Todos los capítulos de Their Replacement Bride Wants Blood: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

“One hundred million? And a blood contract to disown you?!”My father slammed his cigar into the ashtray. His brow was tight, his eyes full of disappointment and reproach.“Aurora, we dragged you out of the slums! Just because you have my blood doesn't give you the right to ruin this family! We gave you your life back, and now you’re trying to bleed your own parents dry?” he roared.I stared at his self-righteous act. It was laughable.“Bleed you dry?” I smirked, throwing the papers I’d prepared onto his desk. “You have seven days until the Volkov wedding. No bride, and that psycho Don will burn the entire De Luca family to the ground. You can’t bear to see your precious, fragile daughter suffer, right? So what’s the problem? You’re not willing to pay to save her life?”The study went dead silent.My mother stood there, pale-faced. Her voice cracked. “Aurora, you’ve known hardship. You’re stronger than Isla. She has a heart condition. She’ll die in Russia. Please, just help the family…

To show "good faith" to the Volkovs, my father threw a lavish dinner in the main hall.The long table was piled with caviar and expensive champagne. The air smelled of Cuban cigars and strong vodka.Three Russian men sat at the head of the table. They reeked of blood.They were the Volkov Don’s men, sent to “inspect the goods.”Their eyes were cold, inhuman. They scanned me up and down like I was livestock.I had been branded. Property of the Russian Don.All night, Julian wouldn’t even look at me.He deliberately stood by Isla’s side, the perfect protector, terrified of pissing off the madmen with Glocks tucked in their belts.But later, on my way to the restroom, a hand shot out of the shadows and dragged me into a blind spot.The thick scent of sandalwood and tobacco.Julian pinned me to the wall, his hands gripping my shoulders.“Don’t look at those Russians like that,” he hissed in my ear. His handsome face was twisted with a possessive rage, but his eyes were pure cowardice. “Aur

The smell of old motor oil and thick blood woke me up.The hood was ripped from my head. I squinted against the harsh light.An abandoned auto shop. Damp, moldy walls on all sides. The air was so cold it seeped into my bones.Isla and I were tied back-to-back to two iron chairs welded to the floor.My jacket was torn. The half-healed cuts on my knees and palms had ripped open again. Warm blood dripped from my fingertips onto the oily concrete.The fever was burning me up. But my mind was like ice. Frighteningly clear.Behind me, Isla’s muffled, broken sobs.“Shut up, bitch! One more sound and I’ll blow your head off!” An Irishman with a scar across his face slammed his gun against a metal barrel.It had been forty minutes since we were taken.Just then, the screech of tires outside. The rusty roll-up door groaned open.Two figures, soaked from the rain, strode in. Julian and my father. They dropped four heavy canvas duffel bags onto the concrete.The moment she saw them, Isla shrieked.

The private jet landed in Moscow. A long flight.The door opened. A blast of Siberian air hit me. Ice cold.I walked down the steps. Seven-inch red bottoms. Composed.The blood was dry. Dark red stains on my black top. Ugly. But I showed no weakness. Not a trace.A week ago, I made a deal over the phone. The price? Total control of the Southside docks in New York. I wasn't some sacrifice sent by the family.I was here to meet my partner.An armored convoy took me to a grand estate outside Moscow. Two lines of Bratva soldiers. Armed to the teeth. They bowed to me in the snow. They saw my wounds. No one dared to look down on me.A guard opened the heavy oak doors. I was led into a massive study.The Russian Pakhan, Nikolai. Rumored to be cruel, cold-blooded. He sat in a leather chair. A Cohiba burning between his fingers. His gray-blue eyes locked on me through the smoke.I didn’t look away. I lifted my chin. Met his stare head-on."Get out. All of you." Nikolai's voice was low. Lazy.Hi

Nikolai's hot breath was still on my neck.The tablet on the desk buzzed. An encrypted video call from the dark web.I pushed him away. Straightened my robe. "Looks like there's a special from New York."I answered. A familiar face appeared. An ugly scar slashed across it.The Irish mob boss. Standing in some cheap, moldy apartment."Morning, the generous Ms. Nyx." Scarface grinned into the camera. A greasy smile. "Thanks for the twenty mil. The Southside is all mine now. In return, I've got a little show for you."He flipped the camera.There was Julian. The great heir. Hiding behind a torn-up sofa. Shaking. He was trying to shield Isla. Their expensive clothes were caked in mud. Like two stray dogs caught in the rain.A few hours ago, news of the De Luca and Caldwell bankruptcy hit the streets. The Irish moved in fast. Took over everything. Scarface and a dozen of his goons kicked down the door to this slum in Hell's Kitchen."Stay back!" Julian's face was pale. Still trying to play