I Don't: Marrying the Wrong Groom

Chapter 3

Nikolai POV

"Director, the asset bypassed the infiltration plan entirely," I said into the secure, encrypted satellite phone.

I took off my heavy black suit jacket and tossed it onto the metal table behind me. Underneath the expensive fabric, my tactical shoulder holster and heavy bulletproof vest were finally visible. I loosened my tie, letting out a rough breath as I stared at the wall of glowing monitors in my subterranean command center.

"What do you mean she bypassed it, Agent Volkov?" the Director's voice crackled through the secure line, sounding highly stressed. "The operation was supposed to take months. You were supposed to slowly infiltrate Stefan Aston's shipping network through standard business pressure."

"Well, plans changed," I said, leaning my knuckles on the cold edge of the console. "She jumped straight into my arms. Literally. She dumped Aston right at the altar, walked down the aisle, and proposed to me in front of three hundred people. I am officially inside the family network now."

The line went completely dead for a few seconds as the Director processed the ridiculous update. "Are you telling me Venelope Aston is currently at your safehouse?"

"Yes," I replied, shifting my gaze to the top left monitor. "She is in the east wing guest suite right now. I had my men escort her up there ten minutes ago after she finished writing down a list of Aston's supposed hidden assets."

"Is she hysterical?" the Director asked. "Our intelligence profile on her stated she was a meek, easily manipulated heiress. She was supposed to be the blind shield Stefan used to cover his international smuggling ring. If she is panicking, she might compromise your deep cover."

"She is definitely not hysterical," I murmured, my eyes locking onto the live security feed of her bedroom.

I watched Venelope on the screen. She was still wearing that ridiculously heavy white silk wedding dress, but she had ripped off the long veil and thrown it into the corner of the room. She was not crying. She was not panicking. She was pacing back and forth across the hardwood floor like a caged tiger, her small jaw clenched tight. Every few seconds, she stopped to examine the windows, the door locks, and the heavy furniture. She was actively looking for weapons.

"Agent Volkov?" the Director called out, noticing my silence. "What is her status?"

"She is acting like a wolf, Director," I said, completely captivated by the sharp, sudden shift in her personality. "Our intelligence files were completely wrong about her. She is not a lamb. She just handed me a list of secret offshore accounts that my team hasn't been able to c***k for two full years. I am going to verify the data now. I will check in at 0600 hours."

"Keep your guard up, Nikolai," the Director warned. "If she realizes you are a Special Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and not the Russian mob boss you pretend to be, the entire operation blows up."

"She won't find out," I said, and then I ended the call.

I shoved the secure phone into my tactical vest and kept staring at the monitor. Venelope had just picked up a heavy crystal vase from the nightstand, weighing it in her hands before setting it back down with a dissatisfied look on her face. She wanted a real weapon. She wanted blood. I needed to know exactly what kind of game she was playing, and I needed to know right now.

I turned away from the console, walked out of the command center, and headed up the concrete stairs. I moved silently through the hallways of my estate until I reached the heavy wooden door of her guest suite. I did not knock. I did not announce myself. I simply turned the brass handle and walked right into her bedroom unannounced to test her reflexes and see how she would react to a sudden threat.

The reaction was instantaneous.

The moment the door clicked open, Venelope whipped around with terrifying speed. She did not scream. She did not cower. She raised that heavy crystal vase high above her head and lunged forward, swinging it directly at my face with full force.

I moved on instinct. I ducked beneath her arm, stepping deep into her personal space. I caught her right wrist with my left hand, twisting it just enough to force her fingers to open. The heavy crystal vase slipped from her grip, falling onto the thick rug with a dull thud. Before she could try to kick me, I wrapped my right arm around her waist, lifted her slightly off her feet, and slammed her back against the solid bedroom wall.

The impact was sharp, knocking the air right out of her lungs. I pressed my entire body against hers, pinning her arms above her head so she could not move a single muscle.

Our chests were heaving violently, our hearts racing rapidly against each other in the tight space. I could smell the sweet scent of the wedding roses clinging to her skin, mixed with the sharp scent of adrenaline. Her face was just inches from mine, her breathing ragged, but her eyes were glaring up at me with fury.

"Rule number one," I whispered, my voice dropping into a low, menacing rasp right against her ear. "Never swing at a man who can snap your wrists in half before you can even blink."

Venelope did not flinch. She did not look intimidated by the fact that I had her completely trapped against a wall. Instead, she bared her teeth and spat right back into my face.

"Then give me a real gun instead of a stupid decorative vase," she snapped, her voice sharp, cold, and entirely sassy.

I froze, staring down at her. Then, a dark, rich laugh tore out of my throat, echoing loudly against the walls of the bedroom. I slowly released her wrists and took a step back, shaking my head in disbelief. She was completely serious. She was not a civilian playing a game; she genuinely wanted a firearm.

"You want a gun, printsessa?" I asked, reaching down to my side.

I unholstered my compact tactical pistol, popped the magazine out to show her it was fully loaded, and then slapped it back in with a sharp click. I held the weapon out to her by the grip, watching her face closely to see if she would hesitate. This was the ultimate test of her resolve. If she was a spy or a fragile rich girl, she would look uncomfortable.

Venelope did not hesitate for even a millisecond. She snatched the compact pistol right out of my hand with a practiced, confident grip. She pulled back the slide, checking the chamber to ensure a round was chambered properly, and then lowered the weapon to her side, finger resting safely along the frame just like a trained professional.

I stared at her, my mind spinning into overdrive. Where the hell did a high-society heiress learn how to check the chamber of a tactical firearm like a seasoned mercenary? None of our surveillance reports mentioned her ever taking a single self-defense class.

"Satisfied?" I asked, keeping my tone carefully guarded.

"It will do for now," Venelope said, looking up at me with a cold, victorious little smirk. "At least now I do not have to worry about you breaking into my room without knocking again."

"Do not forget who owns the house, printsessa," I reminded her, crossing my arms over my chest. "And do not forget our contract. You are here to help me destroy Stefan Aston. That gun is for him, not for me."

"I know exactly who the target is, Volkov," she said, her voice dropping into a deadly, quiet tone. "Stefan is going to wish he died in his sleep by the time I am done with him."

I looked at her, realizing right then and there that this mission had just become incredibly complicated. Keeping my true identity as an FBI agent a secret from this brilliant, deeply vengeful, and highly unpredictable woman was going to be the most dangerous thing I had ever done in my entire career. If she found out I was the law, she would walk away, and I would lose my only asset. I had to keep up the mafia lie, no matter what it cost me.

"Good," I said, turning back toward the door. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real war begins, and I expect you to be ready to move fast."

"I am already born ready," she said to my back.