Page 22 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

Perfect. Exactly what I need to deal with on top of everything else, but I welcome the distraction. I grab my keys and head out through the side entrance, climbing into my black Mercedes. The drive to the warehouse doesn't take long, but by the time I arrive, my mood has gone from irritated to dangerous.

The warehouse is one of several properties I own on the outskirts of the city. Officially, it's used for storage and distribution. Unofficially, it's where I handle disciplinary matters that require privacy. The kind of business that can't be conducted in boardrooms or restaurants.

Inside, three of my most trusted men wait with a fourth man I recognize immediately. One of my soldiers, mid-thirties, who has been with the organization for five years. He's on his knees in the center of the concrete floor, his hands zip-tied behind his back, and his pale face already shows signs of a beating.

"What happened?" I ask.

My captain steps forward, holding a tablet. "We found discrepancies in the accounts he manages. Small amounts at first, but it adds up. He's been skimming for at least six months."

I take the tablet and review the evidence. The numbers don't lie. Withdrawals that don't match invoices, transfers to accounts that don't exist in our system, and patterns that only become obvious when you know what to look for.

Theft from the Bratva is one of the fastest ways to earn severe punishment. Everyone knows this. It's not a secret. And yet this stupid fuck thought he could steal from me and get away with it.

I hand the tablet back and walk over to the kneeling man. He looks up at me, and I see fear in his eyes. Good. He should be afraid.

"You know what you did," I say quietly.

"Please." His voice shakes. "I can explain. I needed the money. My daughter, she's sick, and the medical bills⁠—"

"Stop." I crouch down so we're at eye level. "Don't insult me with excuses. If you needed money, you should have asked. I take care of my people. But you didn't ask. You stole. And now there are consequences."

I stand and remove my jacket, handing it to one of my men. Then I roll up my sleeves, taking my time with each fold. The man on the floor starts to shake.

What happens next is swift and brutal. I don't enjoy violence for its own sake, but I understand its necessity. In this world, weakness is death. Mercy is seen as vulnerability. And if I let one man steal from me without consequences, others will follow.

By the time I'm finished, my knuckles are bloody and the man is unconscious on the floor. My men will handle the rest. They know what to do.

I wash my hands in the industrial sink near the back wall, watching the water turn pink as it circles the drain. Beneath the expensive suits and controlled demeanor, this is who I am, a dangerous man who built his empire through strength and isn't afraid to use it.

The drive back to the estate is quiet. I focus on the road, on the familiar turns and landmarks, letting the violence fade into the background where it belongs by the time I pull through the gate.

I expect peace when I walk through the door. A quiet evening to decompress, maybe a drink in my study before bed. Instead, I find Princess Anastasia Rostova sitting in one of my leather chairs with a crystal glass in her hand.

She's changed clothes. Gone is the tailored outfit from earlier and now she's wearing black leggings that hug every curve and a loose sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder. Her hair is down, falling in dark waves around her face. She looks comfortable and at home—in my private study.

"How did you get in here?" I close the door behind me.

"I asked one of your staff where you keep the good liquor." She takes a sip from the glass. "They were very helpful."

"This room is off-limits."

"So is your bedroom, apparently. And the west wing. And half of the first floor." She sets the glass down on the side table without using a coaster. "Your house has more restricted areas than a military base."

I move to the bar cart and pour myself a whiskey, neat. "What do you want, Anastasia?"

"I want to go home." Her voice loses the playful edge. "I hate this house. I hate this engagement. And I hate you most of all."

"The feeling is mutual." I take a long drink, letting the burn settle in my chest. "But we're both stuck with this situation, so we might as well make the best of it."

"Make the best of it?" She stands, and I notice how the sweater has slipped further down her shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the strap of whatever she's wearing underneath. "You stuck me in a room on the opposite side of the estate like I'm some embarrassing relative you want to hide."

"I gave you privacy."

"You gave me exile." She moves closer, and I catch that perfume again. "If we're going to be married, we need to at least pretend we can stand being in the same room."

"We're in the same room now." I set my glass down. "And you're the one who said you wouldn't marry me."

"I changed my mind." Her eyes flash. "Or rather, my father changed it for me."