Page 20 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

The morning after Antonio’s birthday party, Maria wakes me with news that makes my pulse quicken.

“Mrs. Moretti, your husband needs your presence in his office. He says to dress professionally.”

I find Alaric behind his desk wearing a charcoal suit that makes his green eyes look darker. He doesn’t look up when I enter.

“We’re going to Philadelphia today,” he says without preamble. “Dress to impress. We have partners to meet.”

“What kind of partners?”

“The kind who don’t appreciate wasted time. Be ready in thirty minutes.”

“Are they scum of the earth like the rest of your associates?”

He finally looks up, and there’s amusement in his expression. “No. These are legitimate businessmen. I told you I’m going legal.”

“How legal can it be if you’re involved?”

“Legal enough. We’re meeting with investors interested in opening a chain of convenience stores across three states. Clean money, clean business.”

I study his face, looking for the lie. “And you?”

“I provide start-up capital and strategic guidance. Nothing more.”

“Using dirty money to build clean businesses.”

“Money has no memory, Kasimira. Once it’s invested in legitimate enterprises, it becomes legitimate too.”

The private jet is smaller than I expected but luxurious in the way only unlimited funds can buy. Cream leather seats, polished wood paneling, and a bar stocked with bottles.

Alaric spreads files across the table between us as we taxi down the runway. “The lead investor is German. Klaus Mueller. He speaks English but prefers his native language for complex negotiations.”

“You want me to translate.”

“I want you to facilitate. There’s a difference.”

As we climb into the sky, I watch him work. He’s completely in his element here, reviewing profit projections and market analyses.

The way he moves his hands when he talks, the slight crease between his eyebrows when he concentrates…it’s all surprisingly attractive.

“Stop staring,” he says without looking up.

“I’m not staring.”

“You are. And it’s distracting.”

“Maybe you should be less distracting.”

He glances up at that, and the look he gives me makes heat pool low in my belly. For a moment, the air between us crackles with the same tension that’s been building since our interrupted encounter in his office.

Then he returns to his files, and I force myself to focus on the business at hand.

The meeting takes place in a glass conference room overlooking downtown Philadelphia.

Klaus Mueller is exactly what I expected.

He’s tall, precise, with the kind of bearing that suggests old money and older traditions.

His associates are equally polished, speaking rapid German among themselves before we arrive.

“Mr. Moretti,” Klaus says in accented English as we enter. “A pleasure to finally meet in person.”

“Likewise. This is my wife, Kasimira.”

Klaus’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Your wife? I was not aware you had married.”

“Recently,” I say in fluent German. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr. Mueller.”

The change in Klaus’s demeanor is immediate. His formal politeness transforms into genuine warmth as he responds in his native language, complimenting my pronunciation and asking about my background.

Within minutes, I’m stimulating a conversation that would have taken hours in broken English.

Klaus explains his concerns about zoning regulations, and I translate not just his words but the cultural context behind them.

When he mentions previous partnerships that failed due to miscommunication, I help bridge the gap between German directness and American optimism.

“The initial investment would be twenty-five million,” Alaric says during a lull in conversation.

Klaus winces when I translate the number. “Perhaps we could discuss a more gradual approach?”

I don’t just translate his response—I explain to Alaric that Germans prefer conservative business practices, that Klaus needs to see smaller successes before committing to larger investments.

“What would you suggest?” Alaric asks Klaus directly.

“Perhaps five stores initially. Prove the model works before expanding.”

I watch Alaric calculate, seeing the exact moment he decides to compromise. “Ten stores. Five in Pennsylvania, five in New Jersey. We’ll evaluate results after six months before discussing further expansion.”

When I translate this offer, Klaus’s face lights up. The negotiation continues for another hour, but the foundation is solid.

By the time we shake hands, we’ve brokered a twelve-million-dollar deal that will open ten convenience stores and employ over a hundred people.

“Remarkable,” Klaus tells me in German as we prepare to leave. “Your husband is fortunate to have such a talented partner.”

“Thank you.”

“I look forward to working with both of you.”

On the flight home, Alaric pours himself a drink and settles back in his seat with satisfaction. “Twelve million,” he says. “Not bad for a morning’s work.”

“You seem pleased.”

“I am. Klaus was ready to walk away. The deal only happened because you were there.”

“Good to know I’m useful for more than decoration.”

“You’re useful for a lot of things.”

The way he says it makes my cheeks warm, but before I can respond, his phone rings with another business call.

The weekend brings an invitation I didn’t expect—lunch with the wives of the Moretti family.

Maria delivers the message with obvious excitement. “It’s quite an honor, Mrs. Moretti. The ladies don’t often include newcomers so quickly.”

