Page 17 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

She’s going to be the death of me.

I watch from my office window as Kasimira walks through the gardens wearing a white dress that should be illegal.

The fabric clings to her body like a second skin, and the halter neck leaves her back completely exposed.

Her hair flows over her shoulders in dark waves that catch the morning sunlight.

Maria knocked an hour ago to inform me that my wife was ready for the day’s business. The way she said “ready” with that knowing smile suggested I might not be prepared for whatever Kasimira had planned.

She was right.

A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts. “Sir? The car is ready.”

“We’ll be right there.”

I find her in the main foyer, examining a painting like she’s considering buying it.

The dress is even worse up close—white silk that hugs every curve, with a neckline that dips dangerously low.

She’s not wearing a bra. I can tell because the fabric moves with her breathing, and the outlines of her nipples are clearly visible.

“Ready?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

“As I’ll ever be.” She turns to face me, and the movement makes the dress shift in ways that draw my eyes to places they shouldn’t go.

The drive to the dock takes ten minutes through winding roads that cut through expensive neighborhoods.

Kasimira stares out the window, seemingly fascinated by the passing scenery.

I try to focus on the documents we’ll be signing today, on the legal transfer that will make her one of the richest women in the state.

Instead, I keep glancing at the way the seat belt cuts between her breasts.

“Tell me about this boat,” she says as we pull into the marina.

“It’s a yacht. And it’s for business, not pleasure.”

“Looks expensive.”

The Moretti Pearl sits at the end of the private dock, forty feet of Italian engineering with white hull, teak decking, enough room for entertaining clients who prefer their business meetings away from prying eyes.

“Mr. Moretti,” the captain greets us as we board. “Beautiful day for a cruise.”

“Just get us to the city, Ronnie.”

Kasimira wanders the deck while the engines warm up, trailing her fingers along the polished railings. The yacht pulls away from the dock smoothly, cutting through blue water toward the Manhattan skyline.

“This is nice,” she calls over the sound of the engines. “Very…mafia-esque.”

She moves to the front railing, leaning against it with her arms spread wide. The pose pushes her chest forward, and the wind whips her hair around her face like she’s posing for a magazine.

That’s when I hear the whistles.

A party boat is approaching from the south, packed with men in their twenties who are clearly day-drinking and looking for entertainment. They spot Kasimira immediately, whooping and calling out comments that make my blood boil.

“Hey, beautiful!”

“Nice dress!”

“Show us what’s underneath!”

Kasimira turns toward them and smiles. A real smile, bright and mischievous and completely unlike the cold expressions she usually gives me.

Then she reaches for the straps of her dress.

“What the hell are you doing?” I’m moving before I realize it, crossing the deck in three quick strides.

But I’m too late. She pulls the fabric down just enough to expose herself completely, giving thirty drunk strangers a view that should belong to her husband alone.

The men on the other boat go wild, cheering while she laughs and waves like some kind of deranged beauty queen.

I grab her shoulders and spin her around, pulling her against my chest to block their view. “Cover yourself. Now.”

“Why?” She looks up at me with fake innocence, making no move to fix her dress. “They seemed to enjoy the show.”

“Because you’re my wife.”

“So?”

“So you don’t belong to them. You belong to me.”

Her eyes flash with triumph, like this is exactly the reaction she wanted. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

“Yes, you do.” I haul her toward the cabin door, ignoring her protests. “And it’s time you learned that.” I push her into the cabin and turn the deadbolt with a sharp click.

“You can’t lock me in here!” she shouts, pounding on the door.

“Watch me.”

I return to the deck, where Ronnie is pretending he didn’t see anything. The party boat has moved on, but I can still hear their laughter carrying across the water.

“Everything alright, sir?” Ronnie asks.

“Fine. Just keep us on course.”

The rest of the trip passes in blessed silence, though I can hear Kasimira moving around in the cabin. By the time we reach the city marina, my jaw aches from clenching it so hard.

I unlock the cabin door to find her sitting on the small sofa, her dress properly arranged and her expression murderous.

“Enjoy your tantrum?” she asks sweetly.

“Move.”

At the lawyer’s office, Kasimira signs documents without reading them, her pen moving across papers that transfer ownership of properties worth fifty million dollars.

“This feels familiar,” she murmurs after signing the third deed.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just…déjà vu, I guess.”

I file that comment away for later consideration.

The lunch afterward is tense but civil. She asks about her net worth in a casual manner, and I tell her a number that makes her whistle appreciatively.

“Fifty-three million dollars,” she repeats. “Not bad for a fake marriage.”

“It isn’t fake.”

We return to the yacht in silence, the trip back to the estate passing without incident. She stays inside the cabin by choice this time, and I spend the thirty minutes trying to figure out why her little stunt bothered me so much.

I know why. I just don’t want to admit it.

By evening, I have more pressing concerns.

“The Petrov leader is at his warehouse,” Benedetto reports, sliding into the passenger seat of my car. “Just like you said he’d be.”

“Good. How many men with him?”

“Four. Maybe five.”

Viktor Petrov thought he could kidnap my wife and walk away unscathed. He thought wrong.

The warehouse district is dark and quiet when we arrive. Over here, the screaming won’t travel far and bodies disappear without questions. Petrov’s operation runs out of a building that used to manufacture furniture. Now it manufactures misery.

“Back entrance?” I ask.

“Clear. My men are in position.” The back door is locked, but Benedetto produces a key one of Petrov’s own men sold to us months ago.

The main floor is empty except for shipping containers and the smell of fear. We follow voices toward the office area, where light spills through dirty windows.

Viktor Petrov sits behind a desk counting money when we walk in. His four bodyguards reach for their guns, but my men are already inside, weapons trained on targets before anyone can blink.

“Alaric Moretti,” Petrov says, not bothering to look up from his cash. “I wondered when you’d come calling.”

“You kidnapped my wife.”

“Business decision. Nothing personal.”

I pull my gun and put a bullet through his right hand before he finishes the sentence. His scream echoes off concrete walls while blood pools on the table.

“That was personal,” I tell him. “This is business.”

The next twenty minutes are educational. Petrov tells us about his organization’s structure, their future plans, their weaknesses. He’s very talkative once Benedetto starts working on his fingers with bolt cutters.

When we have everything we need, I put the gun to his temple.

“Give my regards to your men in hell.”

The drive back to the estate is quiet except for the sound of rain starting to fall. Benedetto handles the cleanup crew while I wash blood from my hands in the car’s built-in sink.

“Do you feel better now?” he asks.

“It’s a start.”

The house is dark when I return, except for security lights and the glow from the kitchen windows. I’m heading for my office when I hear a car in the driveway.

Marco steps out of a black sedan, looking like he’s been through hell. His usually immaculate appearance is disheveled, his tie crooked, his hair messed up like he’s been running his hands through it.

“Welcome back, nephew,” I say as he approaches the front door.

“Uncle.” He embraces me briefly, and I’m struck by how much he looks like Dante. Same green eyes, same sharp cheekbones. The resemblance is unsettling—something I always marveled at when they were kids.

“How was London?” I ask.

“Complicated. My girlfriend didn’t want me to leave. Took some convincing.”

“Three months, wasn’t it?”

“Three months of crazy. I’m done with actresses.” He looks around the foyer, taking in the changes. “So where’s this new bride I’ve been hearing about?”

“Asleep. I’ll introduce you in the morning.”

“Looking forward to it. I hear she’s quite the handful.”

If only he knew.

“Get some rest, Marco. We’ll talk tomorrow.”