Chapter 10 Yuri
YURI
Three days married, and Inessa moves through my house like a ghost.
She eats the meals Rosa prepares, speaks when spoken to, and disappears into the art room I set up for her on the second floor.
But she won't look at me, won't acknowledge what happened between us on our wedding night.
I tell myself it's better this way, a compliant wife who doesn't challenge my authority, doesn't create problems with my men.
But when I catch glimpses of her in the hallways—pale and ethereal in the flowing dresses Rosa insists she wear—something hungry and desperate claws at my chest.
I want her to fight me again.
I want her to spit fire and break things and force me to pin her against the wall until she remembers how her body responds to mine.
Instead, she's an apparition haunting my home.
Oleg knocks on my office door, interrupting the shipping reports spread across my desk.
"Sir, there's been an incident at one of your wife's properties."
"Which property?" I ask as he barges in.
"The warehouse on Nevsky Prospect. It burned last night."
He drops a picture on my desk that I glance at, but I don’t need to see it to know what it looks like.
I lean back in my chair, studying his face. "Accident?"
"No, sir. Arson. Professional job—they knew exactly what they were doing."
His hands curl into fists, and I'm honored to see his emotional reaction.
She's only been mine for three days and his loyalty extends to her automatically now.
"Complete loss. The building, the equipment, her entire spring collection."
I pick up the picture—a crime scene photograph showing the gutted remains of Inessa's warehouse on the industrial side of St. Petersburg.
Twisted metal beams, charred fabric, melted machinery.
Months of her work reduced to ash.
"Casualties?" I ask, looking up at him.
"None. Happened at night when the building was empty. But they left a message."
He points to a photograph of graffiti spray-painted on the exterior wall.
The words are in English, crude but clear.
HONOR THE DEAL.
My jaw tightens. "Kozlov."
"Has to be. Military-grade accelerant, the kind used in war zones. And we found this."
He slides another photograph, taken from the breast pocket of his suit, across the desk.
Security footage from across the street shows a heavyset man with a shaved head and distinctive facial scarring.
Mikhail Kozlov himself, watching the warehouse burn from the passenger seat of a black SUV.
"He's escalating," Oleg says. "Your refusal to complete Dominic's arms deal obviously wasn't taken well."
I lean back in the leather chair, studying the photographs.
Kozlov is a problem I've been avoiding, hoping he'd find other suppliers and leave the Gravitch organization alone.
But men who deal in death and violence don't accept refusal gracefully.
"What's his next move?"
"We don't know, sir. But targeting your wife's business sends a clear message. He's not going after you directly—yet. He's hitting what you value."
What I value.
Three days ago, Inessa's company was a business asset, a means to launder money and legitimize revenue streams.
Now it's something else entirely—an extension of her, a piece of what makes her who she is.
And Kozlov burned it down.
"Double security around the compound," I tell Oleg.
"I want armed men on every entrance, every window. No one gets in without clearance."
"Already done, sir."
"Find out everything there is to know about Kozlov before this erupts," I tell him, and he grunts his acknowledgement before turning on his heel.
After he leaves, I sit alone with the photographs.
The warehouse is a total loss, but Inessa doesn't know yet.
She's upstairs in her art room, sketching new designs, probably planning her next collection.
She needs to know.
And I need to see her reaction when she learns how far Kozlov is willing to go.
I find her in the room I converted for her use—north-facing windows for good light, a drafting table, shelves for supplies and fabric samples.
She sits with her back to the door, long, dark hair falling over her shoulder as she works.
The sketch pad in front of her shows the beginning of a dress design, clean lines and elegant proportions.
She doesn't acknowledge my presence, but her shoulders tense when I step into the room.
"There's been an incident," I say.
Her hand stills on the pencil, but she doesn't turn around.
"What incident?"
"Your warehouse on Nevsky Prospect. It burned last night."
Now she turns, gray-green eyes wide with shock.
"What?"
"Complete loss. The building, the equipment, your entire spring collection."
She's on her feet, moving toward the door, but I block her path.
"I need to see it. I need to call Alina. She can help coordinate with the insurance—"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"You're not leaving this compound. And you're not making any calls."
Her face flushes with anger.
"It's my business. My company. I have every right—"
"You have no rights that I don't give you."
The wince on her face pains me, but I don't mean these things to be shackles.
