Chapter 31 #2
Matthew’s voice fills the boardroom, tinny but unmistakable: “—need it clean. No connection to me. Make it look like the Russian’s work—”
I stop the recording. “Want to hear more? I have twelve minutes of you planning my murder, Matthew. Plus financial records showing wire transfers to offshore accounts linked to Bratva enforcers.”
His face goes pale. Then red. “Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?” I stand, meeting his gaze across the table. “You killed my father. Tried to kill me. Murdered Elena Orlov and framed Sergei. All to steal a company you have no legal right to control.”
“You have no proof—”
“I have recordings, financial records, and witness testimony from three separate sources.” Wesley’s voice cuts through. “Plus evidence that you paid Ivan Olegov to sabotage Richard’s boat, using the same Bratva cleanup specialist you killed to silence Gerald Hartman, among others.”
Matthew’s hands curl into fists. “This is absurd—”
“This will be over very soon,” I tell him. “It’s only a matter of time before the police process it and come to get you. Knowing Detective Fraser, he’ll turn it into a public and particularly humiliating affair.”
For a long moment, Matthew doesn’t move. Just stares at me with those cold, dead eyes that used to make me nervous. Now they just make me angry.
“You think you’ve won,” he says quietly. “But you’re just like me, Isabelle. Ruthless. Willing to destroy anyone in your path. Your father would be ashamed.”
“My father would be alive if you hadn’t murdered him.” I pick up my bag, ready to leave. “The difference between us, Uncle Matthew, is I destroy people who deserve it. You just destroy people who trust you.”
That’s when he snaps.
Matthew lunges across the table. His hand reach for my throat. It’s clumsy, desperate—the move of a man with nothing left to lose. But before his fingers make contact, Sergei intercepts.
The violence is surgical. Sergei catches Matthew’s wrist mid-grab. He twists it, then slams him face-first into the mahogany table. The sound of breaking cartilage echoes through the boardroom—Matthew’s nose shattering on impact. Blood sprays across polished wood and scattered papers.
Cal Reznick jumps up, reaching for something in his jacket. Another gun. How many weapons are in this damn boardroom?
Sergei moves like liquid death. He releases Matthew, pivots, and closes the distance to Cal in two strides. One hand locks around Cal’s wrist before the gun clears his jacket. The other delivers a precise strike to Cal’s solar plexus that drops him gasping.
The gun clatters to the floor. Sergei kicks it away and turns back to Matthew, who’s struggling to rise, blood pouring from his ruined nose.
“Stay down,” Sergei advises. “Or I’ll put you down permanently.”
Matthew spits blood. “You’re dead, Orlov. Both of you. This isn’t over—”
Sergei’s boot connects with Matthew’s ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but enough to shut him up. “It’s over when my wife says it’s over.”
“This is a setup,” Matthew snarls, blood dripping onto his expensive shirt. “You orchestrated this whole thing—”
“I orchestrated justice.” I step closer, close enough to see the rage and fear warring in his eyes. “Welcome to the first part of consequences, Uncle Matthew.”
Matthew’s security trio comes, helping him off the floor. The four of them, along with Cal, make their escape in an attempt to conserve a slimmer of dignity. It doesn’t work at all, but that’s not my problem.
The boardroom erupts in chaos—members talking over each other, phones coming out, Wesley trying to restore order.
Sergei’s hand finds the small of my back. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.” I turn to face him, adrenaline singing through my veins. His grey eyes are storm clouds, dangerous and beautiful, and there’s blood on his knuckles from where he connected with Cal’s face. He’s magnificent.
“That was—” I search for words. “Thank you.”
“He tried to touch you.” His jaw tightens. “No one touches you.”
Heat floods my body, inappropriate and undeniable. We’re standing in a boardroom that smells like blood and expensive cologne, surrounded by witnesses and chaos, and all I want to do is pull him into the nearest empty office and—
“Miss Davenport!” Jackson Lawson appears at my elbow; face flushed with excitement or shock. “That was... extraordinary. Your father would be proud.”
Would he? The question sits heavily in my chest, but I push it down. Deal with guilt later. Right now, I have a company to secure.
“I need a formal vote,” I tell the remaining board members. “All in favor of maintaining current ownership structure—meaning I retain controlling shares—say aye.”
A chorus of ayes. Even the members who were probably taking Matthew’s bribes know when to switch sides.
“Motion passes.” I collect my bag, suddenly exhausted. “We’ll reconvene next week to discuss actual company business. You know, the legal kind that doesn’t involve attempted murder.”
Wesley catches my arm as we head for the door. “The media’s already here. Someone called them—probably Matthew on his way out, trying to make this look like a hostile takeover turned violent.”
