Page 44 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

Vegas heat hits like a furnace when we step out of the hotel to head to another meeting. I loosen my tie as we walk toward the waiting SUV, Kasimira beside me in a light cotton dress that moves with the desert wind.

“Christ, it’s hot,” she mutters, pulling her hair up off her neck.

“Different than New York humidity.”

The drive takes thirty minutes through neon-soaked streets packed with tourists and gamblers. I’m reviewing Boris’s intelligence reports on my phone when Benedetto calls.

“We have a situation,” he says without preamble. “Not related to Marco.”

“What kind of situation?”

“How soon can you get to the warehouse district?”

I check my watch. “Twenty minutes. What are we dealing with?”

“Human trafficking ring. Young girls. Our contact in Metro PD says they’re moving the merchandise tonight.”

My jaw clenches. Human trafficking is one business I’ve never touched, never tolerated in my territory. Too many innocent victims, too much collateral damage.

“Local operation or imported?”

“Imported. Eastern European girls, some as young as fourteen. The ring is using one of the abandoned warehouses on Industrial Road.”

“How many girls?”

“At least six confirmed. Maybe more.”

I end the call and lean forward to the driver. “Change of plans. Industrial Road, warehouse district.”

“Alaric?” Kasimira touches my arm. “What’s happening?”

“Business I need to handle personally.”

“What kind of business?”

“You don’t need to see this one, Kasi.”

“If it involves me being dropped off at the hotel while you disappear into the night, then yes, I do need to know.”

I study her face in the dashboard light. Almost four months pregnant, tired from travel and high-stakes negotiations, but still insisting on being part of whatever comes next.

“Human trafficking ring. Young girls are being moved through Las Vegas to God knows where.”

Her expression hardens immediately. “We’re stopping them.”

“I’m stopping them. You’re going back to the hotel.”

“Like hell.”

“Kasimira—”

“These are children, Alaric. Girls who are probably terrified and alone and praying someone will help them.”

She’s right, and we both know it. But the thought of her anywhere near armed traffickers makes my blood run cold.

“You stay in the car. No exceptions.”

“Fine.”

The warehouse district is a maze of concrete and chain-link fences, abandoned buildings that used to house legitimate businesses before the economy shifted everything online. Our driver navigates narrow streets that smell like motor oil and desperation.

“There,” Benedetto’s voice crackles through the radio. “Building with the loading dock. Two guards outside, probably more inside.”

I can see them through the windshield—young men in cheap leather jackets, smoking cigarettes and checking their phones. Amateurs who think intimidation and violence are enough to run a criminal enterprise.

“How do you want to play this?” the driver asks.

“Direct approach. These aren’t professionals.”

I check my weapon, ensuring the safety is off and the magazine is full. Beside me, Kasimira is silent but alert, her hand resting protectively on her belly.

“Remember—”

“Stay in the car. I heard you the first time.”

The night air carries the sound of distant traffic and the faint throb of music from the casino districts miles away. I approach the warehouse with three of my men, our footsteps silent on cracked pavement.

The guards never see us coming.

Two quick, efficient movements, and they’re unconscious; their weapons are redistributed to my team. The side door is locked but yields to Benedetto’s lockpicking skills within seconds.

Inside, the warehouse smells like fear and industrial disinfectant. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows across concrete floors and metal scaffolding. I can hear voices from the far end of the building—men speaking what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian.

“Six tangos,” Benedetto whispers into his radio. “Armed but sloppy.”

We move through the warehouse like ghosts, using shipping containers and support pillars for cover. The traffickers are clustered around a makeshift office area, counting money and drinking from beer bottles.

The girls are in a shipping container that’s been converted into a holding cell.

Through the partially open doors, I can see them huddled together on dirty mattresses. Young faces, maybe fourteen to eighteen, wearing clothes that have seen better days. One girl who can’t be older than sixteen is trying to comfort a younger one who’s clearly been crying.

The rage that fills my chest is immediate and comprehensive.

“On my signal,” I whisper into my radio.

The assault lasts ninety seconds.

My men move with professional precision, disabling the traffickers before they can reach their weapons or harm the girls. I put two bullets in the leader myself—a fat man with gold teeth who was reaching for a gun while standing three feet from terrified children.

“Clear!” Benedetto calls.

The girls shrink back when we approach the container, probably thinking we’re just different criminals with the same intentions. The sixteen-year-old steps protectively in front of the younger ones, her chin raised despite the fear in her eyes.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” I tell them in English, then repeat it in Russian.

Recognition flickers across several faces. They understand Russian.

“You’re safe now,” I continue in their language. “We’re getting you out of here.”

The brave girl who was protecting the others steps forward. “Are you police?”

“No. But we’re taking you somewhere safe.”

“What about the men who brought us here?”

“They won’t be hurting anyone else.”

She nods, understanding passing between us. In her world, justice is often more direct than courtrooms and lawyers.

“There are more girls,” she says quietly. “In other places. They split us up.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. They moved some to California, some to Chicago. We were supposed to go to New York tomorrow.”

I pull out my phone and call a contact in the FBI who handles trafficking cases. Some crimes are too big for vigilante justice and too complex for simple elimination of immediate threats.

“Agent Morrison? Alaric Moretti. I have a gift for you.”

Twenty minutes later, federal agents swarm the warehouse while paramedics check the girls for injuries. I watch from across the street as they’re loaded into ambulances for medical evaluation and eventual repatriation to their home countries.

“You did good tonight,” Kasimira says when I return to the SUV.

“It’s not enough. This was one ring in one city. There are dozens more operating in our territory.”

“So we find them too.”

“We?”

“This is what you do with power, isn’t it? Protect people who can’t protect themselves?”

She’s right. This is exactly what power should be used for. Not just accumulating wealth or eliminating business rivals, but actually making the world less dangerous for people who have no other options.

“The leader of this ring mentioned connections in Chicago and New York,” I tell her as we drive back toward the Strip. “I’m going to tear apart every trafficking operation on the East Coast.”

“Good.”

“It won’t be clean. Won’t be quick. Some very dangerous people are going to end up dead.”

“Even better.”

The streetlights blur past as we navigate back toward legitimate Vegas, toward tourists and gamblers and people whose biggest worry is losing money at poker tables. But I’m already planning the war that will dismantle human trafficking networks piece by piece.