Page 31 of The Russian's Forced Bride
I was presently at my home office, reviewing the cash flow reports that Maxim had emailed to me. There were no leaks, according to the report, and everything seemed to be going well—although Joaquin still was nowhere to be found.
He had mysteriously appeared on the news a week ago at a brief press conference, but then disappeared back into the shadows just as quickly as he appeared.
Against all odds, he couldn’t be tracked. And just last week, when I was called upon by Matvey to interrogate another one of Joaquin’s spies caught loitering around the estate, we weren’t able to get any useful info.
It didn’t matter that Matvey had almost cracked the fucker’s head open with his fists, leaving him a bloodied mess. It also didn’t matter that the bastard hadn’t eaten for days and wasstripped naked in the Kamarov basement, his bones jutting out from his pale skin and his eyes hollow with dread.
He was physically broken but psychologically tough—right until the bitter end, when his brains were blown out by Matvey, who seemed too irritated to keep questioning him.
It had been a while since I allowed myself in a room and atmosphere thick with carnage and grisly gore. A room that housed mutilated limbs and bodies strewn around. And though the image had been appalling, yes, I wasn’t shaken—rather, I felt restless and frustrated.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to concentrate on the numerous attached files Maxim had sent me. Something felt off.
An oversight. I could feel it. It felt like someone or something was watching my every move, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
I slammed my fists on the table just as a piercing scream tore through the silence of the night. It was Arlette, and she was probably having another nightmare.
This was the third time, and no matter how much I comforted her, it didn’t seem to stop the nightmares. If anything, the nightmares appeared to be getting worse each time.
I hurried to her room, where she was lying down, gasping heavily and sweating profusely. Her green eyes were nearly dead and bloodshot, as if she had just relived the memory of her mother’s death.
When she saw me, she ran into my arms, crying on my chest while I gently stroked her hair. She took in a shaky breath.
“I saw her face,” she croaked out, her voice muffled. “They killed her. They sliced her throat open and watched her bleed to death.”
A graphic detail for a child to witness. No wonder her mind blocked it out, slowly unraveling only as nightmares.
“Don’t worry,kroshka,” I whispered into her ear, trying to calm her. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
I had to get her some sort of closure somehow, or I was sure the nightmares would never stop. But where would I begin? Jaxon Whitmore himself would’ve been the best person to talk to. If he were alive, I wouldn’t mind having to torture the father of my wife to get the answers I needed.
I always knew there was something odd about that man, and to think he lied to his own daughter about her mother’s death.
Fuck!
“Stay with me,” her tired voice begged as she lifted her head to meet my eyes. She was my downfall. Everything about her compelled me to obey, so I, like a robotic mind, nodded and gently wiped her tears with my thumb.
“I’m right here,kroshka. Right here.”
It took a while, but she finally drifted back to sleep in my arms while I kept stroking her hair, my jaw clenched and tense as fury simmered beneath my veins.
My emotions were all over the place. They weren’t controlled like they usually were, and I knew I had to get my shit together soon. It was the only way I could be strategic.
My phone, which sat on top of Arlette’s bed, started to whirr. I tried to ignore it, but it kept buzzing and waking Arlette, so while muttering a curse under my breath, I carefully moved away from her.
Grabbing my cellphone, I made for the balcony, a scowl forming on my face when I saw it was Maxim calling.
“This had better be important, Maxim.” My voice was low as I spoke, momentarily glancing into the room to check if Arlette was still sound asleep.
Almost breathless, Maxim replied, saying, “There has been a financial strain on two of our Miami fronts. Laundering slowed down a lot. I think someone is squeezing our vendors.”
My hands grabbed onto the metal railing. It didn’t make any sense. I had specifically asked Maxim to close all leaks and passages Joaquin, or any fool, could think of using to disrupt the Bratva cash flow system.
What the fuck is happening?
“We’ve been attacked,” I stated. “Double-check every book. No more slip-ups. We aren’t playing defense anymore,” I added as I turned on my heel, leaving the balcony. “I’m on my way.”
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