“Let them.” I glance at Sergei, who’s calmly adjusting his jacket like he didn’t just hospitalize two men. “I’m done hiding what we are.”
Outside the building, cameras flash like strobe lights. Reporters swarm us. They thrust their microphones forward. Their voices overlap as they throw their questions at us:
“Miss Davenport, is it true your uncle tried to kill you?”
“Mr. Orlov, sources say you assaulted at least three men inside—”
“Are the rumors about Bratva involvement accurate?”
I stop on the steps, Sergei beside me, and face the cameras. Dad’s lighter sits heavy in my pocket. He taught me to face problems head-on. Time to practice what he preached.
“My uncle, Matthew Ashford, is under investigation for conspiracy to commit murder and fraud,” I say clearly.
“He orchestrated my father’s death and attempted to seize control of Davenport Holdings through illegal means.
Evidence has been turned over to NYPD. I have no doubt that as soon as they confirm its legality, he will be arrested. No further questions at this time.”
“What about the violence—”
“My husband defended me when security personnel, hired by my uncle, attempted to physically bar me from a legally mandated board meeting.” I look directly into the nearest camera. “I have no apologies for that. We’re done here.”
Sergei’s hand finds mine as we descend the steps. Cameras catch it—that moment of connection, of solidarity. Tomorrow, the headlines will scream about The Wolf and his heiress wife. About violence in corporate America. About the dangerous marriage between old money and organized crime.
Let them.
I’m done pretending to be something I’m not.
My old penthouse feels like sanctuary after the chaos. I pour two fingers of Dad’s scotch—medicinal, I tell myself—and sink onto the couch. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, Central Park stretches endlessly, green and peaceful and utterly disconnected from the violence of the morning.
Sergei appears from the bedroom, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The tattoos on his forearms catch lamplight—wolves and roses and Cyrillic script I still haven’t asked him to translate.
“Mila’s with Andrei until tomorrow,” he says, settling beside me. Close enough that his thigh presses against mine. “Safe house on Long Island. She wanted to come home, but—”
“But we don’t know if Matthew has backup plans.” I take a long drink, letting the burn ground me. “Smart.”
“How are you?”
“Tired. Wired. Weirdly elated?” I laugh, sharp and slightly unhinged. “I just watched my uncle getting his ass kicked. That should feel like victory, right? So why do I feel...”
“Empty,” Sergei finishes. “Because revenge doesn’t fill the hole they left. Just stops the bleeding.”
I turn to face him. His eyes are knowing, ancient. He’s lived this—the aftermath of violence, the hollow satisfaction of justice served cold.
“Your father’s death won’t hurt less once Matthew’s in jail,” he continues quietly. “But at least you know he’ll pay for what he did.”
“Will he?” Bitterness leaks into my voice. “Men like Matthew have lawyers. Money. Connections. What if he walks?”
“He won’t.” Sergei’s hand finds my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “Wesley has enough evidence to bury him. And if the legal system fails—”
“You’ll handle it.”
“I’ll handle it.” No hesitation. No moral wrestling. Just simple, lethal truth.
I should be horrified. Should object to murder as a backup plan. But all I feel is relief that someone else is willing to do what’s necessary. To carry the weight I’m not sure I can bear alone.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For today. For defending me. For—”
He kisses me. Hard. Claiming. His hand slides into my hair, fingers tightening until it’s almost painful, and I melt into him because this is what I need. Not gentle. Not careful. Raw and real and undeniable.
“You don’t thank me for protecting what’s mine,” he says roughly when he pulls back, breathing hard.
What’s mine. The possessive should irritate me. Should trigger feminist outrage about ownership and autonomy. But coming from him, it’s such an incredible turn-on.
“Yours,” I echo. Testing the word. Tasting it.
“Mine.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “The second your uncle reached for you, the second he tried to hurt you—” His jaw clenches. “I wanted to kill him, Isabelle. Right there in that boardroom with cameras and witnesses and your entire corporate structure watching.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Because you need him alive. Need him to face justice legally, publicly.” His forehead drops to mine. “But if he comes near you again—”
“Then we end him together.” My hands slide up his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my palms. “Equal partners in violence and everything else.”
His smile is dangerous. Beautiful. “Everything else?”
“Everything.”
We both know our arrangement isn’t fake anymore. We’re just not ready to fully talk about it. Not yet, at least. But when Matthew tried to hurt me, Sergei moved with the kind of protective violence that speaks to something deeper than obligation.
Something terrifying.
Something real.
I kiss him again. Pour everything I can’t say into the press of lips and tongue, the slide of hands and heat of breath. And he responds with equal fervor, pulling me into his lap, consuming me like I’m air, and he’s been drowning.