Page 40 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

I’m holding a photograph I found in my drawer.

It’s one of Dante at age six, gap-toothed smile and chocolate-stained fingers, holding up a crayon drawing of what he claimed was our family.

Three stick figures standing in front of a house with a crooked chimney—him, me, and the mother who’d already started pulling away by then.

“Daddy, do you like my picture?” His voice echoes across seventeen years, bright with the innocent hope I crushed with every harsh lesson, every brutal truth about our world.

I close the drawer and focus on the security reports spread across my desk.

Our surveillance team has tracked Boris Petrov’s movements over the past week.

The forged signature investigation has yielded three more suspicious documents.

And Marco’s increasingly erratic behavior and mysterious phone calls have me worried too.

But my mind keeps drifting to the ultrasound appointment this afternoon. The first time I’ll see our child, even as a grainy image on a monitor.

“Sir?” Benedetto’s voice cuts through my brooding. “The accounting team is here.”

“Send them in.”

Three men enter, each carrying files thick with financial records. I’ve known these accountants for years, trusted them with the family’s most sensitive transactions. Now one of them might be stealing from us.

“Gentlemen,” I begin, studying their faces for tells. “We have a problem.”

For the next hour, I grill them about signature protocols, document handling procedures, and access to sensitive files.

Richard Kowalski, our head accountant for twelve years, answers every question with professional competence.

David River, younger but equally thorough, provides detailed explanations of our security measures.

Thomas Rodriguez, new to the team but highly recommended, seems nervous but genuine.

None of them trigger my instincts for deception.

“That’s all for now,” I dismiss them. “But understand—if these forgeries continue, I’ll assume someone in your department is responsible.”

After they leave, I pour myself a glass of wine and return to the security reports. The forged signatures trouble me less than the pattern they suggest. Someone with intimate access to our operations is systematically undermining us.

My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Patterson: Appointment moved to 3 PM due to an emergency.

I text back: Understood. We’ll be there.

The “we” part of that sentence represents everything that’s changed in my life. Six months ago, I made decisions alone, considering only the impact on business operations. Now every choice gets filtered through one question: How does this affect Kasimira and our child?

It’s making me weak. Making me sloppy.

Yesterday, I turned down a lucrative contract with the Benedetti family because the job would have required three weeks in Chicago. Too far from home, too long away from her.

Last week, I authorized additional security measures that will cost us fifty thousand dollars a month. Guards who serve no business purpose except to make me feel better about her safety.

I’m becoming everything I despised about weak men who let emotion compromise their judgment.

A knock interrupts my self-flagellation. “Come in.”

Kasimira enters wearing a simple blue dress that doesn’t hide her pregnancy anymore. The subtle curve of her belly is visible now, unmistakable evidence of the life growing inside her.

“Ready for the appointment?” she asks.

“Are you?”

“Nervous. Excited. Terrified.” She settles into the chair across from my desk. “Normal pregnant woman emotions, according to the books I’ve been reading.”

“You’re reading pregnancy books?”

“Five of them. Did you know our baby has fingernails already? And can hiccup?”

The wonder in her voice makes my chest tight. She’s embracing this pregnancy with the same determination she brought to the family meeting, throwing herself into motherhood like it’s another skill to master.

“What else do the books say?”

“That stress isn’t good for the baby. That expectant fathers need to be supportive, not overprotective.” She gives me a pointed look. “That pregnant women don’t need bodyguards following them to the bathroom.”

“They do when their husband has enemies who would love to use them as leverage.”

“Speaking of enemies, any progress on the signature investigation?”

“Nothing concrete. But I’m expanding the inquiry beyond our accounting department.”

“You think it’s someone else?”

“I think it’s someone with access to family information that goes beyond financial records.”

Her expression grows troubled. “Like who?”

Instead of answering, I pull the drawer open and retrieve Dante’s photograph. The sight of his innocent face makes my stomach clench with familiar guilt.

“I keep thinking about this,” I say, placing the photo on the desk between us.

Kasimira studies the image, her face carefully neutral. “How old was he?”

“Six. Right around this time, his mother started using drugs heavily. Right before she left us.”

“He looks happy.”

“He was. For a while.” I trace the edge of the photograph with my finger. “I used to wonder what would have happened if I’d done things differently. If I’d been gentler, more patient, less focused on making him strong.”

“You can’t blame yourself for what he became. You’re not the same man who raised Dante. You’ve learned from your mistakes. You’ve changed because of what we found together.” Her thumb strokes across my knuckles. “Our child will grow up with two parents who love each other.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I see how you look at me when you think I’m not watching. Because you gave up a lucrative contract rather than leave me alone for three weeks. Because you’re asking these questions instead of assuming you know all the answers.”

Before I can respond, my phone rings. Benedetto’s name appears on the screen.

“What is it?” I answer.

“We have a problem. Marco never showed up for his meeting with the Portland contacts. They’ve been waiting three hours.”

“Did you try calling him?”

“Straight to voicemail. His security detail says he left the hotel this morning and never came back.”

Ice flows through my veins. Marco missing. Forged signatures. Strange sightings on the West Coast. The pattern is starting to make sense in ways I don’t like.

“Find him,” I order. “Use every resource we have.”

“Already on it. But, boss…there’s something else. The Portland contacts mentioned seeing someone who looked like Dante yesterday. In the same hotel where Marco was staying.”

I end the call and look at Kasimira, who’s been listening to my side of the conversation with growing alarm.

“What’s happening?” she asks.

“I don’t know yet. But we’re going to that ultrasound appointment, and then I’m finding out exactly what’s going on with my nephew.”

As we leave for the doctor’s office, I slip Dante’s photograph into my jacket pocket. A reminder of my failures, but also of my determination not to repeat them.

Whatever threat is emerging from the shadows, whatever game Marco might be playing, I’ll handle it before it touches my family.

The child in the photograph deserved better than the father I was.

The child growing in Kasimira’s womb will get the father I’m becoming.