Page 39 of Bound in Possession

"Find out why," I command smoothly, clenching my jaw. "Do it quietly. Do not cause a scene in front of the families." Dmitri nods once and slips into the shadows near the back exits.

Almost an hour later, the reception is winding down. I am standing near the bar, nursing a neat bourbon with the Capos, playing the part of the victorious groom. But internally, the silence from Dmitri is turning into a burning fuse.

Suddenly, Dmitri appears. The moment my eyes lock onto his face, my blood turns to ice. He is pale, his jaw rigid, and he isn't looking at the crowd—he is looking straight at me.

He navigates the space with hurried, tense steps, cutting straight through the guests until he stands at my shoulder.

"We have a massive problem.” Dmitri whispers, his breath ragged, his voice vibrating with a dark dread. “Lev didn't just miss the wedding. His convoy was ambushed three miles outside the city lines. Lev is dead. His body was left in the lead car."

My fingers tighten around my crystal glass so hard the glass groans under the pressure.

"There's more," Dmitri swallows hard, leaning in closer. "At that exact same time, our primary shipment at the northern docks was hit. They set the entire warehouse ablaze. It’s completely ruined. I know it’s Viktor. He didn't just send a message today, Maksim. He just declared total war on your wedding day."

I move fast.

“Prepare the car,” I bark. “We need to go check it out but first I’m taking my wife home.” The glass in my hand slams onto the bar counter with a muted thud. I don't hesitate, I don't give the surrounding Capos a single explanation. My eyes sweep the ballroom, locking onto the ivory gown near the edge of the floor.

Before I move, I turn to Dmitri, who is already motioning to our stationed guards. “Get Nastya, too. We’re leaving.”

Within three steps, I am at Camilla’s side, my hand wrapping around her forearm with an iron grip that instantly halts her laughter.

"We're leaving. Now," I command, my voice a lethal, low frequency that allows no argument.

"What? Maksim, wait—" she starts, her eyes widening as I pull her toward the secure private exit, Dmitri leading the way with his hand already resting inside his jacket.

We slip out the back before the crowd even realizes the Pakhan has vanished. The armored SUV is already idling at the curb, doors open. I shove Camilla into the back seat, tumbling in right after her as the heavy doors slam shut, the driver flooring the accelerator into the night.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Camilla snaps immediately, turning on me in the dim interior of the car, her voice dripping with pure fury. She yanks her arm away, her veil shifting over her shoulders. "You completely ruined the reception! My sisters were right there, we were finally⁠—"

"A guest I invited is dead," I cut her off, my voice dropping like a guillotine.

She freezes, the anger draining from her face as she processes the name.

"Viktor ambushed his convoy outside the city. He’s dead, Camilla," I brief her, my eyes fixed on the dark streets outside the tinted windows. "And my northern dock warehouse is currently burning to the ground. He didn't just strike an important ally; he struck my infrastructure. On our wedding day. The city is officially a war zone, and you are the primary target."

She goes completely silent, her chest heaving against the silk of her wedding dress, her dark eyes reflecting the passing streetlights. The reality of the underworld we both belong to settles heavily between us.

“What about Nastya?” She asks suddenly, eyes full of worry.

“In one of the cars ahead.”

The SUV tears through the gates of my estate and screeches to a halt at the main entrance. The door is thrown open by a heavily armed guard.

"Stay here," I order, turning to face her. I grab the back of her neck, pulling her forward until my forehead rests against hers. "The house is completely locked down. I have twenty men on the perimeter and our best shooters in the hall. Do not leave this house, Camilla. Do you understand me?"

She nods slowly, her stubborn defiance temporarily swallowed by the gravity of the threat.

I pull back, unbuttoning my tuxedo jacket to loosen my stance as I step out of the vehicle. Nastya is already alighting a car a few feet away, looking frazzled. But she doesn’t approach.

Leaving both women under absolute guard inside the mansion, I slam the door shut and spin back toward the SUV where Dmitri is waiting.

"Let's go," I growl, pulling a heavy tactical pistol from the hidden compartment beneath the seat. "Let's go see what's left of my docks."

The smell of burning rubber, gasoline, and charred steel hits me the second the SUV screeches to a halt at the perimeter of the northern docks.

Thick, black smoke chokes the night sky, billowing from the skeletal remains of Warehouse Seven. There are no sirens, no flashing lights, and no authorities—my men have completely blocked off the entire industrial district, ensuring the city's police force knows better than to interfere in Bratva business. This is our territory, and we handle our own ruins.

Dmitri and I step out of the vehicle, our heavy boots crunching over shattered glass and puddles of soot-stained water. I look at the wreckage, my jaw tight, a cold, calculated rage burning in my chest.