Page 53 of His Forced Bride

She's only been mine for three days and his loyalty extends to her automatically now.

"Complete loss. The building, the equipment, her entire spring collection."

I pick up the picture—a crime scene photograph showing the gutted remains of Inessa's warehouse on the industrial side of St. Petersburg.

Twisted metal beams, charred fabric, melted machinery.

Months of her work reduced to ash.

"Casualties?" I ask, looking up at him.

"None. Happened at night when the building was empty. But they left a message."

He points to a photograph of graffiti spray-painted on the exterior wall.

The words are in English, crude but clear.

HONOR THE DEAL.

My jaw tightens. "Kozlov."

"Has to be. Military-grade accelerant, the kind used in war zones. And we found this."

He slides another photograph, taken from the breast pocket of his suit, across the desk.

Security footage from across the street shows a heavyset man with a shaved head and distinctive facial scarring.

Mikhail Kozlov himself, watching the warehouse burn from the passenger seat of a black SUV.

"He's escalating," Oleg says. "Your refusal to complete Dominic's arms deal obviously wasn't taken well."

I lean back in the leather chair, studying the photographs.

Kozlov is a problem I've been avoiding, hoping he'd find other suppliers and leave the Gravitch organization alone.

But men who deal in death and violence don't accept refusal gracefully.

"What's his next move?"

"We don't know, sir. But targeting your wife's business sends a clear message. He's not going after you directly—yet. He's hitting what you value."

What I value.

Three days ago, Inessa's company was a business asset, a means to launder money and legitimize revenue streams.

Now it's something else entirely—an extension of her, a piece of what makes her who she is.

And Kozlov burned it down.

"Double security around the compound," I tell Oleg.

"I want armed men on every entrance, every window. No one gets in without clearance."

"Already done, sir."

"Find out everything there is to know about Kozlov before this erupts," I tell him, and he grunts his acknowledgement before turning on his heel.

After he leaves, I sit alone with the photographs.