“Well, who do we have here?!” Igor Smirnov cackles as I walk into his office—a seedy-looking space in a run-down bar filled with filth, grime, and underpaid employees. The two women perched on either side of his desk scramble to their feet, looking at him for instructions.
“It’s Roman Volkov, everyone.” He spreads his hands. “The great, amazing, unbeatable Roman Volkov has wandered into my lair. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
I came to find out if he was truly behind the attack at the orphanage and beat him to a pulp. If he wasn’t, and Nico’s words to Isabella were to throw me off, I’ll only break a couple of bones.
For running his mouth about my wife. All in due time, though.
Pulling out a chair, I sit and cross my legs. “Why don’t you tell your buddies to hurry along, hm? They wouldn’t want to be here to see your ego crushed,” I say.
His eyes narrow as a muscle jumps in his jaw, and for a moment, I expect him to try his luck. A punch, probably. One that I can easily deflect before I choke the life out of him.
Or his gun—then we’ll see who draws faster.
He must’ve calculated and realized the odds were slim, because he pivots, grinning wildly. “Girls—” He turns to them. “Can you give us some space? I’ll be down to take care of you shortly. I’ve got some important business to attend to.”
They hurry out, tittering on their heels, slamming the door behind them. Grave silence settles in their absence before Igor clears his throat.
“You better have a damn good reason for interrupting my little party, Roman—”
“Where is Marco?” I cut off his whining.
I don’t raise my voice—I don’t have to.
He blinks, momentarily thrown off, lips parting as if his mouth forgot how to lie. There’s a flicker of unease behind his eyes, quickly masked by a smirk. Marco must’ve helped more than just his pride—because a man like Igor, used to groveling in dark corners, would never expect me to grant him an audience.
“Why?” he drawls when he recovers, leaning back as if bored. “Why should I tell you where he is? Because he killed your father? That’s the game, Roman Volkov.” He gestures vaguely, a careless flick of the wrist, letting nonchalance coat his tone like oil. “You either take someone out, or you’re taken out.”
“Spoken like a true lowlife,” I reply, my voice deadly calm. I lean forward, slow and precise, until the chair’s leather creaks from tension. “You call yourself a member of the brotherhood, and yet you flaunt the rules recklessly.”
I pause, letting silence choke the space between us. “You might’ve forgotten, Igor,” I say, “but if I decide you helped him escape, I’m coming for your life too.”
The color drains from his face before he can hide his fear. My lips curl in a knowing smile and I watch him squirm as he shifts in his seat.
Then he straightens his shoulders as if trying to reclaim ground already lost.
“Should I be scared?” he says with a forced chuckle, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice. “Why would I be, Roman, when you can’t even track down the man you desperately want?”
He leans forward now, emboldened by his own words, elbows resting on the table, eyes glittering with challenge. “Tell me…if you can’t find Marco Ricci, what makes you think you can touch me?”
I can tell he’s bluffing. His smile is all teeth, but I’ve seen the same smile before—from men who gamble, knowing they’ll lose. The only reason he’s confident is because of the men standing outside the door. But they won’t save him if I decide to kill him.
Again, in due time.
“Let’s try this a different way.” I ease back into my chair, interlocking my fingers. “Did Marco put you up to the attack?”
“Wh—”
“Don’t play games with me, Igor,” I snarl. “He might’ve promised you an alliance, but he’s still a man on the run. A fucking coward who knows that his time is running out. Do you really think he can help you?”
It shows again—his uncertainty, his fear. “Think before you speak,” I warn him as he starts to reply, “because I won’t ask again. It’s your choice if you still have your life by the time I walk out of here. And you know very well that they won’t save you.”
It takes all of a moment for him to switch sides, giving up his stance with a shrug. “Fine,” he sighs. “I never trusted him anyway. He said he was going to give me his daughter, but he gave her to some bastard. Oh—” Igor tosses his head back in laughter when he realizes. He points at me. “That’s true. You kidnapped her, didn’t you? You beat me to it. I was blissfully unaware that my bride was being shipped off while I was out of the country.”
My fist slams hard on his desk, and he jumps, his hand flying to his chest. “Fucking hell!” He exhales. “What was that about?”
“You’re going off course,” I say simply as my fingers settle.
I don’t tell him it’s because I want to rip out his guts whenever he mentions Isabella. I don’t want to admit that she evokes such a visceral reaction in me, even in her absence…because it’s more than just owning her.
It’s everything else I can’t admit.
“Alright, alright.” Igor rolls his eyes. “You asked if I was behind the attack? Simple answer? No. If you’re asking if I knew it would happen,” he adds hastily, “then yes. Don’t get it wrong—I was offered, but I declined because I’d been fucked over once. I wasn’t going to go up against you, knowing he would dump me at any moment.”
