Page 49 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

DANTE

The mirror in this shithole motel reflects a stranger’s face back at me.

The scars run from my left temple down to my jaw—angry, raised lines where skin grafts failed to take properly. The plastic surgeon I found in Mexico promised perfect reconstruction, claiming he could make me look exactly as I did before the crash.

He lied.

The work is sloppy, uneven, leaving me looking like a monster from some cheap horror movie, which is why I slit his throat in his own operating room before the final bandages came off.

I trace the worst scar with my fingertip, feeling the rough texture of poorly healed tissue. Nearly six months of hiding in backwater clinics while quack doctors tried to rebuild my face, and this is what I have to show for it.

But I’m alive. That’s what matters.

The crash should have killed me. It would have killed me if the pilot hadn’t given me those precious seconds of warning before we went down.

“Engine failure, sir. We’re going down hard. Brace for impact.”

I managed to get the emergency parachute on and jump before the plane became a fireball across the Nevada desert. The landing broke three ribs and left me unconscious for God knows how long, but I survived.

The question that’s haunted me since the accident is simple: who wanted me dead?

Someone sabotaged that plane. Engines don’t just fail simultaneously without help. Someone with access to my private aircraft, someone who knew my travel schedule, someone I trusted enough to let near my transportation.

But who?

The Russians I was supposed to meet in Portland? Possible, but they were expecting delivery of their laundered funds. Killing me would have disrupted their own operations.

Rival families trying to muscle in on our territory? Again, possible, but the Morettis have been careful about maintaining peaceful relationships with other organizations.

Or someone inside our own operation.

Someone who stood to gain from my death.

The thought makes my blood boil. Years of building the perfect money laundering network, training Kasimira to be the ideal front for our operations, and someone tried to destroy it all in one spectacular explosion.

Seeing her brought everything back. The way she used to look at me with complete trust, signing whatever documents I placed in front of her without question. The way she’d curl against me after I had to discipline her for some rebellion.

Yet, she ran away like an ungrateful child.

But that’s not what made me want to put my fist through the library wall. What made me want to grab her by the throat and shake her until that terrified recognition became permanent was the confirmation of what I’ve heard. That damn gentle curve of her belly.

She’s pregnant.

With my father’s child.

She let him touch her, use her, fill her with his genetic material like some common whore spreading her legs for anyone with money and power.

When we were together, she knew her place. Knew that her body belonged to me, that all the pleasure she experienced came through my generosity, that her worth was determined by how well she served my needs.

I taught her to understand pain and pleasure as tools of education. When she disappointed me, consequences followed immediately. When she pleased me, rewards were generous.

She never questioned the business arrangements I made using her identity.

Why would she? I told her they were investments in our future together, ways of building wealth as a couple.

She signed whatever I put in front of her—incorporation papers, bank accounts, business registrations—trusting that I had our best interests at heart.

The system was elegant in its simplicity. Her name, her credit, her legal identity became the foundation for operations she never knew existed. If anything went wrong, she was the face on all the paperwork while I remained safely in the background.

But I also made sure she’d never want to leave. The psychological conditioning took time, but it was thorough. I eliminated every trace of independence, every spark of rebellion, every dream that didn’t center around pleasing me. By the end, she couldn’t imagine life without my guidance.

So why did she run?

I still don’t understand it. One day, she was perfectly obedient, grateful for my attention, and eager to please. The next day, she was gone, disappeared in the middle of the night like some brat!

The will was supposed to ensure she remained under family protection in case of my death. Marriage to my father, access to Moretti resources, and continuation of operations under new management.

I never expected her to actually fall in love with the old bastard.

But that’s fixable.

Confusion can be corrected with the right incentives. The pregnancy can be terminated before it complicates our reunion. And whoever tried to kill me can be found and punished appropriately.

First, though, I need to contact Marco. My cousin has been handling West Coast operations while I was supposedly dead, maintaining relationships with our Russian partners, keeping the financial networks operational. He’ll have information about who might have wanted me killed.

I pull out the burner phone I’ve been using for months and dial his number.

