Page 67 of His Forced Bride
The second glass joins the first, and once empty, I set it aside, then lean over my desk.
"You're refusing to fulfill contracts your son made in good faith?"
"I'm refusing to honor agreements made by a dead man who exceeded his authority."
Kozlov stands and hides the bulk of his rotund gut behind his suit jacket.
"Then we have a problem."
"We have nothing. You have a problem with inventory you'll need to source elsewhere."
My eyebrows tick up, and he narrows his gaze on me.
"I have buyers expecting delivery. Buyers who don't accept disappointment gracefully."
He steps closer, and I smell the cigarettes and cheap cologne clinging to his clothes.
"Perhaps I should explain the consequences of broken promises."
"Perhaps you should explain why you think threatening me will change my position."
I hate repeating myself, and I realize I've just done that.
This man is trying my last fucking nerve.
He's going to bleed before this conversation is said and done.
"Because your wife's little fashion empire makes a convenient target. Warehouses burn so easily. Accidents happen to employees who work late. Showrooms can be vandalized beyond repair."
His scarred face twists into a satisfied smirk.
"How long before she has nothing left to protect?"
I reach for the glass, thinking I may refill it, but it shatters in my hand because I don't realize how angry I am.
Blood runs between my fingers, mixing with the alcohol pooling on the table as the last few drops of my last drink spill out.
But I don't feel the cuts, don't register the pain.
There's only the roaring in my ears and the sudden, overwhelming need to show this scarred bastard what happens to people who threaten what belongs to me.
"Say that again."
Kozlov takes a step back, finally recognizing the danger he's walked into.
"Business is business, Yuri. Nothing personal."
"Everything about my wife is personal."
I barely hold back the slur of insults this man deserves, but they're coming, rising up my throat as my hands ball to fists and I feel the prick of glass shards in my palm.
I move around the table, and he retreats until his back hits the wall.
"The warehouses were warnings. Gentle reminders of what cooperation looks like."
He's whimpering now, hands extended—palms out—in defense.
"Gentle reminders?"