For a man like Igor, spineless and stupid, it’s easy to know when he’s lying. And when he’s telling the truth. Which means, once again, Isabella was being used.
It’s as though they knew she was going to tell me. Or… The thought makes my blood boil. It was some form of emotional manipulation.
If Igor killed me, the man who kidnapped and held her against her will, then she’d feel indebted to him. Somehow, Marco thought it would make her willing to marry this—
I look at him, at the slime and grime. I shake my head. How pitiful.
“What’s your plan?” he asks.
“None of your business,” I reply curtly.
“Why?” he jumps in right away. “You’re not the only one who was slighted, you know. I—I was duped too. Imagine discovering he’d promised other pakhans his daughter’s hand in marriage? I mean—” He huffs. “If I don’t get the girl, then I might as well get some compensation for it, right? He promised me a fraction of his wealth and connections too.”
My brows furrow as I tilt my head. “Why would he do that? What was the transaction about?”
Igor clicks his tongue. “I get what you’re not saying, Roman. And I would be offended, but I thought so too. I have a faction, but I have nothing substantial to offer him—not like your father did. Then again, it should’ve been my cue that he would dupe me. Knowing what I know now…” He sighs. “I can tell you that Marco Ricci is a stain on the earth. I mean, I might kill a man or two, but my wife? That’s cruel, man.”
Wife?
My brows jump at that.
I never cared to find out what happened to Isabella’s mother, not even when Marco was faking loyalty to my father. They had business; the rest was none of my concern.
“He killed his wife?” I ask, keeping my tone measured.
Igor nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, he did. I heard he tricked her into marrying him so he could take over her inheritance while he worked for her family as a consigliere back in Italy. They ran away because her family didn’t agree to their marriage. Then, a year later, he kills her entire family. She didn’t find out until a couple of years later, and then he killed her. Made it seem like an accident. I don’t know why he bothered—it wasn’t as if she could tell anyone. Oh wait—” He laughs, shaking his head and clapping his hands. “He was working for your father, wasn’t he? I doubt Volkov would’ve kept him around if he knew.”
Igor’s right.
My father would’ve dumped him the moment he found out. He was a ruthless man who didn’t hesitate to take out anything that stood in his way, but senseless violence wasn’t something he supported.
So, he killed his wife so he could bury his secret forever.
“How did you find out?” I ask when it occurs to me that he wouldn’t have told Igor after going through all that crime.
Igor holds up a hand. “Wait. You’ll see.”
He reaches into his drawer for an envelope and hands it over to me. It’s sealed with a string looped around a button.
“Like I said, I had my suspicions. So, I did some digging. That’s why I was out of the country. When I found out what he’d done, I gathered evidence. To nudge him toward keeping his word, of course.” He grins mischievously.
I unhook the string and reach into the envelope, taking out a blown-out picture. Bodies. Dead bodies.
“Gruesome, isn’t it?” Igor whispers. “That’s why he hasn’t returned to Italy. He’s dead if he does. That is also why you and I should partner up. We both have things to gain from seeing him dead.”
Placing the picture back into the envelope, I stand, letting my silence answer for me. “Come on,” he presses, his voice like a whine in my ear. “I didn’t kill you. I could’ve, but I turned it down. That should count for something, right?”
A menacing, humorless smile touches my lips briefly as I place my hand on his desk. “I’d never trust a rat like you,” I say.
Igor laughs, but it’s shaky now, the kind that hopes to lighten a mood that’s already strangling him. “Then tell me, Roman…” He grins. “You planning to keep Isabella all to yourself forever? Or do the rest of us get a turn? You don’t really want her, do you? It’s just to get back at Marco.”
I see red.
My hand flies across the desk, seizing him by the collar and fistfuls of his hair. I yank him forward and slam his face into the hardwood so hard it rattles the frame. The crunch of bone is instant and sickening.
He howls beneath me, hands flailing, blood dripping from his broken nose.
I lean in close, still pinning him down with my hand on his neck. “Mention her again,” I whisper, “and I’ll tear your fucking tongue out before you get the chance to apologize.”
I yank his head back with his hair so he sees my face. So he knows that my threat is a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
“If Marco reaches out to you, you’ll tell me immediately, or so help me god, I will end you.”
The sound of carefree laughter reaches from the depths of the house as I walk in—like sunlight spilling out of an open window. I follow it without thinking, and it takes my steps to the kitchen, where Isabella’s standing by the counter, a glass of wine in hand.
