Page 33 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

GAGE

I follow Mr. Markoff down the narrow back hall, past framed cross-stitch verses and a wall rack of fishing rods, to a door with a brass keyhole polished by decades of thumb swipes. He unlocks it, swings it inward, and gestures for me to enter.

The room could fit inside my Boston study twice over, yet it feels heavier.

The air is densely packed with stories. Tongue-and-groove cedar planks climb every wall, finished so smooth the grain looks like melted caramel.

A single casement window faces east toward the marsh.

Sunlight slants through rippled glass, striping the floor like a jail-bar pattern.

To the right stands a floor-to-ceiling bookcase bowed under the weight of Russian epics, woodworking manuals, and thick hymnals titled in Cyrillic gilt. To the left, a display shelf of hand-carved ship miniatures, each pinned with a tiny flag.

This man takes pride in his things and his family. I hope he understands that I respect that.

At the center sits a walnut partner’s desk the size of a twin bed, its surface scarred by drafting divots and ring stains, corners rubbed to blond by resting elbows.

On it sits a green-hood banker’s lamp, a brass slide rule, a dented tin of sharpening stones, and a single photograph in a seashell frame.

It’s a priceless treasure. Anya at maybe six, gum-snap grin, sparkler fizzing like a comet. That photo feels like the most valuable object in the room. Every cedar plank seems slanted to keep it safe.

Mr. Markoff closes the door with a decisive click and pockets the key.

He doesn’t offer me the cracked bomber-leather chair in front of the desk.

Instead, he rounds the walnut to stand behind it, powerful hands braced on the glossed edge.

The shoulder holster he wore last night is gone, but I glimpse its outline on a peg near the shelf—nickel revolver stowed, not forgotten.

An unspoken threat, or is it always there?

“Sit,” he says at last, voice low enough to keep the party from hearing. I comply, leather sighing beneath my weight.

He clears his throat. “I thank you and your brothers for protecting my daughter from Calvin. But you know my position.” He taps the desk twice for emphasis.

“This… arrangement ends. She stays here, in Castle Beach. She recovers among family. There has been too much scandal already. She needs calm to heal.”

The words are soft, almost courteous, yet they hit like mallet blows. I clasp my hands to keep them from balling. “I understand why you’d want that, Mr. Markoff. It’s natural to protect your child. But Anya isn’t a child anymore, and she isn’t being swept along by us. She’s steering this thing.”

“Steering into rapids,” he snaps. “Three men twice her age. She is your brother’s ex-fiancée. This is not rapids to you?”

I inhale cedar and lemon-oil scent, let it ground me. “She’s lived by other people’s rules her whole life. The pink wallpaper, the purity rings, Calvin’s political calculus. Everyone has always chosen for her. It’s time she makes her own choices.”

He straightens, crossing his arms. “Her choices led to a broken engagement, no apartment, no job.”

“And she’s still standing, like a well-made fence after a hurricane. We are her support structure—the four of us work like pieces of a whole. We’re better together. Mr. Markoff, you don’t know us. At least get to know us before demanding we step out of her life.”

He paces a slow strip between desk and bookshelf, his jaw locking tight and loosening in equal measure. “Fine. You say I don’t know you…” He stops, pivots. “Then tell me. Who are you? Why trust you with my daughter?”

“I’m Gage Edison Carver. Forty-five. Eldest of eight brothers.

Grew up part ranch hand, part bookworm, part fitness enthusiast. If a day ends without sweat or a new theory, it’s wasted.

My favorite films are big-canvas epics— Lawrence of Arabia , Master and Commander —but I relax to old black-and-white comedies because the world should laugh at itself.

Books? The Art of War for discipline, Tao te Ching for balance, and The Complete Calvin and Hobbes because there’s strategic brilliance in a cardboard box that travels through time. ”

A quirk tugs his mouth—he wasn’t expecting the comic strip.

“Food,” I continue, “ranges from Mumbai street pani puri to Waffle House hash browns smothered and covered. Vintage cars, because a well-tuned carburetor hums like a cello. But I bicycle to work three days a week to remember fossil fuel is finite.”

I shift into the professional. “Carver-Howe Capital—my brokerage firm—services sustainable ventures. I helped three farm-to-table restaurants get off the ground. I own an entrepreneurial cooperative that mentors owner-operators, and Second Frame, a property-rehab firm that hires ex-cons at journeyman wages. Last fiscal year we flipped twelve houses that no bank would touch, sold them for pennies on the dollar to needy families, and placed six men into carpentry unions.”

His brows lift at that. He glances unconsciously at the cedar walls, as if noting our shared respect for wood.

“Philanthropy is important to me,” I add.

“That includes seed money for two pediatric hospital wings—Seattle, Boston—because children don’t pick their battles.

And I underwrite a scholarship at MIT for first-gen engineers.

Money without mission is rot, and I intend to make the world a better place than I found it. ”

“Fancy talk from a fancy man. Tell me something real about you and your brothers.”

I like this man. Even now, when he’s giving me the third degree, I like him. He’s so protective of Anya. “Hunter likes things simple. His apartment is all leather and wood, except for the glass cases he keeps for his anime figures. He?—”

“He fights well. Moves well. Why?”

