Page 19 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

I should have locked the door.

I watch Marco take in the scene. He’s trying not to smirk, but I can see the amusement dancing in his eyes.

I walk back to my chair with as much dignity as I can manage, sitting down and hoping the desk hides my disheveled state. Kasimira stands near the window, smoothing down her dress and avoiding eye contact with both of us.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, keeping my voice level. “It’s ten p.m. What do you want?”

Marco raises an eyebrow. “I never knew you were opposed to working late at night. You always work late. What changed, Uncle?”

The little bastard is enjoying this.

“Sooo,” Kasimira says brightly. “It’s way past my bedtime.”

She heads for the door, and I watch the sway of her hips with hunger. When she reaches Marco, she gives him a sweet smile that makes me want to put my fist through his face.

“Good night, Marco.”

“Sweet dreams, Kasi.”

After she leaves, Marco settles into the chair across from my desk like he owns the place.

“I hope this isn’t what I think it is,” he says.

“Mind your business, Marco.” I don’t answer his question because it’s none of his damn business what happens between my wife and me. “What do you want?”

He shrugs, apparently deciding not to push. “The shipment from Colombia hit a snag. Police intercepted two containers at the port, and now they’re demanding almost triple the usual bribe.”

“How much?”

“Five million instead of the usual two.”

I lean back in my chair, mind shifting to business mode despite the ache in my body. “Pay it. We can’t afford delays.”

“Already handled. But, Uncle…” He pauses, studying my face. “Maybe we should discuss boundaries while I’m here.”

“Boundaries?”

“With your wife. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”

The fact that he even feels the need to say it makes my blood boil. “There won’t be.”

“Good. Because she’s beautiful, and charming, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were actually falling for her.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

The next morning, I walk into the dining room to find them having breakfast together.

Again.

Marco is telling some story that has Kasimira laughing so hard she has to wipe tears from her eyes.

She never looks at me like that. Hell, she never looks at anyone like that. Pure joy, unguarded and genuine. When she laughs, her whole face lights up.

Marco reaches over to brush a crumb from her cheek, and I imagine what it would feel like to break his fingers one by one.

“Good morning,” I say, taking my seat at the head of the table.

“Morning,” Kasimira replies, her smile fading slightly.

“Uncle.” Marco nods. “Sleep well?”

“Fine.”

The rest of breakfast passes in stilted conversation while I watch Marco charm my wife and plot increasingly violent ways to remove him from the premises.

By evening, the estate has been transformed for Antonio Torrino’s seventy-fifth birthday celebration. The old bastard insisted on throwing his party here, claiming our grounds are better suited for entertaining than his cramped penthouse.

The reality is that hosting the party here serves as a display of Moretti power. Guests arrive to see armed guards, expensive cars, and enough security to protect a small country. It reminds everyone exactly who they’re dealing with.

The main ballroom glitters with crystal chandeliers and tables laden with food. Pole dancers move on raised platforms while guests mingle and make deals that will shape the criminal landscape for months to come.

Kasimira enters the room wearing a red dress that should be illegal, and every conversation stops. The fabric hugs her curves like a second skin, and her hair is swept up to show off the elegant line of her neck.

“Stunning,” Marco murmurs beside me.

“Careful.”

“Just making an observation, Uncle.”

She moves through the crowd like she was born to this life, shaking hands and making small talk with criminals and politicians alike. When she reaches our table, she settles beside me with a grace that makes my chest tighten.

“Quite a party,” she says.

“Antonio likes his celebrations elaborate.”

“I can see that.”

A Russian arms dealer approaches our table, Ian Petrov, brother to the man I killed last month. He nods respectfully before addressing me in heavily accented English.

“Mr. Moretti, thank you for hosting such magnificent party.”

“My pleasure, Ian.”

He turns to Kasimira. “And you must be beautiful new wife I hear so much about.”

Before I can introduce her, Kasimira responds in flawless Russian. The words flow like music, and Ian’s face lights up with delight.

They converse for several minutes while I sit there stunned. She’s not just speaking Russian—she’s speaking it like a native, with perfect pronunciation and complex grammar.

“Your wife speaks excellent Russian,” Ian tells me in English. “Very impressive.”

“Indeed,” I manage.

A German businessman joins the conversation, and Kasimira switches languages seamlessly. Then a French politician approaches, and she greets him in his native tongue.

By the time a Spanish cartel representative starts discussing shipping routes with her in rapid Spanish, I’m staring at her like I’ve never seen her before.

She’s not just multilingual—she’s brilliant. Every conversation is aimed at building connections.

“You speak five languages?” the Spanish representative asks in wonder.

“Six, actually,” she replies modestly. “But my Italian is still weak.”

“Incredible. You must have studied extensively.”

“Languages come naturally to me. I studied international relations in college.”

The German businessman leans forward. “Perhaps you could help with communication problems my organization has been having with our Moscow partners.”

“I’d be happy to facilitate a conversation.”

Right there at the dinner table, she brokers a deal between the German and Ian that’s been stalled for months due to miscommunication. Her translation work and cultural insights lead to a handshake agreement worth twenty million dollars.

“Remarkable,” Ian says, raising his glass. “To Mrs. Moretti—most valuable addition to family.”

The table toasts, and I watch my wife accept praise with the composure of someone born to power.

She’s invaluable. Not just beautiful or charming, but genuinely useful to the organization in ways I never imagined.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the band leader announces, “we invite all married couples to join us on the dance floor.”

Kasimira looks at me expectantly. I stand and offer my arm, leading her to the center of the room where other couples are gathering.

The music starts—something slow and romantic that seems out of place in a room full of killers and criminals. But when I pull her into my arms, everything else fades away.

“I never knew you were a genius,” I murmur as we move together.

“I’m not a genius. I just pay attention.”

“Six languages. International relations degree. You could be valuable to our businesses.”

“Could I?”

“I’m trying to move the family operations legitimate. Having someone who can communicate with international partners, navigate complex negotiations…” I spin her slowly. “You could be essential.”

She looks up at me with an expression I can’t read.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“No?”

“Then why are you staring at me like that?”

“Nothing. It’s just weird that we’re having a normal conversation.”

“Ah.”

She’s right. Every interaction we’ve had has been either hostile or sexual. We argue, we fight, we tear each other’s clothes off.

But this, talking about business—this is new territory.

“You’re right,” I admit. “It is weird.”

For the first time since this whole arrangement began, I’m not thinking about duty or protection or the terms of Dante’s will.

I’m thinking about a partnership. About what we could build together if we stopped fighting long enough to try.

The song ends, but I don’t let her go.