His Stolen Bride (Kings of the Underworld #4)

PROLOGUE

ALINA

The Morins are the most dangerous family running contracts out of Vienna, and I wouldn’t have cared about that if Sergei Morin, the younger brother, hadn’t come to collect at my mother’s door.

No “I’m sorry for your loss,” or “Do you need anything,” not even a polite knock that waits for an answer.

It’s three knocks, fast, then the door handle testing once, then another knock.

My mother freezes at the kitchen table. Her tea sits untouched as her eyes flick to the hallway, then back to me. “Don’t open it,” she whispers.

I’m already up.

We’ve spent four days sitting in this little apartment and trying to breathe around the fact that my father is dead. The police call it a robbery, a mugging gone wrong. I’ve repeated those words in my head so often, they feel stamped into my skull.

Robbery. Wrong place. Wrong time.

If I don’t repeat it, I start thinking about other explanations, about the men my father used to call “friends”, the way he always had cash for cigarettes even when the fridge was empty, and the way he’d smile at me and say, “It’s getting better, Alya. Just give me a little time.”

I gave him my time, my twenties, money I didn’t have. There’s nothing left to hide behind, so I open the door.

Two men stand in the hallway, both in dark coats and built broadly. They’re looking past me, not at me. Then the third man steps forward, and I understand immediately that he’s the reason they’re here.

Sergei is in in his early thirties. He’s tall and lean—not starving-lean, but controlled-lean. He has dark hair combed back neatly, a sharp jaw, and blue eyes that hold mine without blinking. He wears a tailored coat that fits him too well to be bought off a rack.

He takes one look at my face and decides he’s going to speak first. “Alina Morozova.”

I don’t answer. I keep my hand on the door edge, ready to slam it.

He glances over my shoulder, toward the cramped kitchen where my mother sits. His gaze pauses there long enough to tell me he’s clocked her as leverage. Then he looks back at me and smiles without teeth. “My condolences,” he says.

My throat tightens. “Why are you here?”

He extends his hand. “To discuss business.”

I don’t take his hand.

Sergei doesn’t care. He drops it and steps half a pace closer. The men behind him stay where they are, still, silent. “I’m here to collect what your father owed.”

My stomach turns. “He’s dead.”

“Yes,” he replies. “I’m aware.”

I swallow. “Then whatever he owed died with him.”

Sergei’s smile stays in place, but his eyes sharpen. “That isn’t how this works.”

I want to laugh or to scream. Instead, I keep my voice even because I’ve learned something about men who come to doors uninvited. If you give them emotion, they treat it as permission. “What do you want?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay calm.

“You,” he replies casually with a little incline of his head. “You’re the debt.”

My pulse thuds hard, once, then again. My mother stands so fast, her chair scrapes. “No,” she says, voice shaking. “No, you can’t.”

Sergei turns his head, not fully facing her, but acknowledging her presence. “Mrs. Morozova.”

My mother goes pale. “What do you want from us?”

He looks back at me. “Your husband agreed to an arrangement. He promised your daughter to me.”

My mouth goes dry. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Sergei reaches into his coat and pulls out a thick cream-colored envelope. He slides it forward, then pauses, waiting for me to take it. I don’t.

“Open it,” he says, and when I refuse to act on his instruction, he sighs and opens the envelope himself. He pulls out a document, folded twice, and holds it out so I can see the top page without touching it.

There’s Cyrillic, followed by numbers and signatures. I see my father’s name in his handwriting and my own name typed beneath it. My chest tightens until it hurts. “This is fake,” I manage.

Sergei’s voice drops. “Your father didn’t have the education to fake this.”

The jibe lands as it’s intended because it’s cruel and it’s accurate. My father could charm a room and smile his way out of trouble, but he couldn’t build contracts.

I force my voice to stay steady. “If he promised anything, he didn’t have the right.”

Sergei’s gaze stays on me. “He had the right because he was your father.”

My mother makes a sound that’s half sob, half anger. “She’s not an object.”

Sergei finally looks at my mother fully. “In my world, she is.”

My hands shake. “Get out.”

Sergei’s brows lift. “You want to do this here?”

“I want you to leave.”

He tilts his head. “We can do it loudly. Or we can do it privately.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to come with me now,” he says calmly. “I’m giving you a chance to talk before you embarrass yourself.”

I stare at him. “Embarrass myself?”

“You can scream, call the police, or try to run.” He shrugs once. “It won’t change the outcome.”

