Page 6 of His Forced Bride

It's the sort of thing that gets lesser men killed.

I turn to face Zhukov, letting him see the full weight of my attention.

He's younger than I expected, probably assigned to this case because his superiors want to maintain distance from anything involving the Gravitch name.

Smart move on their part.

Less smart on his.

"My son was twenty-two years old," I tell him confidently, and my tone is laced with a warning his eyebrows pick up on.

They rise as I continue. "He knew nothing about international arms deals or missing shipments. If someone sold you that story, they lied."

But even as I dismiss Zhukov's theory, I know he's closer to the truth than I want to admit.

Dominic's been restless lately, eager to prove himself worthy of inheriting my position.

He'd asked too many questions about our overseas connections, shown too much interest in the profitable ventures he wasn't ready to understand.

If he'd tried to broker his own deal with Kozlov's people, if he'd promised delivery on merchandise he couldn't provide…

The detective opens his mouth to respond, but movement across the street captures my attention.

A woman in white emerges from behind the ambulance, her dress luminous against the chaos surrounding her.

Even at this distance, even through the haze of smoke and flashing lights, I recognize her immediately.

Inessa Mirova.

Tomorrow's bride, now tonight's orphan.

She moves stiffly, shoulders limp, face contorted with grief.

Her eyes are red-rimmed, her posture slumped.

The ivory silk of her wedding dress—the same gown she was supposed to wear while promising herself to my dead son—now bears dark stains that can only be her father's blood.

Her dark brown hair falls loose around her shoulders, framing a face that shows grief and shock but no weakness.

"Excuse me," I tell Zhukov, already walking away from his questions and toward the woman who represents either salvation or further ruin for both our families.

She sees me approaching and straightens her spine, lifting her chin in a gesture of pride and defiance.

Up close, she's very striking, even after the crying she's done.

She’s tall and slender, with pale skin that makes her gray-green eyes appear almost luminous.

But it's the steel in her bearing that catches my attention, the refusal to crumble despite losing everything in the span of a few hours, the very instant she sees me.

Just like her father would’ve wanted.

"Miss Mirova." I stop just beyond arm's reach, respecting the invisible barrier her posture has created around her.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Are you?"

Her voice carries the hint of an accent that becomes more pronounced under stress, Russian vowels bleeding through the polished English she uses for business.