Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Kholod
"Boss, Lorenzo Conti has been sent back to the Bellucci family." Dmitri stood in the study, delivering his report. "Our men showed restraint—three broken ribs, fractured right wrist."
"What's the Belluccis' reaction?" I didn't look up from the files in my hands.
"Sofia Bellucci went ballistic, blamed Lorenzo for acting on his own. According to our sources, there's serious upheaval inside the family. Some think Lorenzo was defending family honor, others think he's a hothead who nearly destroyed their last hope."
I set down the files and leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming against the armrest.
"He destroyed himself." My voice was ice. "Arrogant fool."
"There's something else. Those competitors who've been pressuring the Bellucci businesses—they're getting restless again. Seems they didn't take your warning seriously."
"Who's pulling the strings?"
"We suspect Kieran. That old fox has been quiet lately, and those families all have murky connections to him."
Kieran.
My fingers stopped drumming. My gaze turned cold.
"Teach those families a lesson. Make them understand—Morozov warnings are only given once."
"Understood." Dmitri nodded. "How far should we go?"
"Bankrupt them." My tone was casual. "But no blood. Now's not the time to deal with cops."
"Yes, boss," Dmitri responded. "And Sofia Bellucci..."
"Warn her," I cut him off. "Keep Lorenzo in line. If he shows his face around here again, next time won't be just a few broken ribs."
"Understood."
Dmitri turned to leave. I stopped him.
"Wait."
"Boss?"
"The gifts," I asked. "Were they delivered?"
He paused, then understood. "All delivered. Every piece you personally selected."
"Did she..." I hesitated. "Did she wear them?"
Dmitri's expression shifted slightly. "According to Darya, the missus only wore the blue dress. Everything else remains untouched in the walk-in closet."
My fingers resumed their drumming, faster and harder than before.
"Fine." I waved him away.
Alone in the study, I stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing at the snow-covered forest beyond.
What the hell does this woman want?
Jewelry? She refuses it.
Designer clothes? She won't wear them.
Money? She won't touch it.
I'd given her everything women dream of, and she acted like it didn't exist.
This silent rejection irritated me more than any fierce resistance could.
I was used to solving problems with money and power. But with Noelle, none of it worked.
Freedom?
That was the one thing I couldn't give her right now.
I decided to find answers myself.
The surveillance showed her in the library, so I went there quietly.
This library had been my father's favorite place. Dark oak shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, housing over ten thousand books. Fire danced in the hearth, adding warmth to the massive space.
There she was—curled on the carpet by the window, back against the bookshelf, a heavy art book spread across her knees.
I recognized it—Iceland: The Land of Ice and Fire, something I'd had shipped from New York last week.
She was sketching in a drawing pad, copying glaciers and aurora from the book with charcoal.
Her expression was focused and peaceful, as if her soul had already flown to that distant world.
Sunlight bathed her, casting a soft glow across her profile. Her fingers holding the charcoal were delicate but steady, each stroke revealing her hunger for freedom.
I held my breath.
This scene reminded me of years ago—a little girl from a family I'd had executed for conspiring with Kieran against me.
She'd had that same look of longing.
But that girl had died by my gun, the light in her eyes extinguished in an instant.
At the time, I'd felt something like regret.
I'd built my life on rules, on control. Such yearning had no place in my world. Yet here it was again, shining in my wife's eyes—she was using charcoal to build a spiritual realm I couldn't touch.
Did I really want to snuff out that light completely? Just thinking about it sent needle-sharp pain through my chest.
But I couldn't let her go either. Maybe when she finally learned obedience, I could let her taste freedom again.
I watched too intently, unconsciously stepping forward.
"Click—"
My shoe hit the wooden floor at the carpet's edge.
In the silence, the sound was jarring.
Worse, when I tried to adjust my position, I bumped the side table.
The crystal vase on top wobbled—
"Crash!"
It shattered.
Noelle spun around, startled. Her brown eyes met mine before I could hide my emotions.
Her body tensed instantly. All that peace shattered, replaced by wariness.
"Don't you make any sound when you walk?"
Annoyance and embarrassment surged through me. Kholod Morozov exposed by a damn vase—ridiculous.
I lifted my chin, adopting an arrogant pose to mask my earlier lapse, and walked slowly toward her.
My shoes crunched on crystal fragments.
"Just a vase," I crouched down and picked up a sharp shard, playing with it between my fingers. "Tomorrow I can buy you a hundred more."
"Some things, once broken, can't be bought back with any amount of money." She closed her sketchbook, clutching it to her chest like protecting some precious treasure.
Her words sent an inexplicable thrill through me.
She was still fighting. Even if only with words.
