Page 26 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

The German contract revisions might as well be written in Sanskrit for all the sense they’re making to me this morning.

I stare at the same profit margin analysis for the third time, but the numbers blur together. All I can think about is the sounds Kasimira made when I pressed her against that marble wall, the way her voice echoed off the ceiling when she whispered my name.

Focus, you bastard.

I slam the folder shut and reach for my coffee, but it’s gone cold. How long have I been sitting here, replaying last night frame by frame like some lovesick teenager?

The jacket from last night hangs on the back of my chair, and every time I catch a whiff of her perfume clinging to the fabric, my concentration shatters completely. Jasmine and something uniquely her that makes my blood burn.

This is exactly what I was afraid of. She’s gotten under my skin, into my head, and now I can’t function like a rational human being.

Men in my position don’t have the luxury of distraction.

One moment of weakness, one second where I’m thinking about her mouth instead of watching for threats, and we’re both dead.

I grab the jacket and walk to the fireplace, striking a match with more violence than necessary.

The silk catches fire immediately, expensive fabric curling and blackening as flames consume the evidence of my weakness. The scent of her perfume burns away with it, leaving only smoke and the bitter smell of my own stupidity.

“Sir?” Benedetto’s voice carries from the doorway. “Everything alright?”

“Fine.” I watch the last of the jacket disappear into ash. “Just disposing of something that outlived its usefulness.”

“The Torrino shipment arrived this morning. Tony wants to discuss distribution.”

Business. The one thing that makes sense in my increasingly complicated world.

“Send him up.”

Twenty minutes later, Tony Torrino sprawls in the chair across from my desk like he owns the place. At sixty, he’s still built like the enforcer he used to be, but his brain moves faster than his fists these days.

“You look like shit, Alaric.”

“Thank you for that astute observation. What do you want, Tony?”

“To discuss business. But first, I want to know if you’ve lost your damn mind.”

I lean back in my chair, giving him my full attention. Tony doesn’t mince words, which is why he’s survived forty years in this business.

“She’s changing you,” Tony continues. “Question is whether that’s good or bad for business.”

“It’s not affecting business.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been distracted for weeks. Missing details, delegating decisions you used to handle personally. The men are starting to notice.”

“What are they saying?”

“That marriage has made you soft. That you’re thinking with your dick instead of your brain.”

I feel the familiar cold rage building in my chest. “Are they?”

“Some are. Others think you’re finally becoming human again.” Tony shrugs. “Personally, I’m hoping for human. The ice king routine was getting old.”

Ice king. Is that how they see me? A man so detached from emotion that basic human connection becomes noteworthy?

Maybe they’re not wrong.

“The Torrino shipment,” I say, changing the subject.

“Right. Fifty cases of premium vodka, clean papers, ready for distribution through our restaurant network.” He slides a folder across my desk. “But there’s a complication.”

“What kind of complication?”

“The Russians want to renegotiate terms. They’re claiming increased overhead costs due to recent…personnel changes.”

Personnel changes. That’s one way to describe the deaths of Viktor Petrov and his associates.

“How much more do they want?”

“Thirty percent increase. Plus they want guaranteed distribution in Miami.”

“Miami’s still being restructured after the Petrov situation.”

“They know. That’s why they want guarantees.”

I flip through the paperwork, but my mind keeps drifting to Kasimira. She handled those Russian negotiations like she was born to it, reading the room and adjusting her approach in real time. She’d have insights into how to manage this situation.

When did I start thinking of her as a partner instead of a burden?

“I’ll need to discuss this with my wife,” I say without thinking.

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your wife? Since when do you discuss business with?—”

“Since she speaks fluent Russian and understands their cultural dynamics better than anyone else on my payroll.”

“Huh.” He studies my face with new interest. “She really is changing you.”

“She’s a valuable asset.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

The knowing look in his eyes makes me want to throw him out the window. Instead, I close the folder and stand. “I’ll have an answer for the Russians by tomorrow.”

“Alaric.” Tony’s voice stops me at the door. “For what it’s worth, I like her. She’s got steel in her spine and brains in her head. Could be good for you if you don’t fuck it up.”

“I’m not going to fuck it up.”

After he leaves, I stand at my office window staring out at the gardens where Kasimira walks every morning. She’s out there now, moving between the rose bushes with that fluid grace that makes my chest tighten.

Marco appears beside her, saying something that makes her laugh. The sound drifts up through the glass, and I find myself smiling despite the turmoil in my head.

Tony’s right. I am falling hard. Have fallen, past tense. The woman who was supposed to be a temporary inconvenience has become the center of my world, and I have no idea how to handle that reality.

My phone buzzes with a text from her: Lunch in the garden? I have ideas about the Russian situation.

Of course she does. My brilliant, observant wife, who sees patterns where others see chaos.

I type back: Twenty minutes.

As I head downstairs, I catch myself checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. When did I start caring if my tie was straight when I see her?

The answer is obvious, even if I don’t want to admit it.

I started caring the moment she became mine. Really mine, not just legally mine.

And that terrifies me more than any business threat ever could.

The garden is warm in the afternoon sun, and she’s set up lunch at the small table under the pergola. She’s changed from her morning clothes into a yellow sundress that makes her skin glow.

“You burned your jacket,” she says without preamble.

“How did you?—”

“I could smell the smoke from my room. Plus, Benedetto mentioned you had a small fire in your office.” She pours wine into two glasses. “Trying to destroy evidence?”

“Something like that.”

“Did it work?”

I look at her sitting across from me, sunlight in her hair and mischief in her eyes, and know the answer.

“No. Not even close.”

Her smile is radiant. “Good. I’d hate to think I was that forgettable.”