidating, approachable yet distant. I wish to convey understanding, respect, and perhaps a hint of my admiration for her spirit.
Several minutes pass and before I know it, the page is filled with my words, my thoughts. I don't reread it, choosing to trust my instincts instead. Folding the paper, I seal it in an envelope.
The car moves smoothly through the streets of Moscow, but I’m too preoccupied to notice the scenery outside. I’m intrigued by Mariya, by the challenge she represents, and by the potential of what could be. It's a gamble to send the letter, but then again, isn't everything in life?
Chapter 5
Mariya
The house holds a silent allure, begging me to uncover its mysteries one room at a time. Each corner hides stories, some old and some yet to be created. I wander through the grand hallways and intricately designed rooms, noting the rich textures and sumptuous fabrics.
However, it is the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the large French windows that captures my attention. My curiosity is piqued, and I find myself drawn to the view outside. The expansive lawns that unfurl before me seem to stretch for miles, a lush ocean of green and other vibrant colors. It’s a world apart from the house’s rather cold elegance, nature's own realm, where wild beauty reigns.
My hands itch to touch the earth, to bring life to the garden that's been left untended for too long. There’s something grounding about connecting with nature, feeling the soil beneath one's fingers, and nurturing plants back to health. And God knows I could use some grounding right now.