Leo and Polina are present too, but from the scene that greets me, she seems to have been talking with Leo. I don’t get to find out what they were talking about because he sees me over her shoulder and winks.
“You’re in time for dinner.”
“Dinner?” I repeat, puzzled.
Isabella whirls around, and I watch her expression, waiting for a hint to understand what I walked into. But she’s barely readable.
“Yeah,” Leo replies. “Isabella asked me to stay for dinner, and I wasn’t about to refuse Polina’s amazing steak and a good bottle of wine.”
My gaze darts to the counter again, and I see not one but two glasses of wine and a bottle of Merlot. I look at Isabella again, my brows furrowing as my confusion spreads.
When did they become best friends?
And why does it feel like she didn’t expect me to return this early? It’s my home, but I feel like a third party. An intruder.
“How would you like your potatoes, sir?” Polina asks. “Baked or roasted? Would you like roasted vegetables or salad?”
“Oh—” Leo snaps his fingers before I reply. “You should go with baked, and roasted vegetables. Isabella swears by them—she says they’re amazing.”
How much time did they spend together? I told Leo to watch over her because I trusted him to keep her safe, and for the company—but not so they could bond.
“Leo,” I hiss through my teeth, “I need to speak to you. Outside.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder when he hesitates. “Now.”
I turn without bothering to find out if he’s following, walking down the hallway until we’re out of earshot. “What was that?”
He shakes his head. “What was what?”
I hold my tongue to keep from sounding like an insecure man, even though I just returned from Igor Smirnov, where I showed him that she’s mine.
Leo wouldn’t go that far. “Nothing,” I say, my tone clipped. “I don’t want dinner. Tell Polina to set the table for you two.”
“Ah, nope.” Leo grabs my arm before I can leave. I whirl, arching a brow. “She’s your wife. If anybody should be having dinner with her, it’s you.”
“Aren’t you best friends already?” It slips out. That spark of jealousy. It slips, and Leo catches on quickly.
He tosses his head back, laughing. “You’re worried that I might be making a move on her?”
A muscle in my jaw twitches as I ignore his jab where it hits. “Why would I?” I ask, throwing on an air of indifference. “She’s my wife because I need her to be.”
He gives me a pointed, knowing look that sees through my lie. Then he shrugs. “If you say so. But I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do that to you. I was only doing as you said, keeping her company. She wanted a bottle of wine. I couldn’t say no when she poured me one, and the next thing I know, I’m getting invited for dinner.”
“Why would she ask you?”
“Maybe because she didn’t want to eat alone? If you’re wondering why she didn’t extend the invite to you, maybe you should ask her. My job’s done here,” he says with a mock salute. “Goodnight.”
There’s no reason to keep him back, so I let him go, but I don’t move. I stand in the hallway for another minute, maybe two, until the silence feels heavier than the tension. Then I head for the kitchen.
Isabella frowns when I walk in alone. “Where’s Leo?”
“He left,” I reply.
Her eyes flick to the door, then settle on me again with a hint of disappointment. Maybe even accusation.
“He had other things to attend to,” I add, a little too quickly.
“Oh.” She glances at the counter, lips pressed together as her expression falls. “I don’t know who’s going to eat the food now. Polina made enough for two.”
Me.
She could ask me. One word, and I’d sit down. I’d eat with her. But she doesn’t.
And I don’t offer.
“Goodnight,” I say stiffly. As I walk away, I remember my conversation with Igor about her mother. Leo’s words come to mind again. “Maybe she didn’t want to eat alone.”
I look over my shoulder in time to see her slump. She reaches for her glass, lifting it. It touches her lips, but she doesn’t drink.
“Mashed potatoes for me, Polina,” I say as I return. Isabella’s eyes brighten as she looks up, and she almost looks pleasantly surprised. “I’ll have a glass of wine too,” I add, reaching for the Merlot.
I pour myself a glass and refill hers without saying a word. “Thanks,” she mutters.
You’re welcome. I’m so sorry about what happened to your mother. We could eat dinner together every night if you want.
“Sure,” I say instead, sitting with her.
As she drinks, a smile forms on her lips. The feeling it brings is unexpectedly warm and pleasant, settling snugly in my chest.
How much of the truth does she know? I wonder. I could tell her now, breaking the last shred of loyalty—if any—that she has for Marco Ricci. If done correctly, Isabella could become my best tool to find him.
Cruel. Ruthless. Unrelenting.
Just like me.
It fits right in with my plan, yet somehow, it’s the last thing I want.
It’s ironic—how I’ve gone from wanting to break her apart to wanting to protect her with every breath. She was mine because she belonged to Marco, and now she’s mine because I can’t seem to let her go.
