Page 41 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

The ultrasound showed everything perfectly normal—a tiny heartbeat fluttering on the monitor like a bird’s wing, ten fingers and ten toes accounted for. But two days later, we’re on a plane to Las Vegas because the Russian threats have escalated beyond what can be handled from New York.

The private conference room at the Bellagio feels like a battlefield before the first shot is fired.

Twelve men in expensive suits sit around the polished mahogany table, their conversations creating a low hum of tension that makes my skin prickle. The air conditioning works overtime against the Vegas heat, but I can still feel sweat gathering at the base of my neck.

This isn’t a business meeting. This is a trial.

“Mrs. Moretti,” Dimitri Petrov’s voice cuts through the murmur as he enters with his entourage. He’s still young, maybe forty, but his pale eyes suggest he’s seen too much violence. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Mr. Petrov.”

Alaric’s hand finds mine under the table, a brief squeeze that grounds me. Boris Petrov follows Dimitri into the room, his massive frame filling the doorway. The resemblance to his dead brother is unmistakable—the same brutal build, the same predatory stare.

“Alaric,” Boris says, his English heavily accented. “You bring wife to business meeting. How…modern.”

“My wife is my partner in all family matters.”

“Even matters involving dead Russians?”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Every conversation stops as the two most dangerous men in Vegas stare at each other across twenty feet of marble flooring.

“Especially those matters,” Alaric replies calmly.

Boris takes his seat at the far end of the table, positioning himself like a king holding court. His men arrange themselves behind him, hands visible but ready. I count at least six weapons just among the Russians I can see clearly.

“Gentlemen,” Tony Benedetti announces from his position near the windows, “let’s begin.”

The next hour is a masterclass in barely controlled violence disguised as negotiation.

Boris starts with accusations about the restaurant attack, claiming Alaric’s security team used excessive force against “innocent businessmen.” Dimitri provides surveillance footage that allegedly shows our men firing first, though the angles are suspicious and the time stamp could be fabricated.

“Six men dead,” Boris announces, spreading crime scene photographs across the table. “Including my nephew Alexei. Barely twenty-five years old.”

“Your nephew was pointing a gun at my wife,” Alaric responds without emotion. “The response was proportional.”

“Proportional?” Dimitri leans forward, his pale eyes fixed on me. “Your wife threw herself in front of bullets. Very dramatic. Very…convenient.”

The implication hits like a slap. He’s suggesting I staged the entire attack, that somehow the restaurant shooting was orchestrated for our benefit.

“Convenient how?” I ask, keeping my voice level.

“Beautiful woman takes bullet for powerful husband. Creates sympathy, justifies violent response, eliminates business competitors.” Dimitri’s smile is reptilian. “Very efficient.”

“You think I shot myself in the shoulder for sympathy?”

“I think Americans are very good at creating stories that serve their purposes.”

The insult burns, but I force myself to stay calm. Getting emotional will only prove their point about American women being too weak for serious business.

“Stories,” I repeat slowly. “Like the story that your men were in that restaurant for innocent reasons?”

“My men were there for dinner.”

“With concealed weapons and coordinated positions? That’s an interesting dinner party.”

Dimitri’s smile falters slightly. “We live in dangerous times. Protection is necessary.”

“Protection from what? The salmon special?”

A few chuckles ripple around the table from the non-Russian attendees. Good. I’m winning the room.

“Mrs. Moretti,” Boris interrupts, “you speak our language, yes? Russian?”

“I do.”

“Then you understand cultural differences. In Russia, we do not send women to handle men’s business.”

“In America, we send the most qualified person regardless of gender.”

“And you believe you are qualified to negotiate with men who have killed for less than what your husband owes us?”

The threat is clear but carefully worded. He’s testing my reaction, seeing if I’ll fold under pressure or stand my ground.

“I believe I’m qualified to recognize bullshit when I hear it,” I reply calmly. “Your nephew wasn’t in that restaurant for dinner. He was there to kill my husband. The fact that he’s dead instead is unfortunate but not unexpected.”

Boris’s face darkens. “You speak carelessly about the dead.”

“I speak honestly about attempted murderers.”

“Enough,” Alaric cuts in before the verbal sparring can escalate further. “We’re here to discuss territorial boundaries, not relitigate past events.”

“Are we?” Dimitri pulls out a manila folder thick with documents. “Because I believe we’re here to discuss your son.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Dante. They’re going to discuss Dante.

“My son is dead,” Alaric states flatly.

