Page 53 of Bound in Possession

A sudden, violent rage flares in my chest. The temperature in the room plummets instantly as my jaw locks, and my hand begins to tighten around the heavy silver handle of my steak knife. I start to rise, ready to drag Igor across the mahogany table and show him exactly what happens to men who disrespect my wife.

But before I can make a move, a warm, firm hand slips under the table and wraps tightly around my wrist.

I glance down. Camilla’s grip is unyielding, pinning my arm down with a silent, iron command. She doesn't look at me; her eyes are locked dead on Igor, completely calm, unbothered, and terrifyingly sharp. She squeezes my wrist once—a signal to let her handle it—before slowly releasing me.

Camilla tilts her head as she addresses Igor directly. She doesn't raise her voice, yet the entire table goes dead silent, the other three elders freezing with their drinks halfway to their mouths.

She takes a slow sip of her wine, sets the glass down, and rests her hands elegantly on the table. "Am I mistaken when I say that your entire northern territory is currently hemorrhaging cash? Don’t your premium casino revenues rely entirely on the offshore laundering channels running through the Adriatic coast?"

Igor’s smug expression suddenly stiffens, his eyes widening a fraction.

"Channels that my husband currently controls and protects," Camilla continues, her voice cutting through the room like a razor blade. "The Pakhan could completely freeze your assets by tomorrow morning, leaving your entire operation bankrupt. How long would your men stay loyal to you if you couldn't pay for their silence?"

A heavy, suffocating silence falls over the grand room.

I relax my grip on the knife, a slow, dark wave of pride washing over me. I stay completely still, letting her finish, because I realize something profound in this exact moment: she has just defended my power, my territory, and her own place at this table far better than my violence ever could have. She didn't just break Igor's pride; she systematically dismantled his leverage in front of the entire council.

Across the table, Igor’s face turns a dark, mottled red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he realizes he has been completely cornered by the very woman he tried to humiliate.

But humiliation doesn't breed silence in a man like Igor; it breeds desperation.

Instead of backing down, he scoffs, his chest heaving as a dangerous, volatile energy takes over. He reaches across the mahogany wood, grabbing a crystal decanter of untouched vodka. He doesn't bother with a glass. He tips the bottle back, gulping the burning liquor down his throat, the liquid spilling down his chin. When he slams the bottle back onto the table, his eyes are bloodshot, entirely drunk, and reckless.

"You think you're clever, girl?" Igor sneers, his slurred voice echoing off the high ceilings as he continues to prod Camilla. "You think because you share the Pakhan's bed, you share his teeth? You are a Caruso whore. Your father gave you away because you were worthless to him, and you'll be just as worthless to us when Maksim gets tired of opening your legs."

The insult hangs in the air, putrid and unforgivable.

Daniil and Matvey freeze, their expressions turning stone-cold. Camilla doesn't flinch, but the air in the room instantly drops below freezing.

I don't hesitate. I move with the terrifying, lethal speed that made me Pakhan.

My left hand shoots across the space separating us, gripping Igor’s wrist and slamming his palm flat down against the mahogany table. Before he can even register the trap, my right hand drives the heavy, silver steak fork directly through the center of his hand.

The silver metal tears through skin, muscle, and bone, embedding itself deep into the solid wood beneath.

A sickening crunch echoes through the room, followed immediately by Igor’s blood-curdling shriek of agony.

"Ahhhh! Fucking hell! Maksim!" Igor screams, his body convulsing as he tries to pull away, but the fork holds him perfectly pinned to the table. Dark, thick blood begins to pool rapidly around the silver prongs, staining the white linen napkins.

I don't let go of his wrist. I lean forward, my face inches from his sweating, pale face, devoid of any human emotion. The entire room watches in absolute, paralyzed silence, reminded in a single, quiet fraction of a second just how violent and feared the Pakhan truly is.

"You will speak of my wife with respect," I whisper, my voice deadly soft against his frantic breathing. "Or the next thing I pin to this table will be your tongue. Do you understand me, Igor?"

Igor whimpers, his entire body trembling as the dark blood continues to leak onto the polished wood. The bravado is completely gone, replaced by the pathetic terror of a man who realized he pushed a monster too far.

"I... I need a hospital," he gasps out, his face slick with sweat. "Maksim, please... the hospital..."

I don't budge. I keep his wrist pinned, leaning just a fraction closer so he can feel the absolute lack of mercy radiating off me. I repeat my question, my voice a flat, deadly monotone. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes!" he chokes out, his chest heaving. "Yes, I understand!"

I nod slowly, letting the cold satisfaction settle in. I raise my left hand and gently, almost mockingly, pat his damp cheek.

"Good," I say softly. Then, my eyes flick to the woman sitting beside me, untouched and unbothered by the violence. "Now, apologize to my wife."

Igor freezes, a final, stubborn flicker of resistance crossing his pale face. He looks away from me, his jaw tightening as he tries to swallow his pride. He doesn't want to. To apologize to a woman—to a Caruso—in front of the other elders would ruin what little reputation he has left.

I don't waste time arguing. I simply wrap my fingers around the handle of the fork and give it a sharp, deliberate twist.