Chapter 31
Izzy
“The vote is in ten minutes.”
Wesley’s voice crackles through my phone as Marco navigates morning traffic toward Davenport Holdings.
Sergei sits beside me, all dangerous calm in a charcoal suit that does obscene things to his shoulders.
His eyes track every vehicle, every pedestrian, cataloguing threats with the precision of a man who’s survived by staying three steps ahead of death.
“Matthew’s already there,” Wesley continues. “Brought Cal Reznick and three other board members. They’re pushing for an emergency vote to transfer controlling shares to a ‘more stable leadership structure.’”
Translation: They want to steal my father’s company before I can stop them.
“How many votes does he have?” I adjust the Glock holstered at my hip, hidden beneath my Armani blazer Sergei taught me to carry everywhere. Apparently, boardrooms are just as dangerous as back alleys when you’re a Davenport.
“Four confirmed. Needs six for majority control.” Papers rustle on Wesley’s end. “But he’s been working the other board members hard. Lunches, golf games, promises of increased dividends under his leadership.”
“Bribes.”
“Legal ones.” Wesley’s tone is grim. “Your father built that company on trust and relationships. Matthew’s dismantling it with greed and fear.”
Sergei’s hand finds my thigh, warm and grounding through the fabric of my pencil skirt. His thumb traces small circles that should be comforting, but instead make me squeeze my thighs together as my toes curl. Not now. Focus.
“We’re five minutes out,” I tell Wesley. “Stall if you can.”
“I’ll try. But Izzy? Matthew’s not going to let you walk into that boardroom without a fight.”
“Good.” I end the call and meet Sergei’s eyes. “He brought muscle. Three guys in cheap suits trying to look corporate.”
“How many?” His voice is silk over steel.
“Wesley said three. Plus Cal and Matthew.”
“Five against two.” The Wolf’s smile is sharp. Lethal. “I like those odds.”
“We’re not supposed to start violence at a board meeting.”
“Then they shouldn’t try to stop you from entering.” His hand slides higher on my thigh, possessive and deliberate. “You’re majority shareholder. They have no legal right to bar you from company proceedings.”
“Since when do you care about legal rights?”
“Since my wife decided to play by the rules.” He leans closer, breath hot against my ear. “But the second they break those rules, kotyonok, all bets are off.”
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with fear. His scent wraps around me like smoke, and I have to resist the urge to climb into his lap right here in the back of the town car.
Marco pulls up to the building—sixty stories of glass and steel that represent five generations of Davenport legacy. My father’s office was on the top floor, corner suite with views of the Hudson. I haven’t been back since the funeral.
Haven’t been able to face the space he’ll never occupy again.
Sergei reads my hesitation. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing through mine with surprising gentleness for a man who kills for a living.
“You don’t have to do this today.”
“Yes, I do.” I squeeze his hand once, then release it. Armor back in place. “Matthew thinks I’m too soft to fight for what’s mine. Time to prove him wrong.”
We exit the car, and the morning sun hits like a spotlight. Sergei adjusts his jacket—the movement deliberately casual, but I catch the flash of his shoulder holster. He’s armed. Heavily, if I know him at all.
The lobby is all marble and brass, echoing with the footsteps of employees who built careers on my father’s vision. They recognize me immediately. Some offer sympathetic smiles. Others look away, unwilling to pick sides in the coming war.
Smart.
The elevator ride to the fifty-seventh floor—where the boardroom occupies the entire western wing—feels endless.
Sergei stands behind me, close enough that I feel his presence like a physical touch.
His reflection in the polished doors shows that predator stillness I’ve learned to recognize. The calm before violence.
“Remember,” he murmurs, “they make the first move. We respond with appropriate force.”
“Appropriate force meaning?”
“Whatever keeps you breathing and them regretting their choices.”
The elevator dings. Doors slide open to reveal the executive floor—all dark wood and understated wealth. And standing directly in front of the boardroom entrance are three men in suits that scream “hired muscle trying to blend in.”
Too bulky through the shoulders. Awkward stance. Eyes that track movement like predators, not pencil pushers.
The tallest one—buzz cut, jaw like granite—steps forward. “Miss Davenport. I’m afraid the board meeting is closed to non-voting members.”
“I’m majority shareholder.” I keep my voice level. Professional. “I have every right to attend.”
“Mr. Ashford has expressed concerns about your—” Buzz Cut glances at Sergei, “—choice of companions. For everyone’s safety, we’re asking you to reschedule.”
