Page 5 of Forced Pregnant Bride

Nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars for two hundred kilograms of cocaine. There was one mob who’d do something that crazy: the fucking Italians. They’d done it for years and never bothered with the repercussions that followed. Cheap crooks who wouldn’t hesitate to sell low-quality shit at an affordable price just to keep the cows trooping in. And Bryd here was one of the fucking cows. When the cows ran into problems, they’d clean up, bury, and continue selling.

We preferred to deal smarter. Smarter meant more quality. And more quality meant more price.

I dropped my pen, sitting up with an annoyed glare. He had my full attention now, and for that, he was going to have to pay somehow if he wasted my fucking time.

“So, Colombo’s offering you less, and you’re considering it. Only a fucking crook will sell that amount of coke at that price. And only an idiot will fall into that fucking trap. Listen here,Byrd. To help you, I’m going to do the math, and I’m not going to fucking repeat this: What I’m offering you is good shit. It’s wholesale price. A bundle is one kilogram, and that goes for twenty-five grand. Two hundred bundles is two hundred kilograms, roughly about four hundred and forty-one pounds, ifyou prefer a conversion.” I leaned forward. “Doesn’t matter if you can get it for fifty grand. I’m not giving you that shit for less than five million, which, to me, is fair enough.”

He snorted and pushed back on his chair, eyeing me with drawn eyebrows set in a scowl. The man obviously had a problem with not having things go his way. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t give a shit.

Knowing I had more work to do and less time to stomach time-wasters, I dropped my eyes to the paper in front of me; at the same time, I heard him gruffly murmur under his breath.

“Fucking Russians. The Bratva always think they’re always on top of shit. Fucking overrated, pompous assholes.”

Pen casing cracked more under my palm as I slammed it hard against the desk, and Byrd nearly jumped out of his skin. I opened the top drawer, my gaze hovering over the dark safe.

My family liked to joke that I had the shortest temper in the bunch. It wasn’t a lie. When you had a father that snapped, unleashing the monster within, like the thinnest piece of thread at anything, any time, you kind of…learned pretty fast to duck.

“Have you ever seen the Eiffel Tower?”

Byrd frowned, the scowl on his face morphing to confusion. “What?”

“The Eiffel Tower.” Slowly, my fingers brushed the cold butt of steel. Then, I raised my eyes. “Have you ever seen it?”

“No?” He tripped over his tongue. “I mean, no…I have never been to—Jesus…fuck!What thefuck, man?”

The loud bang of gunfire receded as Byrd dropped to the floor, folding into a fetal position while clutching his left ear. Staring at the fresh hole in the wall, I returned my Makarov to the top drawer. Pulling the paper out, I scribbled a short note of approval under the checks and balances section.

I didn’t shoot him. But it was a close shot. Close enough to allow his ear to feel the force of the bullet flying right past. If hewere smart, he’d consider it a warning. If he weren’t, he’d want to take another test. And he wouldn’t be so lucky.

“You ever say shit about my family again, and you’ll see Paris from hell. Get the fuck out of my office.Right now.”

Shocked and rattled to the bone, he scrambled to his feet, grabbing his phone from the desk before running toward the door. Arlo came up to the desk, his dark eyes shining with mirth as he barked a laugh before collapsing to the swivel chair Byrd had occupied.

“Shit. Even my soul left my body. That was probably the fastest shot you’ve pulled in a while.”

“If you have a soul. Thought you sold it to the devil?”

“You are the devil, Timur Yezhov.”

I rolled my eyes, tucked the paper into a folder, and pulled out another one. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

Tilting backward in my chair, I franked the document, stashed it away, and plucked a cigar from the box on the desk, raising a brow at him. Amongst my men, Arlo was the best. The smartest, the most ruthless. The one who knew how to get it donejustthe way I fucking wanted it. He stood out like a sore thumb and was loyal to a fault. Flawless.But sometimes, he joked around too much.

“About breaking the record. Roone.”

He sat up, surprised that he forgot. “The snitch? The fucker was so insignificant I forgot. Doesn’t matter, though, you broke the record today.”

“Almost broke it.” White smoke floated around us while Arlo hung on expectantly, waiting for me to finish. “Yesterday, I didn’t miss.”

He chuckled. “Still. Wouldn’t want to be in any of their shoes, Roone or Byrd’s. It’s crazy that he thought he’d get something lesser.”

“He’s not that experienced, after all. Didn’t do his research properly.” My phone hummed on the desk, and I opened the new text message. My eyes met Arlo’s. “You called Amir.”

“Yeah.” He lifted a brow. “Is there a problem?”

I opened the text. It was from Amir. Shoving the phone aside, I clasped my fingers over the desk, feeling a heat wave of anger rush over me, digging its claws into my chest until it felt like all the air in my lungs turned to steam.

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