“Yeah?” Marco’s voice comes through, cautious.

“It’s me.”

Dead silence on the other end.

Then: “Holy shit. The rumors are true—you aren’t dead, you bastard.”

“Very much alive. Can you talk?”

“Jesus, Dante. Where the hell have you been? Everyone thinks you died in that crash months ago.”

“Long story. I need to see you. Can you come to me?”

“Where are you?”

“Desert Palms Motel on Route 15, room 237. And bring food—I’m starving.”

“Consider it done. Give me thirty minutes.”

Twenty-eight minutes later, a knock comes at my door. I grab the pistol from the nightstand and approach cautiously.

“Who is it?”

“Room service,” Marco’s familiar voice calls through the cheap wood.

I open the door to find him standing in the hallway with a bag of takeout food and his usual easy smile. Relief floods through me at seeing a friendly face after months of isolation.

“Jesus Christ, cousin,” he says, stepping into the room. “You look like hell.”

“Feel like it too. But I’m alive. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you since I got out of the hospital.”

“Hospital? Jesus, Dante, I thought you were dead. The crash, the investigation?—”

“Coma for two months. Burns, head trauma, broken everything. Took another month to remember my name, another two to get mobile again.” I touch the scars on my face absently. “Been trying to call you for weeks, but your phone’s been dead.”

“I had to disappear recently. The Russians have been getting aggressive about wanting the operations restored, and I needed to lie low until I could figure out next steps,” Marco says, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

“I visited the estate a few times. Wanted to see what life was like without me.” I clench my jaw. “Was disappointed with what I saw. Kasimira is pregnant.”

“Yeah, that happened.” Marco moves past me, setting the items on the table. “You underestimated your father’s charm.”

“That’s no reason for him to fuck my fiancée!”

“Ex-fiancée. You two were broken up the moment she ran away.”

“Whose side are you on now? Hers? Who knows, maybe you also fucked her?”

Marco rolls his eyes. “C’mon, man. You of all people know what I like. Your precious princess was never my type.” He takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. “Besides, I’m more concerned about actual problems. Like the Russians breathing down our necks.”

“Tell me about it?”

“The ones whose money pipeline you disrupted when you decided to take that little plane ride.” Marco’s tone is casual, almost bored. “Boris Petrov’s been asking questions about where their fifty million went.”

“The operations are still running?—”

“No, they’re not. Your ex-fiancée might have the paperwork, but she doesn’t know what any of it means. The accounts are frozen, the shipments are stalled, and the Russians are pissed.”

“Then we fix it.”

“With what? She’s locked up tight in Daddy’s mansion, playing house and growing his kid. You think she’s gonna drop everything to help us restart illegal operations?”

I stare at him, processing the casual way he talks about Kasimira, about our situation, like it’s all just business problems to be solved.

“You don’t care that she’s with him.”

“Your personal drama doesn’t make me money.

” Marco leans back in his chair. “Look, cousin, I get that you’re upset about the whole thing.

But we’ve got bigger problems than your wounded ego.

She moved on. It happens. What shouldn’t happen is the Russians deciding we’re unreliable partners and putting bullets in our heads. ”

Marco’s never talked to me like this before, or dismissed my relationship with Kasimira so casually.

I stand up, anger building in my chest. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m being realistic about our situation instead of obsessing over some girl who clearly doesn’t want you anymore.

Remember how I told you that making her marry me would have been the perfect idea?

But no, you wanted revenge on your father for God knows what.

Look—you may have just given him the greatest joy in his life. ”

“Enough, man! You think I don’t already know this?”

“I do. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t talk about it.

I could have managed her properly, kept the operations running smoothly.

Instead, you chose sentiment over strategy.

At least then I could guarantee she wouldn’t be pregnant with someone else’s kid.

I may not be interested in women, but I know how to manage business assets. ”

I can’t stand the casual way he discusses my woman, my will, my death—like he’s been thinking about it for a long time.

“You son of a bitch.”

