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My head snaps back, disgusted by his alpha-hole chauvinism. He may be the consummate politician in public, but he doesn’t maintain the gentleman’s façade with me. “One month,” he rasps. “That’s all the time I’ll give you.”
“Great, then we understand each other.” I rip my chin from his hold, desperate to regain my composure. Balling my hands into fists, my eyes flick towards the French doors.
Inside, the party continues to celebrate in our honor. The guests are happy to toast our supposed wedded bliss, lost in the illusion of a love story that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“We should get back to our wedding,” I tell him. Not because I want to, but because plastering on a fake smile and shaking hands is easier than staring at him any longer.
His strong hand circles my wrist, and the heat from his grip sends an unexpected jolt through me.
“One month.” His words ghost over the shell of my ear, and then he's gone.
A month. That’s all the time I have to figure out what involvement he had in my aunt’s murder. After that, my hands will either be soaked in his blood after I take my revenge, or… Well, the alternative is bleak. I’ll be six feet underground.
Because one thing is for certain: crossing Maxim Belov is a death sentence.
CHAPTER FOUR
MAXIM
“Hasthe motherfucker opened his mouth yet?”
Yuri, standing sentry by the door to our interrogation room, stares at me dumbly, about to take a bite of a sandwich. When he registers my presence, he lowers the sandwich and stands. “Not yet, boss. Roman is still working on him.”
I toss my bow tie and cufflinks at the kid and roll up my sleeves.
Yuri’s eyebrows press together. “Isn’t it your wedding … like, now?”
“Just came from the reception.”
“Uhh … congratulations?”
I nod, although I’m not sure what there is to congratulate me on. I broke a promise I made to myself long ago to never marry again. Not when the first time brought a betrayal so deep it tore my world apart.
I push past the soldier into the barren room.
Roman, one of my two right-hand men, turns as I enter and fixes me with a questioning stare—the question being,What the fuck are you doing here on your wedding night?
My unspoken response is simple.Don't fucking worry about it.
Most men would be taking advantage of their bride, especially one as gorgeous as Kira. Almond-shaped hazel eyes flecked with green and gold, shoulder-length wavy blonde hair, and curves that could drive a man to madness. But as hard as she makes my dick, she’s a means to an end and nothing more.
I approach the man tied to a chair in the center of the room and punch him square in the jaw. The violence soothes the restless energy that’s flowed under my skin since Kira walked down the aisle towards me, looking forlorn and fierce like a wild storm dressed in white.
When I abducted Alyona, Kira was collateral damage because she was hiding out with my daughter. I'd heard of Kira by reputation only, but I had no business with her. My focus was entirely on bringing Alyona into my world, but I misjudged her. Because Alyona doesn’t care about privilege and power. What she wants is a normal life with the man she loves—Leonid Kozlov. Even though I was prepared to force her hand, it was clear she would never accept her place in my world. That she would come to hate me more than she already did, and that hate would poison her soul. I’d already lost one child, my little boy, Ilya—the one bright star in my world. I refused to lose another.
This union has its purpose, and it's to keep the world focused on the trivial and away from the war brewing with the Black Company.
As much as I’m a legitimate businessman with investments in tech and real estate, I'm also involved in fraud: art, finance, and now luxury wine—a market dominated by the Black Company Triad … until now. The man tied to the chair in frontof me is proof that they don’t welcome the competition. Too bad for them because I have no intention of backing down.
My prisoner's cries bring me back to the present. His blood and spittle cover my white dress shirt, and the smell of copper and dirt filters through the air.
Henri Blanchet looks like he’s been to hell and back. He’s a European wine expert that we paid a stupid amount of money to, to help us craft high-end counterfeit wines. But recently, my hackers figured out that he was double-crossing us. Taking our paycheck and then spilling our secrets to the Black Company. Which is why he’s tied to the chair in front of me. Roman worked him over but kept him alive until I could join.
“Let’s get this fucker talking,” I spit.
Roman walks behind Blanchet and uses a blade to nip the skin of his neck, watching blood drip over his hands. The man groans, fear and hate warring in his expression.
I grab Blanchet by the hair, jerking his head back, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Talk now, and I might make your death quick." I hoist a drill into view, flicking it on long enough for him to catch my drift. Blanchet's eyes widen in a silent, horrified plea.