“Asking.” Sergei’s voice could cut glass. “Interesting word choice when you’re physically blocking the entrance.”
Buzz Cut’s attention shifts. Recognition flickers across his face—fear disguised as professionalism. “Mr. Orlov. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Does it?” Sergei slides his hands into his pockets, relaxed and terrifying. “Then you know what happens to people who stand between me and my objectives.”
“We’re just doing our job—”
“Your job is corporate security, not assault.” I step forward, forcing Buzz Cut to either move or put hands on me. “You have five seconds to step aside before I have you arrested for unlawful detainment.”
The other two muscle their way forward, forming a wall. One is shorter, stockier, with the kind of broken nose that comes from street fights, not boxing gyms. The third looks younger—maybe thirty—nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
“Mr. Ashford gave clear instructions,” Broken Nose says. “No one enters without his approval.”
“Mr. Ashford doesn’t own this company.” My hand moves toward my phone. “But I can have NYPD here in three minutes to explain property law and shareholder rights. Your choice.”
Buzz Cut’s jaw tightens. His hand twitches toward something under his jacket—not a gun, probably a radio—and that’s when Sergei moves.
One second he’s beside me, the next, he’s invaded Buzz Cut’s space, hand locked around the man’s wrist before he can complete the motion. The movement is so fast, so fluid, that the other two barely process it before Sergei has Buzz Cut’s arm twisted behind his back, face pressed against the wall.
“Hands where I can see them,” Sergei says conversationally to the others. “Or I dislocate his shoulder and move on to yours.”
Broken Nose reaches for his jacket. Stupid.
Sergei’s leg sweeps out, catching Broken Nose’s ankle. He goes down hard, skull bouncing off the marble with a sickening crack. He’s not unconscious, but just dazed enough not to try to get up.
The younger one freezes, hands raised. “We don’t want trouble—”
“Then you shouldn’t have started it.” I step past them toward the boardroom doors. “Sergei, let him go.”
Sergei releases Buzz Cut with a shove that sends him stumbling. “Touch my wife again, you’ll lose more than your dignity.”
I push open the boardroom doors without knocking.
The scene inside would be comedic if it weren’t so infuriating.
Uncle Matthew sits at the head of the conference table—my father’s seat—surrounded by board members in various states of discomfort.
Cal Reznick lounges beside him, that oily smile plastered across his face.
And at the far end, Wesley stands with his laptop open, looking like he’s been arguing for the past twenty minutes.
Every head turns as we enter.
“Isabelle.” Matthew’s voice drips false concern. “I’m afraid this is a closed meeting. Voting members only.”
“I’m a voting member.” I take the seat directly across from him, Sergei standing behind me like a lethal shadow. “Controlling shares, actually. Sixty-five percent, as per my father’s will.”
“Contested shares,” Cal interjects. “Given your failure to meet the marriage requirement—”
“I’m married.” I lean back, crossing my legs. “Have been for weeks. All legal documentation filed with the state. Would you like to see the certificate?”
Matthew’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in those dark brown eyes. Rage, maybe. Or calculation.
“Your marriage to Mr. Orlov is—” He pauses, choosing words carefully, “—convenient. Some might say suspiciously convenient, given the timing.”
“Some might say you murdered my father to seize control of his company.” I smile, all teeth. “But we’re not here to trade accusations. We’re here to vote on your proposal to restructure company leadership.”
“The proposal is sound—”
“The proposal is a coup.” I lean forward. “You want to transfer controlling interest to a ‘leadership committee’ that just happens to be stacked with your associates and yes-men. Strip me of decision-making power while maintaining the fiction that I’m still technically in charge.”
Silence.
One of the board members—Jackson Lawson, Dad’s old business partner—clears his throat. “Isabelle makes a valid point, Matthew. This proposal seems designed to circumvent Richard’s explicit wishes regarding succession.”
“Richard’s wishes were written before his daughter married a known criminal.” Matthew’s mask slips slightly. “Before she brought violence and danger into our corporate structure.”
“Known criminal.” Sergei’s voice is soft. Deadly. “Interesting accusation from a man who hired assassins to kill his own niece.”
The room temperature drops ten degrees.
Matthew stands slowly; his hands braced on the table. “That’s slander.”
“It’s truth.” I pull out my phone, queue up a file Wesley sent this morning. “Audio recording. You and Ivan Olegov discussing payment terms for my death. Dates, amounts, methods. All documented.”
I hit play.