I dropped to a crouch in front of her, one hand braced against the bookshelf beside her, trapping her between myself and the books.
"Is that so?" My gaze moved from the shard in my hand to the sketchbook pressed against her chest.
"But some things are just temporarily out of reach. Doesn't mean they'll never be seen."
She tried to hide the sketchbook, but I'd already pulled it free.
I flipped it open. The pages showed her landscapes—Iceland's glaciers, Norway's fjords, Scotland's highlands...
Every stroke was meticulous, full of heart.
"You're talented." I meant it, my fingertip lightly tracing the aurora lines she'd drawn.
The slight callus on my finger rasped against the paper.
I could feel her body trembling slightly at my touch.
"You want to go here?" I leaned closer, my breath almost touching her lips. "Iceland?"
She turned her face away, silent.
"Beg me," I whispered in her ear. "Maybe I'll take you."
She whipped her head around, fury blazing in her eyes. "In your dreams."
"Dreams?" I laughed coldly. "Noelle, you need to understand something. From now on, every landscape you see requires my permission."
"You're insane."
"Maybe," I admitted. "But that doesn't matter. What matters is you're my wife. And my wife shouldn't spend her days fantasizing about escape."
"I wasn't—"
I didn't let her finish.
One hand gripped the back of her head, the other caught her chin, forcing her face toward mine as I kissed her hard.
She struggled, pushing against my chest.
I didn't budge.
This kiss carried punishment and a possessiveness I couldn't explain.
I needed her to understand—she belonged to me.
Her body, her soul, even her dreams belonged to me.
Finally, I released her.
She gasped for air, tears pooling in her eyes.
"I hate you." Her voice shook.
"I know." I stood, looking down at her. "But that doesn't matter."
I left the library, leaving her sitting there alone.
An hour before dinner, I had the maid deliver a black silk gown to Noelle.
It was custom-made for her in Paris last week. From the moment I got it, I'd imagined how she'd look wearing it. Tonight, I wanted her at the dinner table in that dress.
Thirty minutes later, I entered her room.
The dress lay untouched on the sofa. She still wore her plain casual clothes, standing at the window watching the snow.
My fury ignited instantly.
"Seems you didn't hear what I said."
She turned, that stubborn expression still on her face.
I approached step by step. She backed up until her back hit the window frame.
I reached out, fingertips catching the hem of her casual dress. "Your drawings today were beautiful. But Noelle, beauty needs the right frame."
I released her hem, instead gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at me.
"Under my roof, you're part of me. Your image reflects my taste."
"What if your taste conflicts with my comfort?"
I stared into her eyes, that defiant fire burning bright. This woman always found new ways to challenge me.
"Then your body learns to accommodate my taste. Noelle, every time you obey makes the air under this roof more pleasant. Every time you resist—even over something small like a dress—makes things very troublesome."
I locked eyes with her, making sure she understood my meaning.
"And I hate trouble. Now put it on."
I released her and walked to the door.
At the threshold, I stopped without turning around.
"You have ten minutes. If you're not changed by then, I'll help you change—my way."
I left the room and closed the door.
Leaning against the wall outside, I lit a cigarette.
She'd change. I was certain.
At dinner, I waited at the head of the table.
The door opened. Noelle walked in.
She wore the black silk gown.
The dress perfectly outlined her figure—slender waist, flowing curves. The high slit revealed glimpses of her long legs as she moved.
She'd pinned her hair up simply, exposing the lines of her neck and collarbone.
My breath caught slightly. She was beautiful. So beautiful I wanted to hide her away where no one else could see.
She sat in the chair to my left, graceful but cold-eyed.
I could feel the resistance radiating from her, but I didn't care. She'd put it on. She'd obeyed. It was a good start.
Mother and Anya had already taken their seats. Mother gave Noelle an appraising look, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her features.
Dinner proceeded in silence. I cut my steak, but my gaze kept drifting to Noelle.
She ate little, her movements mechanical, as if eating was just an obligation.
Then Mother spoke suddenly.
"Noelle, you know Kholod smoothed over some troubles for your family's business, don't you?"
I set down my knife and fork, looking at Mother. Why bring this up?
Noelle froze, too, surprise flashing in her eyes when she looked at me.
I met her gaze expressionlessly, saying nothing.
She lowered her eyes, answering quietly. "I didn't know. But I imagine it wasn't for me—it was for the Morozov family's reputation."
Her response surprised me. I'd expected gratitude, at least a thank you. But she didn't, maintaining that distance and coldness.
Mother said nothing more, but something stirred restlessly in my chest.
For the family's reputation? Maybe. But when she was so quick to distance herself, irritation still flared within me.