Page 30 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

My hands won’t stop shaking.

I stare at them. These hands that have pulled triggers, signed death sentences, built an empire from blood and bullets, and yet, they tremble like a child’s. There’s still blood under my fingernails. Her blood.

The private medical suite at Mount Sinai smells like antiseptic and expensive flowers.

Dr. Patterson assured me the surgery went perfectly, that the bullet missed everything vital, and that she’ll be fine in a few weeks.

But I can’t get the image out of my head of Kasimira throwing herself across that table, the crack of gunfire, blood spreading across white silk.

She took a bullet meant for me.

“Sir?” Benedetto’s voice cuts through my spiral. “The security footage from the restaurant.”

I take the tablet he offers, forcing myself to focus on business. The camera angles show everything—the coordinated attack, the precision of their movements, the moment Kasimira spotted the threat.

“Russian crew,” I say, watching the gunmen emerge from the kitchen. “Viktor’s people?”

“Boris Petrov’s nephew, Alexei. The one who escaped Miami.” Benedetto points to the lead shooter. “Looks like he decided to finish what his uncle started.”

“Where is he now?”

“Morgue. Along with his entire team.”

Good. But that doesn’t erase the image of Kasimira’s blood on my hands, the sound she made when the bullet hit.

“Boss?” Benedetto sits in the chair across from me. “She’s going to be okay.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because you look like you’re planning a funeral.”

The observation hits closer to home than I want to admit. For three hours, while surgeons worked to repair the damage, I sat in this same chair imagining the worst. Planning revenge scenarios. Calculating how many people would die if I lost her.

When did she become so essential to my survival?

“She saved my life,” I say quietly.

“Yeah. She did.”

“She’s not trained for this. She doesn’t understand the risks, the protocols. She’s just a girl who got caught up in this world by accident.”

“A girl who speaks six languages and negotiated our way out of a war with the Russians. A girl who spotted that ambush before any of us did.”

True. But that doesn’t change the fundamental reality that Kasimira didn’t choose this life. I forced her into it through Dante’s will and my own selfish need to protect her. Now she’s lying in a hospital bed because she tried to protect me.

“Mr. Moretti?” Dr. Patterson appears in the doorway, still wearing scrubs. “Your wife is awake. She’s asking for you.”

I follow him down the hallway to her room, my heart hammering against my ribs. She’s propped up in bed, her shoulder heavily bandaged, IV lines snaking from her arms. But her eyes are clear and focused.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.” I take the chair beside her bed, not trusting myself to stand. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got shot.” She attempts a smile. “Dr. Patterson says I’ll be fine.”

“Good.”

“Alaric.” Her voice is gentle. “You look terrible.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Your hands are shaking.”

I glance down, and she’s right. Even now, sitting beside her bed, knowing she’s safe, my hands won’t steady.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” I admit.

“But you didn’t.”

“This time. What about next time? What happens when there’s another ambush, another threat, another situation where you think throwing yourself in harm’s way is the answer?”

She’s quiet for a moment, studying my face. “Are you angry with me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m angry that you were hurt. I’m angry that you were in danger because of the choices I made. I’m angry that you think your life is worth less than mine.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because…” She struggles with the words. “Because the thought of losing you was worse than the thought of getting hurt.”

The honesty in her voice breaks something open in my chest. She’s not trained in tactical thinking or threat assessment. She doesn’t understand concepts like acceptable losses or strategic priorities. She just knew she couldn’t watch me die.

“You can’t think like that in this world,” I tell her. “You can’t make emotional decisions when bullets are flying.”

“I didn’t make an emotional decision. I made a human one.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“Is it? Or is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night after making horrible choices?”

The question cuts deeper than she probably intended. How many times have I justified brutal decisions by calling them strategic? How many people have died because I chose logic over humanity?

“Emotion gets you killed,” I say.

“So does being completely cold. Look what happened to Dante.”

She’s right, and we both know it. My son lived without empathy or conscience, treating people like chess pieces. It made him effective in the short term and dead in the long term.

“This world doesn’t reward kindness, Kasimira.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t have to punish it either.”

A knock on the door interrupts our conversation. Marco enters with flowers and his usual easy smile, though I notice the tension around his eyes.

“Jesus, Kasi. I thought…” He sets the flowers on her bedside table. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore. But alive.”

“Thank God for that.” He glances at me. “Uncle, can I speak with you privately?”

I don’t want to leave her alone, but the look on Marco’s face suggests this is important. “Five minutes.”

In the hallway, Marco’s casual demeanor disappears completely.

“This was a message,” he says without preamble.

“From who?”

“Boris Petrov. The attack was too sloppy to be about killing you. Too public, too many witnesses. This was about proving he can reach you anywhere.”

“Then he proved it. And now he’s going to learn what that costs.”

“Uncle, wait. Before you start a war, hear me out.”

Something in his tone makes me stop. Marco is usually the voice of moderation in family meetings, the one who argues for negotiation over violence. But right now he looks genuinely worried.

“I’ve been hearing things. Rumors from the West Coast operations. Boris isn’t just angry about Viktor’s death. He’s desperate. The Petrov organization is fracturing. Internal power struggles, territory disputes, cash flow problems.”

“So?”

“So desperate men make unpredictable choices. If we push him too hard, too fast, he might do something really crazy. Like targeting civilians. Like going after the women from Dante’s files.”

The possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but it makes sick sense. Boris knows we’re protecting those women. If he wanted maximum leverage, maximum pain, hitting them would be the logical move.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Let me reach out to my contacts in LA. See if we can find a way to end this without more bloodshed. Maybe offer Boris something he needs more than revenge.”

“Like what?”

“Territory. Cash. Safe passage out of the country. Whatever it takes to make him disappear without taking any more shots at our family.”

The practical part of my brain recognizes the wisdom in this approach. But the part that’s been sitting in a hospital waiting room for three hours wants Boris Petrov’s head on a spike.

“Twenty-four hours,” I tell him. “You have twenty-four hours to find a peaceful solution. After that, we do this my way.”

“Fair enough.” Marco hesitates. “Uncle? She really saved your life in there.”

“I know.”

“You realize what that means, right? About how she feels?”

“Marco—”

“I’m just saying. Women don’t take bullets for men they don’t love. Even wives married for protection.”

He walks away before I can respond, leaving me alone with the truth I’ve been trying to avoid.

Kasimira loves me. Not because she has to, not because it’s safe or convenient, but because somewhere in the chaos of our forced arrangement, genuine feeling took root.

And I love her back. More than my empire, more than my own life, more than any rational person in my position should love anyone.

When I return to her room, she’s dozed off, her face peaceful despite the bandages and IV lines. I settle back into the chair beside her bed, finally understanding why my hands won’t stop shaking.

It’s not fear of what almost happened.

It’s the terror of what’s still coming.

Because loving someone in my world is the most dangerous thing you can do. It gives your enemies a target, a weakness they can exploit. It turns protection into an impossible equation where the stakes are always life and death.

But as I watch her sleep, I know I’m in too deep to turn back now.

She’s mine to protect. Mine to love. Mine to lose if I’m not careful enough, smart enough, ruthless enough to keep her safe in a world that destroys beautiful things.

The realization settles in my chest like a weight.

I’ve spent decades learning how to live without love. Now I have to learn how to live with it.