Page 29 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

The morning sun streams through the garden windows as I finish my coffee, watching Alaric review the investigator’s report at the other end of the breakfast table. Three days have passed since we found Dante’s files, and the news keeps getting worse.

Of the twenty women in his sick collection, six are confirmed dead.

Six more have disappeared without a trace—no forwarding addresses, no contact with family, no digital footprint for the past two years.

Sarah Carson and Claire Rodriguez are among the eight confirmed alive, though neither knows how close they came to joining the others.

“The Chicago investigator confirmed Rebecca Martinez,” Alaric says without looking up from the papers. “Car accident four years ago. Single vehicle, late at night, no witnesses.”

“Accident or murder?”

“Police ruled it accidental. But the timing matches when Dante lost interest and moved on to new targets.”

I set down my coffee cup with shaking hands. Rebecca Martinez, a twenty-two-year-old nursing student, was found dead three weeks after Dante’s surveillance photos stopped. The coincidence is too convenient to ignore.

“What about the others?”

“Jennifer Walsh—overdose in Portland. Amy—missing person in Sacramento, never found. Lisa Thompson—house fire in Phoenix, died in her sleep.” His voice is clinical, detached. “All within six months of appearing in his files.”

“What about their families?”

“Benedetto’s people are setting up anonymous trust funds. Educational scholarships for siblings, mortgage payments for parents, and medical bills will be covered. They’ll never know where the money came from.”

“That’s good. This is good. Very good.”

Three days of confirmation calls, background checks, and death certificates. Three days of learning that my ex-fiancé wasn’t just a stalker—he was a serial killer who covered his tracks by making murders look like accidents.

“Sarah Carson is a kindergarten teacher in Buffalo,” I say, reading from my own stack of reports. “Lives alone, no family nearby, volunteers at an animal shelter on weekends. She has no idea how lucky she is to be alive.”

“The anonymous fund will pay off her student loans and cover a down payment on the house she’s been saving for.”

“What about Claire Rodriguez?”

“The one who works at a veterinary clinic in Albany. Recently divorced, struggling with credit card debt from the legal fees. The fund will clear her debts and establish a retirement account.”

I lean back in my chair, processing the strange satisfaction of using Dante’s stolen money to help the women he targeted. It’s not justice—nothing can bring back the ones who died—but it’s something.

“The living ones will never know,” I say.

“Klaus Mueller’s team confirmed for this afternoon,” I tell Alaric over breakfast, breaking the comfortable silence. “The contract revisions should be straightforward.”

“Good. One less thing to worry about.”

He folds the newspaper and reaches for his coffee, and I catch myself staring at his hands. Strong, capable hands that were shaking when he held me in the garden. Hands that have built an empire and burned evidence of weakness in equal measure.

“Kasi?”

I blink, realizing he’s been talking. “Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you wanted to join me for lunch before the meeting. There’s a new Italian place in the city that Tony recommended.”

“Palazzo Bianco?”

“You know it?”

“Marco mentioned it last week. Said the truffle risotto is incredible.” I smile. “I’d love to.”

The drive into Manhattan is pleasant, filled with easy conversation about business and nothing important. Alaric tells me about Klaus’s concerns with the shipping logistics. I share updates on the victim outreach plan we’ve been developing for Dante’s files.

Normal things. Married things. The kind of casual intimacy that feels both natural and terrifying.

“Sarah Carson first,” I say as we navigate Midtown traffic. “She seems the most approachable based on her file.”

“You’re sure you want to handle the initial contact yourself?”

“Positive. She’ll trust another woman more than a man in an expensive suit.”

“Fair point.”

The restaurant is busier than I expected for a Tuesday afternoon. Well-dressed professionals fill most of the tables, their conversations mixing into a pleasant hum of success and sophistication. The kind of place where deals get made over wine that costs more than most people’s rent.

