Page 18 of Sold to the Bratva
I shake my head and stand. “Fine,” I mutter, brushing past him. “Let’s go plan a wedding I don’t want.”
His hand brushes lightly across the small of my back as he follows. And even though I hate everything about this, I don’t move away.
7
ISAAC
Dinner was painfully civil. Katya speared her pasta as though it had done her wrong. Maude stayed gracious, ignoring the tension while she cleared the plates. Now Katya’s holed up in her room, likely plotting her next attempt to derail the wedding. Too bad for her, there’s no escape.
I can’t help smiling when I recall the lengths she’s already taken to stop this wedding. She spent hours on the phone canceling vendors, only to discover they were decoys. Her frustration simmered through dinner. She may hate me, but she can’t deny the spark between us.
She’s exhausting and rebellious, that much is obvious. But damn, she keeps life interesting. One thing is certain though. Our marriage will never be dull. Whether we spend it fighting or fucking, a blaze will always rage between us.
I head back to my office for the night. With the wedding and honeymoon looming, I need to tie up a handful of loose ends.
Papers sit in neat stacks on my desk, waiting for my signature. I sink into the chair and flip open the file Mikhail left earlier.Shipment ledgers once made my head swim, but after years of poring over them, they’re as calming as Sudoku. I savor the moment the numbers line up, always hunting for the slightest discrepancy.
I’m two pages into the ledger when the door opens without so much as a knock.
“Mikhail,” I say without looking up.
He shuts the door quietly and strides across the room, making a beeline for the bar cart. His sleeves are rolled, and a faint scrape mars his jaw. I raise an eyebrow but say nothing.
He pours himself a drink, takes a long swallow, then slams the glass down and pours another. While I’ve been neck-deep in wedding plans, his day clearly went to hell.
“The firearms shipment went through,” he says. “We moved the crates through the harbor to the warehouse in Bushwick. No delays.”
I nod. “Good. The money?”
“Clean. The laundromats in Hell’s Kitchen funneled everything as expected, and we slipped the cash into the club accounts just before close.”
“Also good,” I say, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He didn’t drop by to socialize. He has bad news, and he’s saving it for last.
He takes another long sip of his drink. “The only hiccup came at the drop point for the guns.”
I look up, pulse steady but alert. “What kind of hiccup?” I ask, keeping my tone even. I hate surprises. The drop was supposed to be routine.
He sets the drink down and sighs. “Two men showed up in an unmarked vehicle. They tried to take out our guys while they were loading the van.”
My blood turns to ice, inching through my veins. “How many men were there on our side?”
“Six.”
“Any injuries?”
“Two were grazed by bullets, flesh wounds at best. One man’s arm is broken, but no one died.”
I nod once, slowly. “What happened to the two men who attacked?”
“They’re subdued,” he says, purposefully vague.
“Subdued as in dead?”
He shakes his head. “They’re in the basement waiting for Ivan.”
Ivan is our enforcer. If anyone can pry the truth out of them, it’s him. Outside the job he’s perfectly pleasant, but when he’s working, all bets are off.
I stand and move to the window, jaw tight. The garden sprawls below, silvered by moonlight and the faint glow of security lights. Moments ago I was in a good mood.
