Page 202 of Marrying the Savage

All three are punishable.

We reach his house before noon. The gate opens because my lead car doesn’t slow. Sergei’s guards are armed, but none of them wants to make himself the first dead man of the day. They step back. My men enter behind me.

Sergei is waiting in the main hall. He has a glass in his hand, a dark suit on his back, and that polished expression men use when they still believe manners can delay consequences.

“Damir,” he says. “You should have called.”

I walk toward him. “Where is he?”

His brows lift. “Who?”

Nikolai places the photo on the table beside him.

Sergei looks down. One second too long. Then he looks back at me. “I can’t be expected to know every man who comes to my property.”

“You will know this one.”

“He is not mine.”

“He ran here.”

“Wounded men run to safe places.”

“He put his arm around Sofia’s throat.”

Sergei’s face changes. Barely. But I see it.

Not surprise. Calculation.

He knew. Maybe not every detail. Maybe not the club, the timing, the way the man failed. But he knew enough.

“Sofia has created a great deal of trouble recently,” Sergei says.

Nikolai’s hand moves toward his weapon. I lift one finger, and he stops.

Sergei notices and takes a slow drink, as if my restraint belongs to him.

“She ran from your house,” he continues. “She involved Arman Chekonov. She disappeared for three days. If she found danger while hiding from her own husband, perhaps you should ask why she was there at all.”

I move before he finishes. My hand closes around his throat, and I drive him back into the wall hard enough to crack the frame behind him. His glass falls and breaks across the floor.

Weapons rise around the hall. Mine rise faster.

Sergei’s men freeze. They are loyal, but not eager to die for him in his entrance hall.

I lean close. “Say one more thing about my wife.”

Sergei breathes hard through his nose. His face reddens under my hand.

I could end him here. It would be simple. One turn of my wrist, one command to Nikolai, and this house would belong to the dead before the hour changed.

Sergei knows it. For the first time since I entered, he looks afraid.

“Who gave the order?” I ask.

His mouth pulls tight. “You think killing me fixes this?”

“No. But I think killing you would be satisfying.”