“My brother struggled with his place in the world as a kid. He used to get into a lot of fights, and when he left for college, he wandered into a judo studio. The teacher there took him under his wing. Taught him how to hone his anger into something useful. He hadn’t raised a hand in anger in years, until yesterday, and that was only to protect Anya.

The second time, Calvin knocked him unconscious. Calvin?—”

“He brought it on himself,” he says knowingly. “He is fortunate Hunter convinced me to put my gun aside.”

I nod. “We all are.” Mom would have had a conniption.

“And Theo?”

“Theo has good taste in everything. From his socks to his food to his hair products, the man is discerning about everything.” I smirk. “Except his taste in tattoos.”

Mr. Markoff’s brows lurch upward. “That man has tattoos?”

“Just the one. It’s a dragon, of all things. Fine line work, he went to one of the best. But you’ve met him. Is that a dragon tattoo man?”

He chuckles under his breath. “No.”

“If I were him, I would have gone with…well, I’m not sure. He just doesn’t seem the tattoo type. But—” I shrug. “The older I get, the less judgmental I try to be. Being the eldest, I have to lead the way on that, and I’m tired of Theo judging my taste in art.”

“And what is your taste?”

I smile. Can’t help it. “I like those tacky roadside velvet paintings.”

“No!”

“Yes.” I give a rueful smile. “It’s a vice, I suppose, but I put one in every house my crew and I flip, as a welcome present. I keep a series of dogs playing poker in my home office in Boston.”

“You lie.”

“Not at all.” I grab my phone and slide through the pictures. “I think I have one…here. This is me in my office chair. See that? The bulldog with an ace-high hand?”

He laughs sharply, shaking his head. He pours water from the decanter into mismatched vodka glasses, hands me one. The gesture feels like a checkpoint reached. We both sip, and it’s fine, cold, and a hint of metal. The good stuff.

“That’s all well and good,” he says, setting his glass down. His smile fades. “But a résumé and some tacky paintings is not character. Calvin had money too.”

“True. He uses it to build his brand. A cybersecurity firm that will help him in politics. Everything he does is about himself. I use my money to build others’ chances.

That’s to say nothing of Theo or Hunter, who are equally philanthropic.

” I match his stare. “Yet you still only see three men who upset the social norms around here.”

He leans on the desk, voice gravel-quiet. “My concern is not only propriety. Anya has a tender heart. She cares much about what others think of her. If you love her, you will pick the best path for her—even if that means you go away.”

“Choose her path for her? I’d never dream of it.”

He grips the desk edge until his knuckles pale. “She does not always choose wisely.”

“With respect, it’s still her choice to make. She has to make her own choices to learn what she wants in life.” My tone softens. “If we risk nothing in life, we never gain wisdom.”

Silence expands until the room holds only our breathing and the measured tick of that brass clock. Finally, he pushes upright, arms dropping. “You speak philosophy. Give me something concrete. Tell me this—besides a freakshow, what life do you offer her?”

I let that slide—arguing about our status will not help our cause.

“Options,” I answer without pause. “If Anya wakes tomorrow wanting to start a new degree in underwater basket weaving, we cover tuition. If she wants to open a maritime art gallery in Castle Beach, we bankroll the lease. If she decides to see every UNESCO site, we arrange itineraries and go, or step back so she can travel solo. She holds the compass. We provision the ship.”

His lips thin, but he nods once. Then his gaze sharpens. “So you keep her like pretty pet? Provide funds, no responsibility to her?”

“No.” I set my glass on the desk blotter with deliberate care. “Calvin caged her in comfort and left her with nothing. We want to scaffold her autonomy. Big difference.”

He goes quiet, studying the scars in the walnut grain. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, almost reluctant. “She smiled more this morning than when she was with Calvin.” He runs a thumb over the sparkler photo. “I want that smile permanent, not a souvenir.”

“I do too,” I say. “And my brothers. Hunter makes her laugh at trouble, and Theo makes things happen. I will keep her safe, always. The three of us will do everything in our power to bring nothing but joy into her life, sir. That’s all we want.” I pause. “That, and your blessing.”

He exhales through his nose and meets my eyes dead center. “You ask for my blessing?”

“I’d be honored.”

He barks a single laugh, rough but not cruel. “You push your luck, Gage Edison Carver.” He taps the desk. “Blessing comes with time, not pretty speeches. Come back Fourth of July next year. If she is healthy, smiling, and still choosing you three, we will talk again.”

That’s not a no. “Agreed. One year.”

He rounds the desk, extends his forearm—a builder’s handshake. Up close, I catch the faint lemon-soap scent of his workshop.

We release. He nods, almost approving. “One more thing. If she cries tears of regret because of you—” He taps the cedar wall “This wood will build your coffin.”

I don’t doubt that. “If the day comes, I’ll hammer the nails myself.”

He nods once more. “In the meantime, I think Anya would like it if you called me Alexei, and my wife, Jessica. Your brothers too.”

“We’d be honored.”