Page 22 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

I can’t stop shaking.

Alaric’s arms are still around me, my face pressed against his chest where his shirt is damp with my tears. His heart beats steadily and strongly beneath my cheek, and I focus on that rhythm to ground myself.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

I nod against his chest, not trusting my voice yet. The storm of crying has left me drained but strangely clearer. Like lancing a wound that’s been festering for years.

“He’s never coming back,” Alaric says. It’s not a question.

“Good.” My voice comes out hoarse. “I don’t want to see him again.”

“You won’t.”

The certainty in his voice makes me pull back to look at him. There’s steel in his green eyes, the kind of resolve that built this empire and keeps it running.

Alaric’s thumb brushes across my cheek, wiping away the last traces of tears. The gesture is so gentle, it makes my chest ache in a completely different way.

“You should rest,” he says.

“I’m tired of resting.”

“What do you want to do?”

The question surprises me.

“I want to work, feel useful. Forget that my father exists.”

Something flickers across his face. “You sure you’re up for it?”

“Try me.”

He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. “Come on. There’s always something that needs handling.”

We walk to his office together, and I’m grateful for the normalcy of it. Files on his desk. Coffee that’s growing cold.

He hands me a folder thick with documents. “Contracts from the German deal. They need translation and review before Klaus signs anything.”

I settle into the chair across from his desk and pull the first contract toward me. Klaus’s revisions are written in that methodical German style—no wasted words, no ambiguity. Each sentence builds on the last one like a well-constructed argument.

“This section about liability needs clarification,” I say after twenty minutes. “Klaus won’t sign anything this vague.”

Alaric looks up from his own paperwork. “What would you suggest?”

“Specific monetary limits. Germans hate open-ended risk.”

“Can you draft the language?”

I’m already reaching for a pen. The work feels good, purposeful. Like I’m building something instead of just surviving.

When the clock chimes eight, I realize we’ve been working for three hours without a break.

“Hungry?” Alaric asks.

My stomach answers before I can, growling loudly enough to make him smile. It’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him all day.

“I’ll have Maria bring something up.”

“No.” I stand and stretch, working out the kinks in my neck. “I want to eat in the dining room like a normal person.”

“You’re not a normal person anymore.”

“I know. But I can pretend for one meal.”

Dinner is surprisingly pleasant. We talk about the contracts, about Klaus’s concerns, about expansion plans for the convenience stores. Normal conversation between two people who work together. No mention of forced marriages or dead ex-fiancés or fathers who sell their daughters.

“You’re good at this,” Alaric says over dessert.

“At what?”

“Business. Strategy. Reading people.” He takes a sip of wine. “Klaus trusted you more in one meeting than he’s trusted me in six months of negotiations.”

“I speak his language. Literally and figuratively.”

“It’s more than that. You understand what motivates people. What they need to hear.”

The compliment warms me more than the wine.

“Thank you. And thank you for throwing my father out. For letting me work instead of treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re not made of glass.”

“No. But I’m not made of steel either.”

“Steel bends,” he says quietly. “Glass shatters. You’ve bent but never broken, no matter how much pressure they put on you.”

The words hit deeper than they should. I look down at my dessert, afraid of what he might see in my eyes.

That’s when Benedetto appears in the doorway, his face grim. “Boss, we have a problem.”

Alaric’s entire demeanor shifts. “What kind of problem?”

“It involves Russians and a lot of guns.”

My blood goes cold. Russians. Like the ones who kidnapped and tortured me.

“How many?” Alaric asks.

“Fifteen men were spotted at three different locations. Hotels, safe houses, known meeting spots.” Benedetto’s voice is all business. “They’re not trying to hide. They want us to know they’re here.”

“Petrov’s brothers?”

“Has to be. Word is they’re not happy about Viktor’s death.”

I watch this exchange with growing dread. The Petrovs. The same family that chained me to that chair and beat me for hours. They’re here for revenge.

“Options?” Alaric asks.

“Fight or negotiate,” Benedetto says. “Fighting means war. Negotiating means giving them something they want.”

“What do they want?”

“Compensation for Viktor. And probably the person responsible for his death.”

Alaric’s jaw tightens. “That would be me.”

“They know. But they also know taking you means taking on the entire Moretti family. They might settle for money and territory.”

“How much money?”

“Twenty million. Plus Miami operations.”

Alaric scowls. “Fuck.”

I can count on one hand the times I’ve heard him this frustrated.

“There’s another option,” Benedetto continues. “We could meet them on neutral ground. Hash it out face-to-face.”

“Where?”

“Miami. They’ve got people there, but so do we. More balanced.”

Alaric is quiet for a long moment, thinking. I can practically see him weighing options.

“How soon?” he asks finally.

“Tomorrow. They want an answer by morning.”

“And if we don’t go?”

“Then they start picking off our people one by one until we do.”

The room falls silent. I understand now why this is called the life . Death is always lurking at the edges, waiting for a moment of miscalculation.

“Book the jet,” Alaric says. “We leave in the morning.”

“We?” I ask.

He looks at me like he’d forgotten I was here. “You’ll stay here until?—”

“No.”

“Kasimira—”

“No. If you’re going into danger because of what they did to me, I’m going with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You said I’m not made of glass. Prove it.”

“This isn’t about glass or steel. This is about keeping you alive.”

“I’ll be safer with you than here alone,” I insist. “And you’ll need someone who speaks Russian if you’re negotiating with them.”

“She has a point,” Benedetto says quietly. “Having a translator we trust could be valuable.”

“She’s not trained for this kind of situation.”

“I wasn’t trained when they took me the first time either,” I say. “But I survived. I’ll survive this too.”

Alaric’s expression shifts through about five different emotions in the space of three seconds. None of them look particularly reassuring.

“Miami,” he says finally. “Twenty-four hours. In and out.”