“I’m being practical, man. Your father’s got emotions involved now. Makes him unpredictable. I would have kept things professional.”

I reach for my gun, but Marco is faster, his weapon already in his hand and pointed at my chest.

“Take a chill pill, Dante!” Marco’s voice is sharp, cutting through the tension. “Jesus Christ, put the gun down before you make everything worse!”

“You just admitted?—”

“I admitted nothing! I said it would have been better business-wise, not that I fucking tried to kill you!” His hand is steady, but I can see sweat beading on his forehead. “If you were really in a coma like you said, maybe you should be a little less crazy right now!”

Fuck it.

He’s right.

I’m acting on emotion instead of logic, precisely the kind of reaction that could get me killed.

I raise my hands and step back, letting my weapon drop to my side. “Alright. Alright.”

Marco watches me for a few seconds before lowering his own gun, though he doesn’t holster it. “Fuck, Dante. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“I am smart. Smart enough to know my plane didn’t just malfunction.”

“So what? You think I sabotaged it?”

“I think someone did. Someone who knew my schedule, had access to my aircraft, and stood to benefit from my death.” I sit back down, but keep my weapon within reach. “The question is who.”

Marco runs his free hand through his hair, the gun still loose in his other hand. “You really think someone in the family wanted you dead?”

“Yes, and sitting here listening to you talk about my obsession being bad for business…” I let the words hang. “Makes me wonder if someone thought the operations would run smoother without me.”

Marco sets down his gun, his casual demeanor finally cracking. “I didn’t try to kill you. Look, we can figure this out after dealing with the Russians.”

“What do they want?”

“Restoration of full operations within thirty days, or they start eliminating everyone connected to the network. Starting with the most visible targets.”

“Kasimira.”

“Among others. They see her as the key to reactivating everything, since all the shell companies are registered in her name.”

“Then we give them what they want.”

“It’s not that simple. She’s married to your father now, under his protection. Getting access to her requires dealing with Moretti security, family politics, and legal complications.”

“Legal complications?”

“Your father thinks you’re dead. Your will transferred everything to Kasimira, who then married him. From his perspective, she inherited your assets legitimately and their marriage is legally binding.”

“But I’m not dead.”

“Does he know that yet? When he finds out, it creates problems. If you’re alive, your will is invalid. Kasimira never actually inherited anything. Her marriage to him might have been based on false premises.”

The implications hit me like a physical blow. If my return invalidates the will, if Kasimira never legally owned the shell companies, then what happens to the financial networks we built?

“The companies revert to me?”

“Legally, yes. But practically, it’s more complicated. She’s been operating them for months as their supposed owner. She’s signed new contracts, made financial decisions, created legal obligations in her name.”

“Which makes her valuable to the Russians regardless of legal technicalities.”

“Exactly. They don’t care about inheritance law. They care about having someone who can sign documents and authorize transactions.”

“Then we remind her where her loyalties should lie.”

Marco’s expression grows troubled. “That might be harder than you think. From what I’ve observed, she’s less willing to follow orders.”

“That’s what my father’s influence does, but it’s nothing that can’t be corrected with proper motivation.”

“Maybe. But Dante…” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “Have you considered that maybe she’s happier now? That maybe forcing her back into our arrangement might not be the best approach?”

The suggestion makes rage build in my chest like pressure in a boiler. Marco doesn’t understand what Kasimira and I had together, doesn’t appreciate the beautiful simplicity of her complete devotion.

“She belongs to me. She was mine for two years, shaped by my guidance, perfected through my training. The fact that she’s temporarily confused doesn’t change fundamental reality.”

“And if she refuses to come back willingly?”

“Then we remind her that willingness isn’t required for compliance.”

Marco nods slowly, though something in his expression suggests he’s not entirely convinced. “What do you want to do?”

“Contact the Russians. Arrange a meeting. Let them know I’m alive and ready to resume operations.”

“And your father?”

“Will learn to accept the new reality. The shell companies belong to me, Kasimira belongs to me, and anyone who interferes with me reclaiming what’s mine will face appropriate consequences.”