Page 87 of His Stolen Bride

“My father taught me to be invisible when men get excited,” I say.

Vladimir’s hand taps the chair once, amused. “Smart girl.”

I hear the door open behind us. Soft steps. A man enters and stops near the wall. Vladimir doesn’t look back.

“One of yours?” I ask.

“One of mine,” Vladimir says.

I glance just enough to register details. Mid-thirties. Close-cropped hair. Weapon under his jacket. Eyes that don’t wander. Not a cutout. Not a delivery boy. This is someone who expects blood.

Vladimir returns to his seat and leans back. “Now. Your father.”

My stomach tightens, but I keep my voice calm. “What about him?”

“What about him?” Vladimir echoes mockingly. “He owed me.”

“He owed a lot of people,” I say.

“True. But he owed me first,” Vladimir replies. “That’s the part he tried to rewrite. He thought he could spread a debt across men and nobody would notice. He thought he could use Sergei’s impatience to cover his double dealing.”

I keep my gaze on Vladimir’s face. “You’re proud of killing Sergei.”

“I’m proud of removing a problem,” he says. “Sergei was a loud boy with loud appetites. He would’ve gotten you killed within a year.”

“And you wouldn’t?” I say.

Vladimir’s pale eyes narrow. “Careful.”

I lower my gaze and nod once. “Sorry.”

His mouth curves again, satisfied. “That’s better.”

He picks up his glass and swirls it. “Your father approached me in Odessa first,” he says. “Not Vienna. Odessa is where men talk plainly. Ports make people honest. Goods move. Money moves. Bodies move. Everyone knows what everyone is.”

I keep my face blank while my mind files it away.

Odessa. He’s anchoring the story in a place that matters to his pride and his routes.

He continues, “He didn’t come with tears. He came with a proposal. He said he had a daughter who could solve his problems and mine.”

I force a small, careful inhale. “He sold me.”

“He offered you,” Vladimir corrects. “He was a broker. He brokered alliances. Women make alliances clean.”

I don’t give him the reaction he wants. “What was the debt?”

Vladimir grins like that’s the right question. “Your father owed for protection. He owed for access. He owed for a mistake.”

“What mistake?” I ask.

Vladimir’s eyes brighten. He likes being asked. “He lost a shipment.”

“I thought he gambled,” I say, letting a little bitterness into it.

“He gambled with my money,” Vladimir replies. “He got clever. He thought he could move product through the Adriatic corridor without paying who needed to be paid. He thought Trieste could hide him.”

My throat tightens at the mention of Trieste. I keep my face tired and resigned.