The gathering takes place at the estate’s outdoor pavilion, a structure I’d never noticed before tucked between the gardens and the polo field. Tables are set with fine china and crystal, creating an elegant picnic atmosphere that only people with unlimited resources could achieve.

Ten women ranging in age from twenty to seventy gather around the tables, and I recognize several faces from the family tree Marco showed me weeks ago.

“Kasimira!” The oldest woman approaches with arms outstretched. “I’m Elena Moretti, Lorenzo’s widow. Welcome to the family, dear.”

Elena must be nearly seventy, but she moves with the grace of someone half her age.

“Thank you for including me.”

“Nonsense. We always welcome new wives. Sit, sit. Let me introduce everyone.”

The introductions blur together—wives of cousins, daughters-in-law, sisters of various Moretti men. Some are clearly born to wealth, others obviously married into it. The youngest, barely twenty, clings to Elena like a nervous daughter.

“That’s Sofia,” Elena whispers. “Married to my great-nephew last month. Still adjusting to the family dynamics.”

“It can be overwhelming,” I agree.

“Oh, you’re handling it beautifully, dear. Alaric seems quite taken with you.”

“Does he?”

“A woman learns to read the signs after fifty years in this family. Trust me, I know smitten when I see it.”

Lunch conversation ranges from gossip about rival families to discussions of charity work and social events. I learn that the wives maintain their own network of influence, using social connections to advance family interests in ways their husbands can’t.

“We’re not just decorations,” explains Carmen, wife of one of Alaric’s cousins. “We gather intelligence, make connections, smooth over conflicts. The men handle business, but we handle everything else.”

“What kind of intelligence?”

“Whose marriages are failing, who’s having financial troubles, which politicians are vulnerable to pressure. Information is power, and we collect it at dinner parties and charity galas.”

I understand for the first time that marrying into the Moretti family means more than just wealth and protection. It means becoming part of a machine that operates on multiple levels.

“Kasimira,” Elena says as dessert arrives, “I hear you speak several languages.”

“A few.”

“How useful. We often struggle to communicate with international partners’ wives. Perhaps you could help translate at future gatherings.”

“I’d be happy to.”

By the time lunch ends, I feel more integrated into the family than I initially wanted to. These women accept me not because I’m Dante’s ex or Alaric’s wife, but because I bring skills they can use.

It’s a Friday afternoon when everything changes.

I’m reading in the library when Lionel appears in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral.

“Mrs. Moretti, you have a visitor.”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

The book falls from my hands. “My father?”

“He’s waiting in the main sitting room.”

I walk through the house on unsteady legs, my mind racing. I haven’t seen Marcus Vale in over eight months, not since I ran away from Dante. What could he possibly want now?

I find him standing by the windows, looking out at the gardens with his back to me. He’s thinner than I remember, his shoulders narrower, his hair grayer. When he turns around, I see new lines around his eyes and a desperation that makes my chest tighten.

“Kasi.”

“Dad.”

We stare at each other across the elegant room, and for a moment I’m twenty years old again, believing my father would protect me from anything.

“You look well,” he says finally. “Prosperous.”

“What do you want?”

“Can’t a father visit his daughter?”

“Not this father. Not after what you did.”

He has the grace to look ashamed, at least. “I made mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” The word comes out sharper than intended. “You sold me, Dad. Like cattle.”

“I was desperate. The debts were crushing me. I thought…I thought it would work out. That you’d be happy.”

“Happy?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You thought I’d be happy being sold to a sociopath?”

“Dante had money, status. I thought he’d take care of you.”

“He tortured me for two years.”

Marcus winces. “I didn’t know he was like that. If I had known?—”

“You would have done it anyway because you needed the money.”

He doesn’t deny it, which tells me everything I need to know.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“The debts are mounting again. Worse than before. I need help.”

And there it is. The real reason for this visit. My heart breaks all over again, not because I’m surprised, but because some naive part of me hoped he’d come to apologize.

“You need money.”

“Just a loan. To tide me over until I can get back on my feet.”

“How much?”

“Two million.”

I stare at him. “Two million dollars.”

“I know it sounds like a lot, but you’re rich now. Dante left you everything. Two million is nothing to someone with your resources.”

“My resources?”

“The Moretti fortune. You inherited millions, Kasi. Surely you can spare?—”

“Stop.” I hold up a hand, bile rising in my throat. “Just stop talking.”

“I don’t understand why you’re angry.” He steps forward. “If not for me, you never would have met Dante. You never would have inherited any of his properties. You should be grateful?—”

“Can you even hear yourself?”

The voice comes from the doorway, cold and deadly. Alaric stands there in his business suit, his green eyes blazing with a fury I’ve never seen before.

“But it’s the truth, Mr. Moretti. If not for me, she wouldn’t have inherited any of Dante’s properties,” my father continues, oblivious to the danger. “She owes her current wealth to my sacrifice.”