Page 89 of His Stolen Bride

“Vienna is divided,” Vladimir says. “Not by neighborhoods on a map, but by habits and loyalties, and more importantly, which men think they can play both sides.”

I nod once. “Mikhail’s men run the city.”

“They run what they can hold,” Vladimir replies. “The Morins rely on people who feel loyal to their name. Old crews. Old rules. Old pride.”

“And you don’t,” I say, careful with how far I reach.

“I rely on contracts,” Vladimir answers. “Contracts don’t get sentimental or tired, and they sure as hell don’t decide they love someone and ruin everything.”

The last part lands like a needle. He watches my face for a crack.

I give him nothing.

“Who’s with you here?” I ask, as if I’m only trying to understand what I’m walking into.

Vladimir’s eyes narrow. “You don’t need names.”

“I do if I’m meant to stand beside you,” I say, quiet and obedient. “If I’m meant to be your wife, I need to know what kind of war you’re building.”

That gets him. His pride perks up like a dog hearing its leash.

“My war isn’t loud,” he says. “It’s structural—money, property, routes.”

He gestures toward the river. “Look out there. That water moves goods, people, and stories. You can’t stop a river. You can only own the banks.”

I keep my face calm and tired, but inside I’m counting every word.

“North ring,” Vladimir says. “River exit. That’s where Vienna bleeds. Trucks, vans, private cars. People think they can disappear if they take the right ramp. They can’t.”

“You bought property there,” I say, like I’m slowly connecting dots.

Vladimir’s smile turns smug. “Yes. Not one property. Several. Warehouses. Garages. A residential block. Things that look legal.”

“Who signed the papers?” I ask softly.

He gives me a look. “You’re curious.”

“I’m scared,” I correct. “Curiosity is all I’ve got left.”

He chuckles and takes a sip. “A lawyer signed. A notary signed. A banker looked away. That’s Vienna.”

I push gently, “Which banker?”

Vladimir’s eyes glitter. He likes the game. “Northern Italy,” he says. “The kind that smiles at priests and launders cash at lunch.”

“Trieste again,” I say, as if I’m guessing.

“Trieste touches it,” he admits. “So does Budapest. So does Bratislava. So does anyone with a river and a customs gate.”

He watches me closely. “You’re listening.”

“I’m learning,” I say.

“That’s the first useful thing you’ve said,” Vladimir replies.

He stands abruptly and walks to a sideboard, pouring another drink, then pouring one for me too. He brings it over and sets it on the table in front of my chair.

“I don’t want it,” I say.