Our table is in a corner booth with a view of the entire dining room. I slide in across from Alaric, already mentally planning how I’ll approach Sarah Carson tomorrow.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he observes.

“Am I?”

“You get this little line between your eyebrows when you’re working through a problem.”

I reach up to touch my forehead. “I do not.”

“You do. It’s cute.”

The casual compliment makes heat bloom in my chest.

“Good afternoon.” Our waiter appears with menus and a nervous smile. He’s young, maybe twenty-five, with dark hair and an accent I can’t quite place. “Welcome to Palazzo Bianco.”

“Thank you,” Alaric replies. “We’ll start with the wine list.”

As the waiter pours water into our glasses, I notice his hands shaking slightly. First day nerves, probably. The restaurant industry is brutal, and this place clearly caters to demanding clientele.

“The sea bass is excellent today,” he offers. “Fresh from the Mediterranean this morning.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, giving him an encouraging smile. “What would you recommend for wine?”

“The Barolo pairs beautifully with the fish. Or perhaps the Chianti Classico if you prefer something lighter.”

His English is good but careful, like someone who learned it in school rather than growing up with it. There’s something about his accent that tickles my memory, but I can’t place it.

“We’ll start with appetizers,” Alaric decides. “The antipasto for two.”

Across the restaurant, I spot a familiar figure entering with two companions. Marco waves when he sees us, heading toward a table by the windows. He looks relaxed, laughing at something one of his companions said.

“Business meeting?” I ask Alaric, nodding toward Marco’s table.

“Probably.”

The waiter returns with the wine list, and I study the selections while Alaric takes a call from Klaus Mueller. German flows rapidly from his phone, something about shipping schedules and customs documentation.

While he talks, I let my attention wander around the restaurant. The decor is elegant without being ostentatious. Cream-colored walls, fresh flowers on every table, soft jazz playing just loud enough to create ambiance without drowning out conversation.

A busboy clears tables near the kitchen with efficient movements. The sommelier arranges bottles in the wine display with artistic precision. Everything runs like clockwork.

“Mrs. Moretti?” The waiter is back, pen poised over his order pad. “Have you decided?”

“The salmon, please. Medium rare.”

“Excellent choice. And for you, sir?”

Alaric finishes his call and orders the sea bass. As the waiter writes everything down, I catch a glimpse of his wrist where his sleeve rides up. There’s a small tattoo there, mostly hidden by his shirt cuff.

Cyrillic letters. Russian script.

That’s odd. Why would an Italian restaurant hire Russian staff? Not impossible, of course. Restaurants employ people from all backgrounds. But combined with his careful English and nervous energy, it strikes me as unusual.

“Everything alright?” Alaric asks, noticing my distraction.

“Fine. Just people-watching.”

The waiter disappears toward the kitchen, and I push the observation aside. I’m probably being paranoid. Two years with Dante left me hyperaware of details that usually mean nothing.

“Klaus is concerned about the timeline,” Alaric continues our earlier conversation. “He wants guarantees about port clearance.”

“Can we provide them?”

“With the right incentives, yes. But it’ll cost extra.”

We fall into a comfortable discussion about business logistics, the kind of practical problem-solving that’s become second nature between us.

I find myself genuinely engaged, offering suggestions based on my language skills and cultural knowledge.

The appetizer arrives with flourish. It’s an artful arrangement of cured meats, cheeses, and olives that looks almost too beautiful to eat. The waiter serves it with slightly shaking hands.

“First day?” I ask kindly.

“Sorry?”

“Is this your first day? You seem nervous.”

“Ah, no. Just…busy day. Many important customers.”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there’s something about his posture that seems off.

I’m being paranoid again. Dante’s legacy—seeing threats in every shadow, reading malice into innocent nervousness.

“The food is excellent,” I tell him. “Please give our compliments to the chef.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

As he walks away, I notice something else. The busboy near the kitchen has been clearing the same table for five minutes, moving dishes around without actually removing them. The sommelier by the wine display keeps checking his watch.

