Chapter 72: The Kingmakers pt 2
Alexei’s smile froze. He was a powerful man, a head of a founding family, but as he looked up at Aaron standing over him, a small flick of survival instinct twitched in his jaw.
He realized, a second too late, that he had pushed past a line Aaron did not allow anyone to cross.
Aaron stepped closer, stopping right beside Alexei’s chair. He didn’t reach out, but the sheer threat radiating off him made the air feel thin.
"She is my concern," Aaron said softly, every word slow and measured. "Not yours. You talk about her again with that mouth, and I will tear down every shipping lane your family owns in the Baltic before the sun sets tomorrow."
Alexei’s throat moved as he swallowed, his hands gripping the arms of his leather chair.
"You threaten a founding family over a girl?"
"I don’t make threats, Alexei. I give notifications."
"Enough," the Minister’s voice cut through the heavy silence like a steel blade.
The old kingmaker didn’t raise his voice, but the authority in his tone was absolute. He set his glass down and looked between the two men.
"We are here to build a government, not to fight like dogs in a courtyard. Aaron, sit down."
Aaron didn’t move immediately. He kept his dark eyes locked on Alexei for two long seconds, letting the older man feel the full, crushing weight of his presence.
Then, slowly, Aaron straightened his suit coat and took a half-step back.
"My apologies, Minister," Aaron said smoothly, his tone instantly shifting back to polite, quiet respect. "Some people forget their place when they grow old."
Alexei’s jaw worked silently, his face turning dark with rage, but he forced himself to stay quiet.
Aaron turned back to the Minister, entirely ignoring the two other men in the room. "You asked if I knew what I was doing regarding my marriage."
"I did," the old man replied, his expression unreadable.
"I do," Aaron said. He leaned against the edge of the dark wood desk, perfectly relaxed. "And since you are concerned with my personal life, you can consider yourself invited to the wedding."
The Minister stared at him for a moment, then a loud, booming laugh burst from his chest, echoing off the high walnut walls. "A wedding already? You haven’t even finished the divorce in America."
"It won’t take long," Aaron said calmly. "I don’t intend to make you wait for an invitation."
The Minister chuckled, shaking his head. "Then I will make sure to attend. It has been a long time since this city has seen a real Kazarov show."
Alexei sat stiffly in his chair, his fingers tight against his glass, forced to listen as Aaron casually announced his intention to make Isabella his wife in front of the most powerful political figure in the country.
If Aaron married Isabella, any hope of an Orlov-Kazarov merger was dead forever, and Aaron was making it crystal clear that he didn’t care what Alexei thought about it.
The Minister reached into the small drawer of the side table beside his chair and pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in dark blue velvet. He tossed it lightly across the small distance.
Aaron caught it cleanly in one hand.
"A gift," the Minister said.
Aaron held the heavy little box in his palm. "You haven’t even met my bride."
"I don’t need to meet her. I know you," the old man said softly. "Open it."
Aaron flipped the silver latch and lifted the lid. Resting on a bed of dark silk was an old platinum pocket watch.
Its surface was plain, devoid of fancy jewels, but the metal had a dull, rich shine that only came from immense age.
"It belonged to the man who sat in this chair before me," the Minister said, his voice quiet and solemn. "He gave it to me forty years ago when I took his place. Keep it."
Aaron looked down at the watch, his thumb tracing the smooth, cool platinum. It wasn’t just an expensive trinket. It was a sign of recognition from the top of the Council, a quiet statement that Aaron was seen as an equal, not just a subordinate.
"I’ll take care of it," Aaron said, closing the box with a soft click and sliding it into his coat pocket.
"You had better," the Minister smiled faintly. "One day, someone may be sitting across from you waiting to inherit it."
Aaron inclined his head slightly. "If there is nothing else, Minister, I have a flight to catch."
"Go," the old man waved a hand. "We will speak about Sokolov’s campaign next week."
Aaron turned to leave, but as he passed Alexei’s chair, the older man spoke up one last time, his voice low and tight.
"You handled the border dispute in the south with a heavy hand last month, Aaron," Alexei said, trying to regain some lost ground. "The other families are talking. You are creating tension where there doesn’t need to be any."
Aaron paused near the heavy oak door. He didn’t turn around to look at Alexei.
"Then tell them to fall in line," Aaron said plainly. "It saves everyone time."
Without waiting for a response, Aaron pushed open the heavy door and walked out into the long, quiet hallway, leaving Alexei sitting in suffocating silence.
The cold night air hit Aaron’s face as he stepped out onto the wide stone steps of the estate. The sky above Moscow was cloudy and heavy with the promise of more rain.
The car was already waiting at the bottom of the steps, its engine idling quietly in the cold air. Pyotr stood by the rear door, holding a heavy umbrella over his arm, his tablet tucked tightly under his shoulder.
As Aaron walked down the steps, pulling his leather gloves onto his hands, Pyotr stepped forward and handed him a secure satellite phone.
"The legal team just called from New York," Pyotr reported, his voice crisp and professional.
Aaron took the phone, tapping the screen to bring up the encrypted message. "Already?"
"The court in Manhattan has officially put the case on the docket," Pyotr said, opening the car door for him. "They cleared the schedule for the initial hearing."
Aaron stopped with his hand on the top of the car door, looking down at the small text on the screen.
"When?" Aaron asked.
"Three weeks," Pyotr replied. "The first court date for Isabella’s divorce from Kian Carter is set for three weeks from today."
Aaron stared at the date on the screen for a moment, the cold wind blowing his dark hair across his forehead.
Three weeks.
In three weeks, he would place a new governor into office to secure his political lines. In three weeks, he would have to keep a sharp eye on Alexei Orlov and the bitter bloodlines waiting for him to make a mistake.
And in three weeks, he would take Isabella Kingston back to New York and watch her tear her ex-husband’s pride to the ground.
Aaron slid into the back seat of the car, shutting out the freezing wind. He looked out the tinted window as the heavy iron gates of the estate swung open to let them pass.
A small, dangerous smile touched the corner of his lips.
Three weeks would be plenty of time.