Page 34 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

Three weeks after the restaurant shooting, life has settled into something resembling normal.

My shoulder barely aches anymore, just a dull throb when rain is coming.

The physical therapy sessions are paying off.

I can move my arm almost normally now, though Dr. Patterson still insists on weekly checkups to monitor the healing.

Yesterday’s session went so well, he’s talking about clearing me for full activity soon.

This morning, I’m reviewing contracts for the German expansion when Marco appears in the garden where I’ve set up my temporary office.

The sunlight is perfect here, and being outside makes the business paperwork feel less suffocating.

Klaus’s revisions to the insurance clauses are giving me a headache, but at least out here I can breathe.

“Busy?” he asks, settling into the chair across from my table.

“Yes. Klaus is being particular about the insurance clauses.” I set down my pen and stretch, working out the kinks from hunching over documents. “What’s on your mind?”

Marco glances around the garden, checking for staff or security within earshot. His usual easy confidence seems strained today, and there are dark circles under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well.

“I need to talk to you about something. Something weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I’ve been getting reports from our West Coast contacts. Nothing concrete, just…rumors. Sightings.”

“Of what?”

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through messages, his thumb moving quickly over the screen. I notice his phone case is new.

“Someone matching Dante’s description. Three different cities over the past two weeks.”

My blood goes cold. “That’s impossible. The investigation confirmed?—”

“I know what the official reports say. But these sightings…” He shows me his phone screen, though I can’t make out the details from this angle.

“Security footage from a hotel in Sacramento. Blurry, but the height and build match. Then a restaurant in Portland, same thing. And yesterday, someone spotted a man who looked like him outside a bank in San Francisco.”

“Could be anyone. Lots of men have dark hair and Dante’s general build.”

“Maybe. Probably. But the timing bothers me. All within the past month, all on the West Coast where our operations have been…disrupted.”

“Disrupted how?”

Marco shifts in his chair, and I notice his phone buzzing constantly with notifications he keeps dismissing. The screen lights up every few seconds, but he doesn’t even glance at it anymore.

“Shipments delayed. Contacts going quiet. Three of our regular suppliers have backed out of contracts without explanation. Nothing major, just enough to cause problems.”

“You think someone’s interfering with business operations?”

“I think someone wants us to think Dante’s alive.”

“What?” I shift in my seat. “Who would do that?”

“Could be anyone. Boris Petrov trying to create chaos. A rival family making a power play. Hell, could be some opportunist who thinks he looks enough like Dante to cause trouble.” Marco’s voice drops lower.

“Or it could be someone inside our organization, someone who knows enough about Dante to make the impersonation convincing.”

The thought makes my stomach turn. An inside job would explain how the impersonator knows where to appear, how to time the sightings for maximum disruption.

“What do the sightings show exactly?”

Marco scrolls through his phone again. “Always from a distance. Always in situations where positive identification is impossible. Like someone wants to be seen but not confirmed, the Sacramento footage shows a man in a hotel lobby, but he’s wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap.

Portland was at a restaurant, but he left before anyone could get a clear look. ”

“Have you told Alaric?”

“Not yet. I wanted more concrete evidence before bringing it to him. He’s got enough to worry about with the Russian situation.”

Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully. Marco has always been the family member who tells Alaric everything, who values transparency and communication. Why would he suddenly decide to keep information from his uncle?

“Marco, is there something else? Something you’re not telling me?”

“No, just…” He glances at his phone as it buzzes again, and this time, I see frustration flash across his face. “Just trying to figure out what’s real and what’s manipulation.”

“We should tell Alaric anyway. Let him decide how to handle it.”

“Maybe. Give me another week to investigate? If I find anything concrete, we will tell him immediately.”

I want to argue, but the exhaustion on Marco’s face stops me. He’s been handling West Coast operations mostly alone, dealing with whatever disruptions are happening out there. Maybe he’s right to want solid evidence before alarming Alaric.

“One week,” I agree. “But if anything else happens?—”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

His phone buzzes again, and this time he actually looks at the notification. His expression changes immediately, tension replacing the tired worry. Color drains from his face, and he stands abruptly.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Work call. I should take this.”

He starts to walk away, then stops. “Kasi? Are you feeling alright? You look pale.”

Now that he mentions it, I do feel off. My stomach has been unsettled all morning, and the smell of coffee from the kitchen made me nauseous earlier. I blamed it on stress from the contract negotiations, but maybe I’m coming down with something.

“Just tired. Too much paperwork.”

“You should rest more. Recovery takes time.”

Marco walks toward the garden’s edge, lifting his phone to his ear. I turn back to the German contracts, but I can hear his voice drifting across the space.

He’s speaking Russian.

The realization makes my skin crawl. Marco doesn’t speak Russian—at least, he’s never mentioned knowing the language in all our conversations. But the cadence, the pronunciation, it’s definitely Russian.

I strain to make out individual words, but he’s too far away and speaking too quietly. Then I hear something that makes my blood freeze.

My name. “Kasimira.”

He said my name in the middle of a Russian conversation.

I pretend to focus on the contracts while tracking his movement through my peripheral vision. He’s pacing now, his free hand gesturing as he talks. The conversation seems intense, urgent. I catch fragments of numbers, what might be locations, and my name again.

After five minutes, he ends the call and returns to the table with his usual easy smile restored.

“Sorry about that. Business never sleeps, right?”

“Right.” I keep my voice neutral. “Everything handled?”

“For now. You know how it is. Put out one fire, three more spring up.”

“The West Coast operations?”

“Among other things.” He settles back into his chair, but I notice his phone is still buzzing with notifications. “Where were we?”

“The Dante sightings.”

“Ah, yes. Like I said, probably nothing. But I’ll keep monitoring the situation.”

“And you’ll tell me if anything changes?”

“Of course.”

But as he says it, his phone buzzes again and he glances at the screen automatically. Whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten before he forces another smile.

“I should let you get back to those contracts,” he says, standing. “Klaus waits for no one.”

After he leaves, I sit in the garden trying to process what just happened. Marco speaking Russian. My name mentioned in a conversation I wasn’t supposed to understand. His evasiveness about the West Coast problems.

And underneath all that, a growing certainty that something is very wrong.

I press a hand to my stomach as another wave of nausea hits.

It’s probably stress, but the timing feels significant.

I haven’t eaten much today. Couldn’t finish breakfast because the smell of eggs made me gag.

The same thing happened yesterday with coffee, and the day before with Maria’s famous pancakes.

“Mrs. Moretti?” Maria’s voice carries across the garden. “Will you be taking lunch outside today?”

“Actually,” I call back, standing carefully, “I think I need to make a doctor’s appointment.”