3. Mikhail #2
“If you run,” I say, and I keep my voice calm because I refuse to let her hear how much I mean it, “you’ll force me to solve the problem quickly. Don’t force that.”
Her breath catches, and she looks away for the first time since I entered.
Good. Now she understands a little more.
I leave her room before I touch her, and I leave because touching her would turn into taking, and taking would turn into something I don’t have time for.
The week moves fast because I make it move fast.
My mother handles the church and the formalities, and my house manager handles the vendors, and Enzo handles security, and I handle the message.
People need to see the Morin name intact, and they need to see that Sergei’s death didn’t open a door.
The day of the dress fitting, I tell myself I’m checking on the guest list, then I find myself outside the room anyway.
I don’t knock. I open the door and step in, and the seamstress freezes, but Alina doesn’t.
She’s standing on a small platform, and the dress is white and fitted, and it sits on her like it was made for her body and nobody else’s. She looks too young for this, and she looks too steady, and my body reacts before my brain finishes the thought.
I get hard, and it makes me furious, and I don’t look away because I won’t.
Alina’s gaze meets mine in the mirror first, then she turns her head and looks at me directly.
“You’re here to inspect,” she says.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t embarrass me,” I reply.
She lets out a short breath, then she looks back at the mirror. “You’re afraid of gossip.”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I say.
Her eyes flick to mine again. “Then you’re angry.”
“Yes,” I answer, and I step closer because I’m not going to pretend distance is saving me right now. “And you’re still standing there like you have the power.”
She lifts her chin. “I have something you need.”
My jaw tightens. “You don’t know what I need.”
“You need to look strong,” she says, and her voice stays calm. “You need people to stop thinking Sergei’s death made you weak.”
I stare at her. “Don’t speak about my brother.”
Her eyes flash. “Then don’t speak about my father like I handed him a gun.”
The seamstress and her assistants pretend they’re invisible, and they do it well, but I can feel the room holding its breath.
I take another step, and I stop close enough that Alina’s breathing changes.
“You’re playing a game,” I say.
“I’m staying alive,” she answers.
“Alive,” I repeat, and I let my gaze drop to the line of her throat, then back up to her eyes. “Don’t confuse survival with winning.”
Her lips part, and her cheeks flush, and I know she feels the heat between us because I feel it too, and it’s ugly and sharp and addictive.
She doesn’t back down. “Are you going to touch me,” she asks, “or are you going to keep staring like you’re punishing yourself?”
The question hits hard because it’s accurate.
I lean in, and my voice drops. “If I touch you,” I say, “you won’t get to pretend you’re in control.”
Her breath catches, and her eyes don’t move away. “I’m not pretending.”
I hold her gaze for one more beat, then I straighten and look at the seamstress.
“Finish,” I say, and I turn and walk out because I don’t trust myself in that room.
The wedding happens a week after she arrives, and it happens the way a Morin wedding should happen. The church is full, the guest list is curated, and every person present understands they’re watching more than vows.
I stand at the altar and keep my face blank, and I watch the doors.
When Alina walks in, the room shifts, and it’s not because she’s naive or sweet. It’s because she’s beautiful, and she looks expensive in the dress, and she looks like she knows she’s walking into a cage and she’s doing it anyway.
My hand closes around hers when she reaches me, and her skin is warm, and I get hard again, and I keep my face calm because my men are watching and my enemies are watching.
The priest speaks, and the vows are said, and the rings go on, and the paperwork is signed. Alina’s hand doesn’t shake when she signs her name, and I notice that more than I should.
When it’s time to kiss, I do it quickly and I keep it clean, and I don’t give anyone more than they’re owed.
She doesn’t look relieved. She looks thoughtful.
Good. Let her think. Thinking won’t save her, either.
The reception runs like a controlled machine.
I shake hands, I accept congratulations, I let people see Alina beside me, and I watch every man who looks at her too long.
She handles herself well, and she smiles when she needs to, and she doesn’t drink too much, and she doesn’t cling to me like a frightened bride.
That should please me. It irritates me.
When the night is over, I don’t take her to bed, and I don’t even go to her room.
I go to my office instead, and I lock the door, and I sit down with Sergei’s accounts because I can’t fix this family by touching my wife. I fix it by finding who shot my brother and by closing every crack he left behind.
Enzo comes in after midnight, and he shuts the door behind him.
“You’re not going to her,” he says, and it’s not a question.
I keep my eyes on the papers. “No.”
Enzo hesitates, then speaks anyway. “The men will talk.”
“Let them,” I say.
“They’ll wonder if she’s already under your skin,” he adds.
I look up then, and Enzo holds my gaze.
I don’t raise my voice, and I don’t soften it either. “If anyone thinks they can test me because I didn’t fuck my wife on the first night, they can try.”
Enzo nods once and leaves, and the room goes quiet again.
I work for hours, and I find small messes everywhere, but then I find something that isn’t small.
A separate register sits tucked behind a false bottom in a folder that looks harmless, and the handwriting is tight and careful. It isn’t income. It isn’t expense.
It’s inventory.
Names appear in sequence. Some are crossed out. Some are circled. Amounts are penciled beside them. Terms are noted. Conditions are attached.
Marriage required. Transfer upon union.
My jaw tightens as I turn pages.
Then I see Sergei’s name.
His payment is finalized, dated, structured like a dowry, and it’s clean in a way that makes my stomach go cold. I keep going, and I find a later entry, and my anger turns sharp enough to focus.
Secondary buyer retained until debts cleared.
Two lines beneath it.
Two columns of figures.
I stare at the page, and the understanding lands with dull finality.
Morozov didn’t seek alliance. He built redundancy.
He promised Alina twice.
Sergei was only one of them.
My hands go still on the paper, and my pulse stays steady, but my thoughts move fast. If Sergei was one buyer, then the other buyer had motive, and the timing fits, and the public hit fits, and jealousy becomes a weapon men use when money isn’t enough to satisfy them.
I close the register and reach for the phone.
My intel chief answers on the second ring. “Boss.”
“I want a name,” I say. “I want the other buyer, and I want him now.”
There’s a pause, then, “We don’t have it yet.”
“You will,” I tell him. “Pull every transfer tied to Morozov, pull every shell company, pull every meeting Sergei had outside the house, and pull every name that touches this register.”
“Yes, Boss.”
I hang up, and I sit back in the chair, and the silence in my office feels heavier.
Upstairs, my wife is behind a lock she knows doesn’t matter, and I’m married to a problem I can’t kill and I can’t release.
Sergei is dead because he wanted what was promised to him, and now I’ve got a second man out there who thought he could compete for Morozov’s debt and erase my brother to do it.
I stare at the closed register, then I pick it up again, and I read the names a second time.
Alina thinks she’s buying time.
So am I.