Page 22

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in my office, eyes fixed outside the manicured lawns in the garden below. In my hand, I nursed a half-empty glass of vodka, reflecting on how flawlessly the operation had played out.

The alliance between the Irish and Italians was severed in one clean sweep. The public humiliation—his daughter’s confession—had cost Ronan a lot more than just his name and the reputation he’d fought so hard to protect.

The man had crawled back into his shell, disgraced and humiliated.

I’d bruised his ego, struck him where it hurt the most, and it just might take a while before he’d be back on his feet again.

So far, even the Italians had backed off; they knew better than to try anything stupid, not while I still had their golden boy in custody.

They had made attempts at a negotiation, willing to strike a deal for their son’s freedom.

Others would have opted for war on impulse, but the Italians thought this through.

It was clear as day that if they started a fight with the organization that held their son captive, they just might end up losing him in a crossfire.

For now, both parties were silent. They must be planning something—especially the Italians—but they wouldn’t attack now. I had leverage over both families, and I wasn’t done just yet.

My lips curled into a faint smirk as I lifted the glass to my mouth and took a sip.

It felt great being in charge, being the one to call the shots after my enemies had thought they had me cornered.

Neither the Bianchis nor the O’Haras were bold enough to launch an attack on me or any of my merchandise despite their rage.

Now, that’s true power right there—the ability to make the enemy dance to my tune. The chaos at the wedding inflicted more damage than a hundred bullets ever could. For once, it wasn’t just brute force; it was strategy, and I was the mastermind behind it.

And then, there was the center of all of this: my precious wife, Ayla. The thought of her alone sent shivers down my spine, and a flutter rose in my chest. The woman had unlocked something inside of me, something I didn’t want to name yet.

She claimed she hated me, but her body and her eyes betrayed her every single time.

Ayla was as into me as I was into her; she just wouldn’t admit it.

Her pride wouldn’t let her. Ayla needed some time to heal and to understand the gravity of her situation.

Forever was the deal, but she’d yet to come to terms with that.

The realization may not have yet hit her. But it would, soon.

Her fate was sealed the moment I set my eyes on her that night at the lot.

I wanted her and was determined to make her mine.

I always got what I wanted, especially when I set my mind to it.

However, with Ayla, it was a bit different.

I didn’t go through all that stress to make her mine just because I could; I didn’t do it for sport.

No. I did it because I genuinely needed her in my life.

There was already too much darkness surrounding me, and somehow, the light she carried pulled me in like a moth to a flame.

After I tasted her, literally, I knew that instant that my search for a woman was over.

Not that I was searching for one at the time.

She invaded my heart, took my soul by storm, and slithered her way into my mind.

It was almost like she was a blessing directly from the heavens, sent to complete me—to fill the emptiness in my soul.

Because of my uncertainties, I nearly lost such a good woman.

But thankfully, the universe spun the situation in my favor.

Now, I couldn’t imagine life without her.

But I could imagine a future, one that she was a part of.

And it was beautiful. If only she could see it too.

My phone buzzed on the table behind me, pulling me from my thoughts. A faint scowl settled on my face as my grip tightened around the glass in my hand. At first, I wanted to ignore it, but the damn phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

This better be important.

I took another sip, turned around, and walked over to the table. My eyes narrowed at the number flashing on my screen. It wasn’t in my contacts, but I didn’t need to be a genius to know who the caller was. My lips curled into a twisted grin, and I answered the phone without saying a word.

“Mr. Tarasov,” a masculine voice called on the other line, a rather unfamiliar one. “This is Scot Colton. I represent Mr. Ronan O’Hara,” he introduced himself, his tone diplomatic but strained.

I lifted the glass to my nostrils, savoring the harsh scent of vodka. “Speak.”

“We believe there’s room to find common ground here, Mr. Tarasov,” he began, clearing his throat.

“My employer is prepared to make an offer…or concede to yours— however you’d like it.