My mother steps closer, coming to stand beside me. Her hand grips my arm and her fingers are cold. Sergei’s eyes move over my face again, slower this time, and I hate that my body registers him as attractive before my brain finishes processing the threat. “You’re going to be my wife.”

I shake my head. “No.”

Sergei exhales, then nods once, as if I’ve responded exactly as expected. “Fine. You get a private meeting. Not here.”

“I’m not meeting you.”

He looks at one of his men. The man pulls out a phone and checks the screen, then glances up.

Sergei’s gaze returns to me. “You have twenty minutes. Put on a coat.”

My stomach drops. “Why?”

“Because if you don’t come out voluntarily, I’ll walk in and sit at your kitchen table.” His tone stays polite. “And I’ll do it in front of your mother. I’ll do it in front of your neighbors. I’ll do it while your building manager watches. I don’t care.”

I grind my teeth. “You’re insane.”

Sergei’s smile returns. “I’m patient.”

My mother’s grip tightens on my arm. “Alina,” she whispers, pleading. “Please.”

I hate that I hear fear in her voice and that it works.

I pull my coat off the hook. “Five minutes,” I snap at Sergei.

“Twenty,” he corrects.

I step into the hallway and close the door behind me, leaving my mother inside. The moment the door shuts, the two men close in enough that I’m boxed between them and Sergei.

Sergei gestures toward the stairwell. “Let’s walk.”

I don’t move. “Where are we going?”

“A cafe down the street,” he says. “Public. You’ll like that.”

“I don’t like anything about this.”

Sergei’s expression turns flat for the first time. “Alina, don’t test me.”

I stare right back. “Then don’t test me.”

His eyes hold mine for a long second. Then he steps aside, allowing me to move first. As we go down the stairs, my mind starts grabbing at the last week and trying to make it fit into something that makes sense.

My father always had problems. That’s what I told myself growing up.

He was unlucky, picked the wrong friends, and got pulled into games he didn’t understand.

He kept promising it was the last time, that he’d stop.

When I was sixteen, I started working evenings.

At nineteen, I started working full-time and taking classes in the mornings.

By the time I hit twenty-five, I stopped telling myself I’d go back.

I sent money every month and paid things off that I didn’t fully see.

It wasn’t enough. “Just a little more,” he’d say.

“You’re helping me, Alya. You’re a good girl. ”

I hated being called a good girl, but I took it because it meant he was still alive. Then four days ago, a detective called and asked me to come identify him. “Robbery,” the detective said. “They took his wallet and watch.”

We reach the cafe. Sergei pushes the door open and gestures for me to go in first. His men stay outside. Sergei follows me to a table in the back corner. He doesn’t ask if I want coffee. He sits and looks at me. I stay standing. “Say it again.”

He leans back slightly. “Your father promised you to me.”

“Why?” My voice cracks, and I hate it. I clear my throat. “Why would he do that?”

Sergei watches my face as if he’s picking out the moment I’ll break. “Because he owed my family. He didn’t have money and offered something else.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

My nails dig into my palm. “I’m not marrying you.”

Sergei’s gaze stays steady. “Your refusal doesn’t matter.”

“It does in my world.”

He laughs once. “You’re standing in my world now.”

I lean forward. “Show me proof.”

He taps the envelope. “You saw it.”

“I saw a paper with my father’s name on it. That’s not proof.”

Sergei’s eyes narrow slightly. “Do you think he loved you?”

I say, “He was my father.”

“That’s not an answer.”

I swallow hard. “Don’t talk about him.”

Sergei’s voice drops. “If he loved you, he wouldn’t have sold you. So pick one. Loved you or sold you.”

My throat tightens. “You don’t know anything about him.”

Sergei leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I know he begged and promised. He died because he wasn’t careful, and he put you in this position for the same reasons.”

My heart pounds. “What do you mean, he died because—”

Sergei’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen and his brows knit together for a fraction of a second. Then his face smooths. “Finish your sentence,” I demand.

He pockets the phone. “We’re going to do this quickly. You marry me, your mother stays safe, and your family stops paying for your father’s mistakes.”

“My mother stays safe,” I repeat. “That’s a threat.”

“That’s reality.”

I open my mouth to ask another question and Sergei’s head turns sharply, eyes locking onto something outside. His body goes tense. I follow his gaze and see a man cross the street in a dark coat with his hands in his pockets.

My first thought is that’s nothing unusual. My second thought, when the man pulls out a gun and raises it, is oh, shit.

Sergei moves fast. He shoves the table hard enough that it slams into my thighs, grabs my wrist, and yanks me down. The first shot cracks through the glass.