Dangerous Husbands, Broken Wives [18+]

FORTY: LAST WARNING

*A FEW HOURS AGO*

A convoy of sleek black cars pulled up one by one outside the old Volkov palace. The loud screech of their tires cut through the cold air, grabbing the attention of both guards and servants who glanced up to see what was happening. The weak sunlight struggled to break through the gloomy grey clouds, giving the day a more ominous vibe than it was meant to have.

Ivan Volkov stepped out of the car and paused for a moment to simply marvel at the grandeur of the site. He had been born here, spent his entire childhood running and hiding around this place. However, as he grew up, these same halls and expansive rooms began to feel like cuffs and shackles, binding him. If there was one thing Ivan Volkov could never stand, it was being lied to or manipulated. This place was the embodiment of the two things he hated the most.

Dimitri Alexeev, his right-hand man, showed up behind him, his scarred face as unreadable as always. "We're good to go whenever you're ready."

Ivan gave a slight nod. "Let's go."

The guards stationed outside pushed open the large oak doors. They remained stoic, showing no reaction as dozens of Ivan's men entered the palace, following in his footsteps, all heavily decorated with weapons.

Ivan came to a pause when he reached the large hall, his eyes narrowed upon the woman seated on the grand burgundy sofa. The room oozed luxury. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers, and walls embellished with priceless artworks.

Ivan's expression hardened at the sight of the older woman, his rage burning just below the surface. "You have been busy, mother. Very busy."

The woman smiled, not at all surprised to have an unexpected visit from an anticipated guest. She set aside the teacup in her hand, the faint sound of the saucer meeting the rich wooden surface wounding Ivan's already irritated temper. "And so do you," she spoke eloquently, her accent thick and rich. She observed the men and the weapons on display, sighing. "What's with the formality? Do you think I'm a danger to you?"

Ivan sneered, sliding his hands into his pockets. "They are not for me, mother. They are for you. A present. I hope you like them."

With his words, one by one, his men stepped forward and placed their weapons on the table in front of the older woman. By the time the last man had set his gun down, a heap of weapons had been formed.

A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but she did an impressive job of brushing it off. Calmness returned as she let out another sigh. "I'll accept them if you tell me what you really are here for."

Ivan shook his head. "As if you don't already know."

"What if I don't?"

"Then you sure as hell have gotten better at lying."

"I have never lied to you, Ivan."

"Of course," he scoffed. "Just like you never tried to abduct my wife."

"Your wife," she mused on the words before realizing she still couldn't get used to it. Something felt off, a bitterness even more intense than before. "As far as I'm concerned, you were never married. You're still the eligible bachelor of this Volkov empire. And that woman you call your wife belongs to those grimy streets, not here—not our world."

Ivan had always attempted to keep his temper in check in front of his mother, but sometimes... sometimes, she certainly got under his skin. The fact that she could never accept Ana as part of their family felt like a scar she never backed away from prodding at.

"I don't care what you think. I just came here to tell you to stop meddling in my affairs, and if you try to hurt Ana again, I won't come with weapons next time; I'll come with war."

She arched a perfect brow. "Is that a threat?"

"It's whatever you want it to be."

Silence settled in the room as she narrowed her eyes. Rising from the couch, she circled the table. When she stood in front of her son, her smile was once again calm. "Your threats mean nothing. You will never hurt your mother. You're too much like your father, Ivan. You'll never disappoint him, would you?"

Ivan's jaw tensed, and his gaze burned with uncontrolled rage. He grabbed her throat and squeezed. However, the moment that happened, her men appeared from their positions, all armed with weapons pointed at him and his men. Ivan's men did the same, and in a matter of seconds, the entire hall was filled with men aiming guns at each other.

Her eyes bulged out, blood draining from her face sooner than expected. She struggled against his tight grasp, her sharp nails digging into his flesh, clawing at him, and making him bleed.

Ivan grimaced.

"Let go, Ivan," came a familiar voice from behind. It belonged to sixty-year-old Bogdan Popov, once a trusted friend of Ivan's father and now his mother's right-hand man, also known as an advisor. His own gun was aimed at Ivan. "You might have differences, but she's still your mother. With all the blood on your hands, this one you wouldn't want."

Ivan's grip tightened for a moment, his eyes locked onto his mother's, burning with a fit of anger and frustration. He couldn't forget the sight of terrified Ana in the cabin. It was burned into his mind, and the more he tried to calm himself down, the more infuriated he grew.

"How could you do this to her?" he growled, snarling in her face. "I gave you what you wanted. I left. But that's still not enough, is it?" he shouted, finally shoving her back.

Her back slammed against Bogdan, who, in return, helped her stand straighter.

Ivan snapped his fingers at her. "But you've pushed it too damn far this time. Too far. I have been tolerating your interference in the business for so long, but I suppose my kindness has been mistaken for weakness. And that simply won't do now, would it?"

"You think you know what I want, but you're wrong," she fumed, shaking with anger. "You know nothing about me. Nothing!"

Ivan locked eyes with Bogdan, completely ignoring the nasty glares of his mother. "She's too thick-headed to get what's good for her, so I'm telling you straight. This is the last time you play your filthy games and touch my wife. Next time, I won't be handing out presents. I'll serve up the heads of those you send after my family, and I'll hang them on that door." He shifted his dark gaze to the older woman he no longer considered anything. "Starting from yours."

And then, with that last warning simmering between them, he left.

A/N: Oops, the cat's out of the bag now :P