And there’s a man at the bar who hasn’t touched his drink since we arrived. He’s been nursing the same scotch for twenty minutes, his attention seemingly fixed on our table.

“Alaric,” I say quietly.

“Mmm?” He’s cutting into the prosciutto, completely relaxed.

“Don’t look around, but something feels wrong.”

His hand stills on his knife. “Wrong how?”

“The staff. They’re…off. Too nervous, too watchful. And the waiter has a Russian tattoo.”

Now I have his attention.

“The exits?” he asks casually, taking another bite like we’re discussing the weather.

“Kitchen entrance behind us. Main door across the room. But if something’s wrong, they’ll have both covered.”

“You sure about this?”

I scan the room again, cataloguing details. The busboy has abandoned all pretense of working and is standing near the kitchen doors. The sommelier has moved closer to our section of the restaurant. The man at the bar is openly staring now.

“We need to leave,” I whisper. “Right now.”

Alaric signals for the check, but the waiter who took our order is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a different server approaches—older, with cold eyes that don’t match his professional smile.

“Is everything satisfactory?” he asks.

“Actually, we need to leave,” Alaric says.

“Of course, sir. Let me just get your check.”

But he doesn’t move toward the register. Instead, he glances toward the kitchen doors.

That’s when I see them.

Three men in chef’s whites are standing just inside the kitchen entrance, and they’re not holding cooking utensils. The nervous waiter who served us has dropped all pretense and is reaching beneath his apron.

Time slows to crystalline clarity.

“Gun!” I shout.

The kitchen doors burst open as the three men charge out, weapons raised. Our waiter’s nervous act disappears as he pulls a pistol from beneath his apron. The busboy abandons his cart and draws from his belt.

“Down!” Alaric yells, reaching for his own weapon.

But they’re too close, too fast. I see the muzzle flash, hear the crack of gunfire.

Without thinking, I throw myself across the table.

The bullet meant for Alaric catches me in the shoulder instead, spinning me around. Pain explodes through my body like lightning, but I land on top of him, covering him with my body as glass shatters around us.

“Kasi!” His voice is raw with panic. “Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding!”

Blood soaks through my dress, spreading across the white fabric. My shoulder burns like molten metal, but I can still move my arm.

“Are you hit?” I gasp.

“No, but you are, you crazy?—”

More gunfire erupts around us. Benedetto and his men have appeared from somewhere, returning fire across the elegant dining room. Other diners scream and dive for cover as bullets shatter wine glasses and pierce expensive artwork.

Alaric pulls me behind our overturned table, his hands pressing against my shoulder to slow the bleeding. The pressure makes me see stars.

“Stay with me,” he commands. “Keep your eyes open.”

Blood runs between his fingers. More than there should be. The shoulder joint feels wrong, disconnected, like something important tore when the bullet hit.

Through the chaos, I see one of the gunmen go down. Then another.

“Sir!” One of Benedetto’s men appears beside us. “Car’s ready. Back exit, now!”

Alaric scoops me up without hesitation, one arm beneath my knees and the other supporting my back. The movement sends fire through my shoulder, but I bite back the scream.

“I can walk.”

“Shut up.”

The back exit leads to an alley where black SUVs wait with engines running. He deposits me in the middle vehicle, sliding in beside me as Benedetto takes the front seat.

My vision starts to blur as shock sets in. The pain is becoming distant, replaced by cold numbness spreading down my arm.

“Alaric,” I whisper as darkness creeps in from the edges.

“I’m here. Stay awake.”

But the most important thing needs to be said before I lose consciousness entirely.

“I couldn’t let them take you from me.”

The confession slips out, honest and raw and terrifying in its simplicity. Through the haze of blood loss, I see something shift in his green eyes.

“Kasi—”

But the darkness is stronger than his voice, pulling me under as everything fades to black.