Page 118 of His Stolen Bride

“Tomorrow,” I continue, “you come with me to the meeting. Not because I need a wife in the room. Because I need you. Your mind. Your memory. Your instincts.”

Alina’s mouth tightens, like she’s fighting the old reflex to say no for safety. Then she inhales.

“Okay,” she says.

It’s one word.

It changes everything.

The next day, she stands beside me in a private room overlooking the city.

Not Vladimir’s room. Mine.

There are ten men at the table. Some Bratva. Some Balkan. One Italian. One Austrian who pretends he’s not criminal because he uses the word “logistics” like it’s holy.

They all look at Alina.

Some with curiosity.

Some with hunger.

One with contempt.

I watch them all.

The Austrian speaks first. “This is… unexpected.”

Alina doesn’t blink. “You expected me to stay hidden.”

His smile is thin. “I didn’t expect you at all.”

“That’s been the problem,” she says calmly. “Men expecting my life to be a side note.”

A few of them shift. One laughs under his breath, like he wants to belittle her.

Alina turns her head slightly. “Do you want to talk,” she asks him, “or do you want to keep making noises?”

The laugh dies.

I don’t intervene. I don’t need to.

They’re learning.

We rewrite the city in two hours.

Not with chaos. With signatures.

I erase old debts that feed useless feuds. I consolidate routes under people who can keep them clean. I cut out the men who profit from instability. I set rules on retaliation. Not because I’m soft. Because I’m tired of cleaning up stupid.

When someone tries to test me, I don’t shout.

I slide a photo across the table.

A picture of their hidden account statement. A picture of their mistress’s passport application. A picture of the warehouse they forgot to move.

They go quiet.

They sign.