Page 5 of His Forced Bride

My father's driver is dead, probably before he knew what hit him, and it makes my heart scream out as I reach the side of the car.

"Batya," I call out, my voice breaking on the word. "Please answer me."

I reach for the handle and pull, and the door opens easily, but as it does, my father's limp body comes with it, toppling out onto the pavement head first.

A scream tears up out of my chest, sounding like the wail of a banshee, and I collapse with him as his body slides to the ground, trailing blood down the front of my dress.

My arms wrap around his head as I shriek and sob.

"Batya, no… God, please…"

My body is racked with sobs, and I barely register Alina behind me with her hand on my shoulder.

"Oh my God, Dominic," she mutters, and through the haze of grief and pain, I look up in the open door of the car to see Dominic seated there with a single hole in the center of his forehead, his blood splattered on the window behind him.

What the hell just happened?

2

YURI

The blood on the asphalt reflects the rotating lights of emergency vehicles, creating patterns that shift and dance across the broken glass scattered throughout the street.

I stand at the edge of the scene, watching uniformed officers string yellow tape around what remains of two lives that impacted my world for over twenty years.

Dominic's body lies on a stretcher, having been removed from Semyon’s vehicle.

My son's pale blue eyes stare unseeing at the sky, his expensive suit darkened with stains I refuse to examine too closely or the rage will take me over.

Twenty-two years old, reckless and arrogant and mine, now reduced to evidence in a crime scene that will consume the headlines for weeks.

Semyon Mirov rests face-down beside his Mercedes, still, but his body is mostly covered with a sheet.

The partnership that was supposed to secure our families' futures ended with bullets and betrayal, leaving behind only questions that demand answers I may never find.

My phone vibrates against my chest.

I ignore it, focusing instead on the details the police will overlook in their eagerness to close another Mob-related killing.

Three vehicles, based on the tire tracks and shell casings.

Military-grade weapons, judging by the damage to the car and surrounding buildings.

Professional execution, no witnesses willing to come forward.

This was not random violence or a deal gone wrong.

This was a message written in blood.

"Mr. Gravitch." A detective approaches me, his badge identifying him as Zhukov.

"We need to ask you some questions about your son's activities."

"My son is dead," I reply without looking away from Dominic's body. "His activities died with him."

"The preliminary investigation suggests this was related to a crime syndicate… Something about an arms deal gone wrong…" The detective's eyes are focused on me, narrowed in suspicion, and I don’t like it.

He has no clue who he's fucking with.