” He paused, as if waiting for my response, but all he got was silence.

He continued, “This doesn’t have to escalate… . It doesn’t have to get, well…messy.”

“Colton, is it?” I asked, my voice calm and collected. “You should know that I don’t like being threatened because things usually get…well…messy.”

He swallowed on the other end. “There are no threats here, Mr. Tarasov. Just two men trying to reach an agreement.” He hesitated then continued, “My employer, Mr. O’Hara, is willing to do whatever it takes to settle this quietly.

Name your price, your leverage, and we’ll comply in exchange for the girl. ”

My scowl deepened. “That ‘girl’ is my wife now,” I said, my voice low and venomous. “You will do well to remember that next time.”

He chuckled nervously, displeased and threatened by my response. “Mr. Tarasov, surely, you understand that—”

“What I understand, Mr. Colton, is that you’re starting to overstep,” I cut him off before he could finish his statement. “Russians don’t do divorce.”

He let out a soft, exasperated sigh.

“Tell Ronan O’Hara that his daughter is adapting nicely,” I added, hanging up mid-sentence.

Just as I was about to set the phone down on the table, my eyes caught a shadow moving—slow and deliberate—just beyond the threshold of the office door. My lips curled into a grin, knowing exactly who was eavesdropping on my conversation.

“Curiosity is not a sin, but it kills the cat,” I said, my voice bold and audible. “I know you’re out there, Ayla. You can come in.”

After what seemed like a moment of hesitation, the door creaked open, and she walked inside.

Her perfume enveloped the air, her hair cascading down her shoulders like a river of blood.

For someone who claimed she hated me so much, she was comfortable enough to slip into one of my checkered shirts.

The knee-length oversized fabric shrouded her figure, exposing her thighs and alluring legs.

My eyes roamed her body for a moment before settling on her face—her expression unreadable.

“I have a question,” she said, her tone flat.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” I replied, smooth and charming, walking over to the front side of the table.

She ignored my sarcasm and spilled the words that struck me like a dagger to the chest, “Where is he? Where is Lucas?”

I’d never felt more disrespected by a question that was supposed to be simple. That sly grin vanished from my face, replaced by a frown that highlighted my displeasure. The worry in her tone and her audacity in asking about her ex-fiancé unnerved me.

“What does it matter to you?” I asked, my voice low and venomous, my eyes fixed on her.

“I know yours is dead. But some of us still have a conscience, Sergei,” she replied without breaking eye contact. “Lucas is a good man, and he does not deserve any of this.”

Hearing her speak so highly of him infuriated me, my fingers curling into fists at my side.

“Good man, you say?” I scoffed. “Stop being naive, Ayla. Lucas is a Bianchi, heir to the Italian Mafia.” I walked toward her, watching her brace herself, her body stiffening slightly.

“He’s just like the rest of us—forged from the fire of greed and violence.

” I halted before her. “There are no good men in our world. We’re all cut from the same cloth, devils in tailored suits. ”

She looked me in the eyes and said, “I don’t care what you say; he’s different.”

My jaw clenched, fury etched in my gaze. “You still want him, hmm?” My hand snapped out and grasped her wrist. “Answer me.” I leaned in, my grip tightening.

She winced, rolling her wrist as she struggled to free herself. “You’re hurting me,” she whimpered.

It wasn’t until after I blinked a few times that I saw beyond my rage and caught the pain in her features. Quietly, I loosened my grip, and she yanked her hand out, eyes blazing with a mix of emotions.

Ayla pulled away, shook her head in contempt, and then walked out on me.

Her rejection, her retreat, as if I were a monster, stung more than it should, leaving behind a strange silence. I watched her walk out of my office, and for the first time, something cold slipped under my skin. The realization set in: She wasn’t just angry at me. She was hurting.

The victory I claimed now felt unsteady, and although I could chase after her or even command her to return, I just stood, rooted in place. I balled a fist, replaying the way she looked at me. Not hatred this time. It was more disappointment.