Page 31 of His Stolen Bride

Men are asking questions outside our circles because Sergei left doors open that I didn’t know existed, and now everyone who ever brushed against his operations is checking to see whether those doors still lead somewhere.

Sergei handled money loosely and relied on speed and intimidation rather than clean separation, which meant he reused intermediaries, shared logistics contacts, and let short-term fixes stand in for long-term control. When he died, those half-secured channels didn’t close. They went quiet, and quiet in this world invites testing.

Money is moving through places Sergei touched because he never finished unwinding his positions, and because he never told me where the weak points were, people assume those routes might still be viable. These aren’t large transfers. They’re probes, small movements designed to see who responds, how fast, and with how much authority.

Old contacts are resurfacing under new names because Sergei never severed relationships properly and because he let favors replace structure. Men who should have been cut loose were kept warm with promises and partial access, and now they’re reappearing to see whether the Morin name still protects them or whether it’s time to sell what they know.

That’s how it starts in Vienna. No direct hits. No overt challenges. Just curiosity framed as business.

The Bratva didn’t warn me about the second buyer because they assumed Sergei had already done the damage, and because stepping in would have meant acknowledging how much he'd mishandled. Letting me discover it on my own spared them from admitting they’d tolerated his recklessness for too long.

By noon, I shut down three accounts Sergei left accessible to intermediaries who should never have had visibility, and I freeze two more before they can be emptied, because allowing money to leak signals that the center didn’t hold. I reroute shipments that Sergei scheduled through mixed-control ports and cancel a meeting he set up as a shortcut, because shortcuts are what got us here.

It keeps me occupied because cleaning up after my brother requires total attention.

It doesn’t keep me settled because every correction I make reveals another place Sergei trusted the wrong person or assumed I’d clean it up later.

Every report lands louder than it should because it confirms the same truth from different angles, and every potential threat feels closer because Sergei’s carelessness gave too many people a reason to believe the Morins could be tested.

Alina complicates the perimeter in ways no map shows.

She’s no longer just proof of Sergei’s arrogance or my response to it. She’s a woman who knows my body, who has seen me without the distance I rely on to stay functional. She knows how fast my temper rises and how quiet I get when I’m thinking.

She knows where I pause.

That knowledge doesn’t belong to anyone. It never has.

I convince myself that avoiding her restores order. That if I don’t see her, the line resets itself. I keep meetings scheduled during the hours I know she walks the garden. I eat late. I leave early. If we pass in the hall, it’s because I misjudged timing.

Her presence still registers. Even when I don’t look.

The house knows she matters now. Staff react faster. Guards straighten when she speaks. I didn’t order that. It happened on its own.

That’s dangerous.

I make a note to rotate senior staff assignments, then stop myself. Changing too much, too fast, draws attention. Attention invites testing.

By evening, I’ve gone through Sergei’s last month again. I trace his steps until the pattern starts repeating in my head. Meetings he didn’t clear. Transfers he justified too easily. He thought speed could replace caution.

He was wrong.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I let it ring out.

If they want me, they’ll try again.

Enzo comes in just after sunset. He closes the door and stands where he always does.

“Outer teams report increased movement near the west boundary,” he says.

“Define increased.”

“Foot traffic where there shouldn’t be any.”

“Testing,” I reply.

“Yes.”

I nod. “Adjust routes. No confrontation.”