Page 2 of The Russian's Bought Bride

I almost skip over a photograph clipped to the file given to me by one of my associates, but I pull it free instead.

Packed closely within the frame is who I assume is Arthur, and beside him is a younger woman with her arm looped through his.

She’s smiling wide and genuine in a way that softens her face, with blue eyes that catch my attention, and a bright kind of joy etched into her features that doesn’t belong in a file like this. She has to be in her early twenties.

Glancing down at the information, I catch a name.

Danielle Young. His daughter.

Staring at the picture of the two of them, apparently taken before his sickness developed, I hesitate.

I don’t know her, and by all means, she’s just another name connected to the case, caught up in a scheme. Just another person who’s bound to get hurt.

There’s nothing extraordinary about this picture or the two of them. It’s just a moment captured before everything goes to hell, and before she’s meant to lose him.

I know what that feels like, and I’ve clung to it ever since I started chasing after scumbags like Doctor Volodin.

My chest aches at the thought of this woman having to experience a similar thing, and I tuck the photo back inside the file before dropping it on the seat harder than necessary.

It doesn’t matter…it can’t.

I’ve seen worse than this. People get hurt in my world all the time, and I don’t get to stop and dwell on each one every time it happens.

Still, I see her in my mind even while the picture is hidden away, and this is exactly why I don’t normally dig into the personal side of things. It blurs lines and makes my job more complicated than necessary.

Her father will be the one on the table, not her. Maybe that should be a bit of comfort, but it isn’t when she’ll have to pick up the pieces after the fact.

Leaning back, I close my eyes and scrub a hand down my face, forcing my mind back where it belongs. Tomorrow night is when I’ll strike. Once I’m inside playing my role and asking the right questions, I’ll get them comfortable enough to show me what they’re really working with. People like them always want to impress a potential buyer, but they’ll slip, and I’ll make sure of it.

When they do, they’ll be done.

Another buzz comes from the cupholder, but from my real phone this time, and I catch Mikhail’s name on the ID and sigh.

Of course, he’s here to remind me of my usual obligations.

Letting it ring once more, I pick it up and shift my tone to a more neutral one, as he would expect. “Yeah?”

“You disappear off the face of the earth all day, and that’s all I get?” He returns, voice edged with irritation veiled by teasing.

“I’m working.”

“You’re always working,” he murmurs. “On what is the question.”

I shift in my seat a bit, careful not to make too much noise. “If you’re calling to micromanage me, you picked a bad time.”

“Apparently,” he says with a quiet, knowing scoff. Then he sighs. “The shipment I’ve been watching got delayed in Germany. The port’s backed up, and customs decided they suddenly care about paperwork.”

Mikhail handles logistics for the family, and if something moves, be it money, product, or people, it goes through him first. Whatever else Roman doesn’t feel like handling gets passed to him. He thrives on control and everything running like a machine. That means delays are the bane of his existence.

“You don’t need me to handle that,” I tell him, lifting a brow. “That’s a Mikhail job.”

“I know,” he mutters. “But Roman’s already on my case about it, and I’d rather share the agony than carry it alone.”

I huff out an amused breath. “So you called because you’re lonely and feeling the heat.”

“What, I can’t vent to my brother?”

“Not when your brother is busy.”