I'm trying to keep her safe.
"This wasn't an accident, Inessa. It was arson, professionally done, and it's connected to threats against this family."
"Threats against your family," she corrects.
"This has nothing to do with me."
"It has everything to do with you. You're my wife. That makes you a target."
She laughs bitterly as she shakes her head.
"Your wife. Right. The woman you keep locked in your house, surrounded by armed men, who can't even make a phone call without permission."
"The woman who's alive because of those armed men."
She moves to the small desk in the corner where I had Rosa install a telephone.
Her fingers find the receiver, and she begins dialing.
I cross the room in three steps, pressing the disconnect button before the call can connect.
"Don't," I warn.
"I'm calling Alina. She needs to contact our suppliers—"
I disconnect the call again.
This time, I remove the receiver entirely, holding it away from her reaching hands.
"Give it back."
"No."
"Give it back!"
She lunges for the phone, and I have to catch her wrists to keep her from clawing at my face.
She's shaking with fury, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"You bastard. You fucking bastard, let me call my friend."
"Your friend can't help you. No one can help you except me."
"Help me?"
She struggles against my grip, trying to break free.
"You're the one who destroyed my life. You're the one who forced me into this marriage, who's keeping me prisoner in this house. And now you won't even let me try to save my business?"
"I'm trying to keep you alive."
"I'd rather be dead."
The words feel like a slap in the face after what I've done for her.
I slam her back against the wall, pinning her there with my body, my face inches from hers.
"Don't ever say that again."
"Why?"
She glares up at me, defiant despite the tears.
"Because then you'd lose your convenient wife? Your business asset?"
"Because you're mine," I growl.
"Because the thought of you dead makes me want to burn this entire city to the ground."
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating despite her anger.
I can feel her pulse racing where my fingers wrap around her wrists, can see the flush spreading down her throat.
Before either of us can say anything else, my phone rings.
I release her, stepping back as I check the caller ID.
Unknown number, but the area code is familiar.
I answer, putting the call on speaker.
"Gravitch."
"Mr. Gravitch." The voice is female, cultured, with a slight accent I can't place. "My name is Viktoria Mirova. I believe you know my daughter."
Inessa goes perfectly still, her face draining of color.
"Mrs. Mirova."
I keep my voice neutral, but this woman makes me want to kill something. "What can I do for you?"
"You can release my daughter and allow her to come home where she belongs."
"Your daughter is exactly where she belongs. In her husband's house."
Viktoria's laugh is a cruel, nasally sound.
"Her husband. Yes, I heard about your… arrangement. Quite creative, forcing a grieving girl into marriage to salvage a business deal."
"Inessa married me willingly."
"At gunpoint, from what I understand."
Inessa presses her hand to her mouth, staring at the phone with horror.
If she says a word, I'll be forced to end this call, but finding out what Viktoria is up to is worth this slight risk.
"I don't know what you think you know—"
"I know my daughter never would have agreed to marry you under normal circumstances. I know you've isolated her from her friends, her support system. And I know that legally, she still has options."
"Such as?"
"Such as annulment. Divorce. Transfer of her business assets to family members who can properly protect them."
The threat is clear.
Viktoria isn't just demanding Inessa's return.
She's positioning herself to take control of the company.
"Inessa is an adult," I tell her. "She can make her own decisions."
"Can she? When she's trapped in your compound, unable to communicate with the outside world?" Viktoria's voice sharpens. "Let me speak to her. Now."
I look at Inessa, whose lips are pursed, eyes narrowing at me suspiciously.
It's like she's testing me to find out if I'm really as vindictive as she thinks I am.
But she has no idea who her mother really is.
"She's not available."
"Then you leave me no choice. I'll be filing papers with the court tomorrow morning. Annulment proceedings based on coercion, and a legal challenge to the business contracts signed under duress."
The line goes dead, and Inessa growls and stomps her foot.
"She's my mother!" she hisses, and I slide my phone back into my pocket as I back away from her.
"And you're my wife." The phone receiver dangles from the wire still clutched in my hand.
"And you're staying here. I'll handle the warehouse. I just thought you should know."
I walk out, but the second I shut the door, I hear something explode against the wall behind me.
She fancies throwing things.
Well, let her throw a tantrum.
Maybe next time, I won't even inform her of the threat.
She has no idea what I'm saving her from.