“Is he?” Boris produces a series of photographs, spreading them across the table like playing cards. “These were taken in Sacramento last week. Portland three days ago. San Francisco yesterday.”

The photos are grainy surveillance shots, taken from a distance with telephoto lenses. They show a man with dark hair and Dante’s general build walking through hotel lobbies, eating at restaurants, and getting into cars. The face is never completely clear, but the resemblance is unmistakable.

“Could be anyone,” I say, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.

“Could be,” Dimitri agrees. “But there are witnesses. Hotel staff who remember checking in someone with his name. Restaurant servers who served someone matching his description. All within the past month.”

“Impossible. We saw the crash site.”

“You saw a burned aircraft. Bodies were never recovered, yes? DNA evidence was…inconclusive.”

The words hit like physical blows. No bodies. Inconclusive DNA. What if the unthinkable is actually possible?

“What do you want?” Alaric asks.

“Recognition that if Dante Moretti is alive, previous agreements about inheritance and territory may be…fluid,” Boris replies. “Your wife inherited his assets under the assumption of death. If he lives, those assets return to him.”

“And if those assets include territories you want access to?” I ask.

“Then we negotiate with the rightful owner, not the widow who may have no legal claim.”

The logic is brutal but sound. If Dante is alive, my inheritance becomes invalid. The shell companies, the financial networks, the territorial agreements—all of it reverts to him.

“There’s another possibility,” Dimitri adds quietly. “That someone is impersonating a dead man to destabilize family relationships. Create confusion about succession, cause internal fighting while outside forces move in to take advantage.”

“Someone like who?” Alaric demands.

“Someone with access to family information. Someone who knows Dante’s habits, his appearance, his mannerisms well enough to fool casual observers.”

The implication sends ice through my veins. An inside job. Someone close to the family, someone we trust, is orchestrating an elaborate deception using Dante’s identity.

“You have suspects?” I ask.

“We have theories. But theories require investigation, and investigation requires cooperation between our organizations.”

“What kind of cooperation?”

“Joint intelligence sharing. Coordinated surveillance. Access to each other’s information networks.” Boris leans back in his chair. “Partnership, Mrs. Moretti. Something your husband has been reluctant to consider.”

The offer is tempting and terrifying in equal measure.

The Russians have resources we lack—surveillance networks in cities where we have limited presence, contacts in law enforcement agencies that don’t cooperate with Italian-American families, and technical capabilities that could track someone trying to disappear.

But partnering with them means acknowledging their legitimacy, giving them a foothold in our operations that could be impossible to remove later.

“We need time to consider your proposal,” Alaric says carefully.

“Of course. But do not take too long.” Dimitri gathers the photographs back into his folder. “If Dante Moretti is alive, he will surface eventually. When he does, we want to be prepared to deal with him appropriately.”

“And if he’s dead?”

“Then someone is playing a very dangerous game with very dangerous people. That person will need to be found and eliminated before they cause more problems.”

The meeting ends with handshakes that feel more like threats, formal pleasantries that mask genuine hostility. As the Russians file out, I catch Dimitri staring at me with an expression I can’t read.

“Mrs. Moretti,” he says softly as he passes my chair. “Be careful who you trust. Family members are not always what they seem.”

After the conference room empties, Alaric and I sit in silence, processing what we’ve learned. The photographs remain on the table between us, evidence of possibilities neither of us wants to consider.

“Do you think it’s real?” I ask finally. “The sightings?”

“I think someone wants us to believe they’re real.”

“Someone close to the family.”

“Has to be. The locations, the timing, the witnesses—it’s too coordinated to be random.”

“Marco’s still missing.”

“Three days without contact. His security detail lost him in Portland, the same city where one of these sightings occurred.”

The coincidence feels ominous. Marco disappears in Portland, and Dante is allegedly spotted in Portland. Either my cousin-in-law is in serious trouble, or he’s involved in something we don’t understand yet.

“What do we do?”

“We find Marco. We investigate these sightings. And we figure out who’s trying to convince us that a dead man is walking around the West Coast.”

“And if Dante really is alive?”

Alaric stares at the photographs for a long moment before answering. “Then we deal with that too. Whatever it takes.”

As we prepare to leave Vegas, I can’t shake the feeling that everything we’ve built together is about to be tested in ways we never imagined.

The Russians want partnership or war. Marco is missing under suspicious circumstances.

And somewhere in the shadows, either a ghost is walking or someone is playing a game that could destroy us all.

The desert wind carries the scent of sage and uncertainty as we walk toward our waiting car, carrying secrets that could change everything.