Page 2 of The Bratva's Innocent Bride

“That’s my intention,” I say, watching as he holsters his gun. The Italian even offers me a handshake before he turns, muttering under his breath as he exits the warehouse.

When I turn around, my men are already wincing before I’ve even had a chance to fix them with a piercing stare.

“You will find out who the fuck took our weapons,” I say, voice cold as steel. “So, I can make them pay.”

***

“Fucking Corsican?” I yell, kicking a trash can and watching it fly across the room, smashing into the wall and spraying paper over the carpet. My breath comes hard and fast, and it feels like my eyeballs are bursting from the sockets.

I refuse to believe that the French mafia—a group that has had no real power in the United States for decades—decided to try and target me—taking more than a million dollars.

“Fucking James Allard,” I mutter, quieting, turning and pacing back through my office. “Of all the enemies I thought I would have to deal with when Kervyn gave me this responsibility, it never occurred to me to even consider the fucking French.”

Roman glances up from the table, where he’s filing his nails lazily. With the same dark hair and eyes as the rest of our family, Roman has a simple, straightforward manner that negates any attempt at layers or mystery, so he doesn’t even attempt those. Instead, what he says is always what he means.

“Perhaps we should kill them all,” he says, his voice quiet but steady. Anyone else might think this a joke—I know better. Roman genuinely believes this is a solution to our problem.

“Oh, yes!” Viktor says, jumping out of his chair and grabbing a knife from his bag as if we might head out right now to go after the French mafia. “I’ve been dying for some action. Things have been way too calm around here.”

“Sit your dumb ass down,” Anya says, glancing up from the shorts she’s working on. She’s been learning embroidery lately, and it looks like she’s adding flowers to her shorts. I normally wouldn’t want her sitting in the room while we discuss family business, but I’m so angry I can’t deal with telling her to get out right now. “You’re rattling the table.”

“Want to say that to my face?”

“I just did, asshole.”

“That’s it—” Viktor says, moving like he’s going to step toward Anya, which I know will end badly for him. As a guy with a lower back injury, it’s not wise for him to fight Anya, who knows how to use your body weight against you. Once, when she flipped him onto his back and put her foot on his throat, it took him three hours to sit up again.

“Calm is good,” I growl, interrupting them and gesturing for Viktor to take his seat. “Action means I’m not doing my job correctly.”

Don’t get me wrong—I love a good fight. But I don’t love losing men. And I don’t love confrontations that result in my family getting hurt. Kervyn advised me to use my brain and avoid the fight—make the other guy take himself out.

Fight without killing. Find a different way to hurt the motherfucker.

“You know what?” I say, pounding my fist against the desk. “I’m going to need more information on James Allard. Anton—what can you find for me?”

“The guy is a big name around here. Couple of businesses that are clearly for money laundering, one daughter, pretty small family for a mafia guy—”

“What did you say? What was the last part?”

“Small family?”

“Before that,” I growl, glaring at him.

“The daughter?” Anton asks, raising his eyebrow. “She’s in college, interning at her dad’s company—a nepo baby, apparently—loves to party.”

“Let me see,” I say, stalking over. Anton holds up his tablet, and I take a look. Olive has her face pressed up against another pretty woman, their faces lit up by several candles on a birthday cake. She’s gorgeous, a determined look deep in her eyes, even in this picture

. I was unaware the French could produce women who were anything but willowy and unsubstantial.

“What is she doing tonight?” I ask, a plan forming.

Anton taps around on his screen for a moment, looking intense as he scrolls, before clearing his throat and reading out loud: “Another Friday night at my desk—boo for having to do a job #intern #workinglife.”

“So, she’ll be at one of Allard’s businesses?”

“Looks like it.”

“Figure out which one and send me the address.”

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