Page 19 of His Forced Bride
I reach for the vodka bottle and refill my glass.
"Then I'll convince her."
Oleg's expression doesn't change, but I see understanding in his eyes.
He's been with me long enough to know what my persuasion looks like, how far I'm willing to go to protect what's mine.
"She's young. Inexperienced."
"She's tougher than she looks."
The image of Inessa in her bloodstained dress rises in my mind—the way she held herself upright even as her foundation crumbled, the fury in her gray-green eyes when I delivered my ultimatum.
"She built her company from nothing while other women her age were playing dress-up. That takes steel."
"Steel can shatter under enough pressure."
"Then I'll make sure the pressure comes from the right direction. We'll bend her to our will."
Oleg closes the folder and tucks it back under his arm.
"The ceremony arrangements?"
"Thursday morning. Daria has already sent the notice to Dominic's guests about the change. There will be plenty of witnesses."
I drain the rest of my vodka and set the glass down with finality.
"Have the documents prepared. Full marriage contract, business merger clauses, protection agreements."
"And if the other families object?"
"They can object from their graves."
Oleg nods and moves toward the door.
He pauses with his hand on the handle, his back still turned to me.
"She reminds me of Yelena."
My dead wife's name still brings a pinch of pain.
Yelena, who died years ago from cancer that ate through her bones while I watched helplessly.
Yelena, who never once backed down from a fight, even when the fight was with me.
"Don't."
"The same fire in her eyes. The same refusal to bend."
"Get out," I order, and I feel the swirl of alcohol beginning to warm the spot between my shoulder blades.
Oleg leaves without another word, closing the door behind him.
The office falls silent except for the tick of the antique clock on the mantelpiece—a gift from my father before he died, back when I still believed in legacies and honor.
The grief tries to claw its way up my throat, but I force it down with another mouthful of vodka.
Mafia men don't weep.
