I can't make a scene here, but I can't stop picturing how she'll look on our wedding day. She’ll wear something more fitted, more sophisticated, chosen just for me. She’ll smile and tell me again and again how sorry she is for making me wait.
And I'll forgive her. Because she's the only one who deserves it.
There's only one family member here, watching her with soft eyes.
Do I look at her the same way?
But I already know the answer. No. My gaze holds betrayal and rage, because she's mine and I'm forced to watch another man put his hands on her.
But it's all right, Roxy. I know you're confused. I know you're clinging to whatever attention this bastard throws your way.That's my only comfort, knowing that deep down, you know this isn't right.
Enjoy your cake and your first dance, Roxy. Consider it my wedding gift.
Chapter 29
Damien
I watch the garden where the ceremony will take place, observing the wave of guests already starting to arrive. Chicago's chief of police, various members of the Polish mob from the States, and other associates I work with. And Marco Agosti, who, despite not being on the guest list, somehow managed to slip in and now stands in the corner of the garden, eyes fixed on Roxanne.
Interesting.
Roman and Luna are here too. Vasili's coordinating the final security details because everything needs to run perfectly.
While Roxanne talks with her uncle, I step away to make a call. Dr. Ferich, one of the specialists I sent Roxanne's file to, answers almost instantly.
"Any thoughts on the file I sent you?" I ask directly, my gaze never leaving my woman.
From the moment I saw her again in that warehouse, blood at her mouth, I knew she belonged to me. And now, with her taste still branded on my lips, it's getting harder not to sweep her up and forget about the obligations waiting to be honored. I listen as he gives me his opinion on the data in that file and hang up with slightly more clarity but still no concrete proof.
A knock sounds, and Tirana opens the office door tentatively.
"Mr. Kaminski, a package arrived for you. Should I leave it here?"
My gaze slides instantly to the box elegantly wrapped in white and gold. With a short gesture, I indicate for her to set it on the desk and leave.
Something about this package raises my suspicions. The card bears only two simple words: "Wedding Gift." No signature, no name.
Dread twists in my gut as I loosen the delicate bow and lift the lid. Anger slams into me at the sight of a severed hand, the seal of the Warsaw Polish mafia burned into its flesh, and a gold ring engraved with a letter.
The box contains ice packs, but judging by the skin discoloration and the way the blood has coagulated, experience tells me the victim was already dead when the limb was amputated.
With abrupt movements, I send Vasili a short message to come to the office.
This box needs to disappear, and I want a thorough check of all the guests. Again.
Within minutes, my right-hand man steps into the room, and his eyes immediately fix on the still open box. As he approaches, a string of curses escapes between his teeth as he shakes his head.
"It's Antoly," he tells me though I already knew that.
Antoly Adamiach was one of the men who voted for me. I'd strategically placed him in Warsaw to spy for me, and obviously, someone discovered our little game.
This is a bloody message promising retribution.
"Your dear mother’s getting more desperate. Maybe you should call Berna." He murmurs the last words, aware that this is a closed topic for me. My sister has already endured too much. I won't drag her into this war. My only comfort is that she's being left alone now, and our "dear" mother has redirected all her attention to me, not her.
Because Marzena Kaminski turned her own son into a weapon against enemies and used her only daughter as currency for information.
From age twelve, my sister was "loaned out" to various politicians, soldiers, or associates who brought us benefits. When you have that many secrets in your pocket, you become nearly untouchable.
