Page 13 of Cruel Russian Pakhan
After leaving Vera's room that day, I removed my ring and kept it in a drawer in my bedroom. I wasn't about to tell my siblings what I had done. Not yet, anyway. So, I’d kept them away from the house. If they wanted a meeting, they knew where to find me: at our downtown office, during business hours. I didn’t need them snooping around, asking why the wedding happened earlier than scheduled or why my wife was locked in her room.
That wasn’t their concern. This wasn’t a family business.
This was my business. Between me, her, and her traitorous siblings.
The evening the wedding was originally scheduled to take place, I’d been buried in paperwork at my home office when my phone buzzed. The message was from Artyom:
The deal was set. So where the fuck were you when it was time to seal it with the wedding?
I stared at the screen for a moment, my grip tightening.
What the fuck was he talking about?
His sister had already been under my roof for days. She wasn’t showing up anywhere. So why act like I was the one who broke the deal?
Unless they were trying to play me.
Questions flooded my mind.
Were they trying to make it look like I stood them up? Making me the villain so they could claim they held up their end of the deal?
Had this all been a setup from the beginning? Had Artyom staged the whole damn thing: the alliance, the engagement, Vera’s disappearance, just to mock me?
Or was he searching for a loophole, some tiny crack he could exploit to pit our factions against each other and revel in the chaos?
We didn’t trust each other, that much was clear; distrust alone had never been enough to justify war. But breaking a marriage deal? That was something different.
I slammed my fist on the desk.
The Rykovs had no intention of forging an alliance. They played me. Or tried to. And now they were acting like the wronged party.
I leaned back in my chair, fury coiling in my chest.
I’d made a mistake thinking Artyom would keep his end of the deal—not one I’d easily admit, nor one that I intended to share with my siblings. I should’ve secured the intelligence some other way. But it was too late for that now.
A Bratva leader always prepared for the worst but hopes for the best. And this situation was no different.
It was time to check on my little runaway bride, to squeeze information from her on exactly what kind of game her siblings thought they were playing.
I left my office and strode down the hall. When I reached her door, I unlocked it and pushed it open.
The room was empty.
I quickly made my way to the bathroom. The door was ajar, the lights off. I stepped in. Nothing.
Then, I checked the closet. Nothing.
Then I saw it…the window. It was supposed to be locked. Now it was wide open.
“Son of a bitch.”
I raced downstairs, every muscle in my body tense.
How the hell had she gotten past the guards, the gates, the cameras?
I stormed into the yard. No sign of her.
She’d escaped.
