The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 241

Vivian

The Crimson Den felt like a ghost town as I pushed through the heavy entrance doors. What had once been a thriving hub of criminal activity was now virtually empty—just a few scattered patrons nursing drinks in dark corners, their conversations muted and nervous.

My heart sank as I scanned the nearly vacant space. This was supposed to be one of the Iron Wolves' primary hangouts, a place where Dmitri conducted business and his men relaxed between jobs. The fact that it was deserted couldn't be a good sign.

I was already turning to leave when the bartender, a thin man with graying hair who'd served me drinks during my previous visits, looked up and recognized me.

"Hey, you're looking for those Iron Wolves, right?" he called out with a knowing smile. "Well, they've got themselves into some serious trouble this time."

He shook his head as he wiped down a glass. "Killed my business too. Word gets around that those wolves frequent your establishment, and suddenly nobody wants to drink here anymore. Bad for the reputation, you know?"

I approached the bar, my anxiety mounting. "What kind of trouble? Where are they now?"

The bartender shrugged. "I don't know the details, and honestly, I don't want to know. But if you're looking for them, try the old Riverside Salvage Yard in Queens—near the industrial district by the waterfront. That's where they've been holed up lately."

He paused, checking his watch. "You better hurry though. From what I hear, they might not be together much longer."

My blood ran cold. "What do you mean, 'not together much longer'?"

"Like I said, lady, I don't ask questions I don't want answers to. But if it were me, I'd get over there fast."

I thanked him and rushed back to my Bentley, my mind racing. The one person I'd been counting on to stand up to Nikolai, the unpredictable force who might actually be crazy enough to take on the Pakhan, was apparently falling apart before I could even reach him.

The drive to Queens felt endless despite my aggressive driving. When I finally reached the salvage yard, my worst fears seemed confirmed. The heavy chain-link gate was closed and secured with a rusted padlock, the kind of barrier that suggested abandonment rather than security.

I parked and tried the gate, calling out for anyone who might be inside, but my voice echoed uselessly across the vast expanse of twisted metal and abandoned cars. The place looked completely deserted.

Standing there in my designer dress and heels, surrounded by industrial wasteland, I felt ridiculous and desperate. How was I supposed to find anyone in this maze of scrap metal?

"Fuck it," I muttered, walking back to my car. "Sorry, baby, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

I revved the engine, backed up for momentum, and floored the accelerator. The Bentley's front end slammed into the gate with a resounding crash, chains snapping and metal screeching as I burst through. My beautiful car would never be the same, but right now that seemed like the least of my problems.

I drove through the winding paths between towers of crushed cars and industrial debris, laying on the horn continuously. The sound echoed off the metal walls like a battle cry, and finally, I spotted movement in the center of the yard.

What I found there stopped me dead in my tracks.

Dmitri stood behind a makeshift table constructed from a sheet of plywood balanced on two oil drums. In front of him stretched a line of his former soldiers—the same intimidating men who had once terrorized the city's underworld—waiting patiently like office workers at a company Christmas party.

I watched in stunned disbelief as Dmitri handed a thick envelope to a massive man covered in tattoos.

"Sergey," Dmitri was saying in the tone of a corporate HR director, "thank you for your eight years of dedicated service to the organization. This envelope contains your severance pay plus hazard bonus. Your retirement account has been transferred to the trust fund you specified."

He clapped the confused-looking giant on the shoulder. "I recommend Florida. Great weather, excellent fishing. Time to try a different lifestyle."

Sergey looked bewildered. "Boss, are we really just... disbanding? After all these years?"

"Go buy a boat, my friend. Learn to enjoy sunsets that don't involve explosions."

The next man in line stepped forward—a wiry guy with a gold tooth who I remembered as one of their demolitions experts.

"Tony," Dmitri continued with the same professional courtesy, "your specialty skills package includes an additional bonus for working with hazardous materials. I've also arranged for your criminal record to be... cleaned up... through certain contacts."

Tony scratched his head. "What am I supposed to do with myself, boss?"

"Have you considered culinary school? You always had a talent for creating interesting chemical reactions. Food might be a safer application."

I stood there gaping as this surreal scene unfolded. The Iron Wolves, the most dangerous mercenary crew in New York, were being disbanded like employees at a failing startup. Each man took his envelope with a mixture of gratitude and confusion before wandering away into the scrapyard.

As the line grew shorter and shorter, panic seized me completely.

My last hope, my final gambit, was literally walking away with severance packages.

I couldn't let this continue.

"Wait!" I shouted, rushing forward and placing myself directly between Dmitri and the remaining men. "Stop! You can't dissolve this organization!"

Every head turned toward me, and I found myself the center of attention in one of the most bizarre confrontations of my life.