Chapter 2 #2
I also stand up, taking another sip of my coffee as I gather my thoughts.
“It’s incomplete. Some of the details don’t match up.
The powder burns on his shirt don’t align with close-range shots.
And the timeline—the Ashfords supposedly arrived at 9:40, but the time of death is estimated at 9:30.
” I’ve been over this a hundred times in my head, and it still doesn’t make sense.
“How do you ambush someone before you arrive?”
Konstantin’s expression softens into something that looks almost like pity.
“Grief is making you see patterns that aren’t there, Dimitri,” he says gently.
“The body was identified by three of our most trusted men and you. The coroner confirmed it. Alexei is gone. Searching for inconsistencies won’t change that. ”
I shake my head. “But—”
“Let it go,” he says firmly. “Focus on the living and make sure this doesn’t happen again. That’s what Alexei would want."
He walks away before I can argue, his footsteps fading into the morning.
But his dismissal only makes the unease worse. Something is wrong. I can feel it in my bones, and it’s the same instinct that’s kept me alive in this business for over two decades.
The forensic report has holes. The timeline doesn’t work. And Konstantin’s reaction—that flash of something in his eyes before he shut it down—
I file it away to examine at a later time.
For now, I have other things to consider.
I look down at Alexei’s headstone one more time and touch my fingers to the cold granite.
“I’m going to marry one of them,” I tell him quietly. “Vincent Ashford’s daughter. And I’m going to make her pay for what her family did to you. Every. Single. Day.”
The promise lingers in the space between the living and the dead.
Then I brush the dirt from my knees and walk back to my car. The sun is fully up now, burning away the gray dawn. Another day. Another performance of strength and control for my men.
But tonight, I have work to do.
The intelligence file is thick. Forty-three pages of background on Vincent Ashford, his family, his businesses, and his weaknesses. I’ve memorized most of it by now, but tonight I’m only interested in one section.
Page seventeen. Vera Ashford.
I pull out the eight-by-ten photograph clipped to the top of her section and study it under my desk lamp.
The photo was taken at some charity gala six months ago. She’s standing next to her father, smiling for the cameras in a simple black dress.
Nothing flashy. Nothing that draws attention.
But even in this professional, carefully posed shot, I can see why Vincent chose her as his offering.
She’s beautiful.
The realization irritates me. I don’t want her to be beautiful. I want her to be forgettable, plain, and easy to hate. But there’s no denying what I’m seeing.
She’s tall (five-foot-six according to her driver’s license records) with a naturally graceful posture that suggests either years of deportment training or innate elegance. Curves that the modest dress can’t completely hide. Soft. Feminine. Nothing like the hard-edged women I’m used to.
Her hair falls in long, loose waves past her shoulders and it’s reddish-brown with hints of auburn that catch the light, making it look like burnished copper in the photograph’s flash.
It’s her natural color, not the over-processed platinum or jet black most women in our circles favor. The kind of hair that probably feels like silk if you run your fingers through it.
I shake off that thought immediately.
Her face is heart-shaped and she has delicate features that make her look younger than twenty-four. High cheekbones hint at good bone structure with a small, straight nose.
She has full lips curved in what looks like a genuine smile, not the practiced society smile most people wear at these events. Soft jawline. Nothing sharp about her at all.
But it’s her eyes that stop me.
Even in a photograph, I can see they’re unusual. Warm brown with flecks of amber or gold that seem to catch the light.
The kind of eyes that probably look like they’re glowing in certain lighting.
Expressive eyes.
The intelligence report notes that she’s terrible at hiding her emotions, that everything she feels shows on her face.
Good. That will make breaking her easier.
I flip through the rest of her file. She’s college educated with a literature degree from a small liberal arts school. No involvement in the family business, at least not overtly.
Vera volunteers at a women’s shelter twice a week.
She’s apparently close with her mother and younger twin sisters. No serious relationships on record, though the surveillance notes mention she’s been seeing someone recently.
No name, no details.
Just cryptic entries about her leaving the house in the evenings and returning late.
A boyfriend. Probably some civilian who has no idea what her last name really means. That relationship will end the moment she becomes my wife.
I look at her photograph again and study that innocent face, those expressive eyes, that gentle smile.
She looks soft. Sheltered.
Like someone who’s been protected from the uglier parts of her family's business.
Not anymore.
She’s about to learn exactly what it means to be an Ashford and what it means to cross a Volkov. I’ll make sure every day in my home reminds her of what her family took from me.
I’ll strip away that innocence piece by piece. That soft smile will disappear. Those expressive eyes will learn to hide everything, or they’ll stay permanently afraid.
She’ll become a ghost in my home. Beautiful, yes, but broken. A living monument to what happens when you come for my family.
I reach for my phone and dial Konstantin’s number.
He answers on the second ring. “Have you decided?”
“Tell Vincent Ashford we have a deal,” I say, my eyes still on Vera’s photograph. “I’ll marry his daughter, but not in two weeks. One week. Next Saturday.”
There’s a pause. Then, “This is the right choice, Dimitri. For the family. For the business.”
“I know,” I say quietly.
For the family. For the business. For revenge.
I hang up and look at Vera Ashford’s photograph one more time. I memorize every detail of that innocent face, that gentle smile, those warm eyes.
In one week, she’ll be mine.
And she’s going to learn what it means to mess with a Volkov.
“Welcome to hell, Vera Ashford,” I murmur to the photograph.
Then I close the file and get to work planning her new life.
My life.
Our life together in hell.