The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 237

Orion

The memory of last night's horror played on an endless loop in my mind as I drove through Manhattan's morning traffic. Mrs. Patterson's anguished screams, the sound of that gunshot through the phone speaker, the way Aveline had collapsed into the chair afterward—all of it haunted me with relentless precision.

Part of me wondered if we were somehow responsible for Michael Patterson's death. If we'd handled the situation differently, stayed quiet, found another way... But I knew that was wishful thinking. From everything I'd learned about the Crimson Brotherhood, they operated with calculated brutality. They probably would have pulled that trigger regardless of whether we'd been listening or not.

What truly terrified me wasn't the execution itself—it was the implications. How had they known exactly how many people were in that room? Could they really detect breathing patterns through a phone call, or did they have other sources of intelligence we hadn't identified?

Either way, one thing was crystal clear: this organization had resources and capabilities far beyond what we'd initially understood. Every hour we delayed in addressing this threat was another hour Aveline remained in mortal danger.

I'd already spoken with Victor twice this morning, implementing additional security measures around Aveline's estate. We'd expanded the perimeter surveillance, added motion sensors to the neighboring buildings, and stationed armed guards at every conceivable access point. But all of those precautions felt inadequate against an enemy we didn't understand.

I needed answers, and there was only one place in New York where I might find them.

The Kozlov family compound occupied an entire city block on the Upper East Side, hidden behind walls that looked deceptively modest from the street. But as my car approached the main gate, the true nature of the property became apparent. Wrought iron barriers topped with razor wire stretched twelve feet high, surveillance cameras tracked every angle, and armed sentries in expensive suits stood at attention like soldiers.

The gate itself was an intimidating piece of craftsmanship—black iron twisted into the shape of interlocking skulls, a not-so-subtle reminder of what happened to the family's enemies. As I rolled down my window to speak with the guard, I noticed at least six different weapons within easy reach of the checkpoint.

"Mr. Blackwell to see Victor Kozlov," I announced.

The guard nodded respectfully and spoke into his radio in rapid Russian before waving me through.

The driveway wound through meticulously maintained gardens that somehow managed to feel menacing despite their beauty. Marble statues of various saints and warriors lined the path, their faces carved with expressions of righteous fury. Everything about the landscaping suggested wealth, power, and the willingness to use violence to protect both.

Victor emerged from the main house before I'd even parked—a massive stone structure that looked like it had been transplanted directly from a Sicilian palazzo. Despite the early hour, he was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's cars.

"Orion!" he called out with genuine warmth. "This is unexpected. What couldn't wait for a phone call?"

I clasped his offered hand, noting the way his security team maintained discrete positions around us. "Something that requires absolute confidentiality. And frankly, I need advice from someone with more experience in these matters."

Victor's expression immediately grew more serious. "Come inside. We'll talk properly."

The interior of the house was even more impressive than the exterior—all dark wood, leather furnishing, and oil paintings depicting various scenes of conquest and glory. But what struck me most was the atmosphere of controlled menace that permeated every room. This wasn't just a home; it was a fortress designed to project power.

Victor led me through a series of corridors lined with photographs of family members, many of whom bore the distinctive scars and hard expressions of professional criminals. At the end of the main hallway, we entered a vast great room dominated by an elevated chair that looked almost throne-like in its positioning.

In that chair sat a man who could only be Alexei Kozlov—Victor's father and the legendary founder of the family's American operations. He was smaller than I'd expected, probably in his mid-seventies, but his eyes held the kind of cold intelligence that had allowed him to build an empire from nothing. Every line on his face suggested decades of making life-and-death decisions without hesitation.

The moment Victor saw his father, he straightened his posture and approached with obvious respect. "Papa," he said in lightly accented English, offering a slight bow.

I followed suit, understanding instinctively that this man commanded the kind of deference reserved for true power. "Mr. Kozlov. It's an honor to meet you."

Alexei studied me with the intensity of a predator evaluating potential prey. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute authority.

"Orion Blackwell. Your reputation precedes you." He gestured to the chairs arranged before his position. "Victor was about to escort you to his office, but I confess curiosity about what brings such a successful businessman to our home. Please, sit. Tell an old man what troubles you."

Victor looked slightly uncomfortable with his father's intervention, but he wasn't about to contradict the family patriarch. We both took seats facing Alexei's elevated position.

I decided on directness. From my jacket, I withdrew the card that had been left in Aveline's bedroom, placing it on the small table between us.

"I came to ask about this organization," I said simply. "The Crimson Brotherhood. Last night, they murdered an innocent college student to send me a message. They managed to infiltrate my wife's home despite military-grade security. I need to understand what we're facing."