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“I’m not a revolutionary,” she said.
“It’s not revolutionary to want more out of life than to marry some asshole, one who fucks everything that can walk and expects you to push out sons every few years.”
“Some of us want to be mothers,” Natasha said.
I leaned forward. “That is because you’ve been told that that is what you are supposed to want your entire life.”
“Isn’t feminism supposed to be about giving every woman the right to choose which pathway that they follow?”
I bit my tongue as she threw my words back at me. Natasha and I might be wildly different, but the two of us had learned long ago that a discerning eye kept a person alive. While the women of the Bratva were protected in ways that the men weren’t, we often ended up collateral damage in the wars that they waged.
“I want to change things for the women of the Bratva,” I snapped.
Natasha said nothing, but I knew that there was some part of her that agreed with what I was saying. My mother walked out on us, and hers died at the hands of the Blanchi.
“Who has your father named as successor?” she asked.
“What?” The change in subject confused me.
“Who has your father named?” she repeated.
“Does it matter?”
She shrugged. “It might. There are some men who are more…” she trailed off, searching for the word. “Progressive than others.”
There were no men, at least ones that I was familiar with, who would want to change the Bratva in the same ways that I did. They all wanted the typical things men found attractive—power, money. They did not see the ways in which their method of spilling blood through the streets of New York were going to destroy all of us.
“It does not matter who my father has chosen.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I have no plans of marrying him.”
I ignored the pity in Natasha’s eyes.
“You should not dig your heels in,” she told me. “Maybe if you give the guy a chance…”
“I won’t be doing that.” I looked in the mirror. I had cracked it to the point where nothing was visible. “I will be my father’s successor. One way or another.”
