Mafia Billionaire’s Forlorn Wife
Chapter 19

“Here’s your coffee, Mr. Mikhailov.”

I refrain from snapping at my assistant, Jeremiah, who is currently standing right outside my office, holding a cup of coffee.

I f*****g hate my own surname now because of Arabella.

Great. Just f*****g great.

I grab the cup from him, “what’s my eleven o’clock today?” I question him just as he opens my office door for me and I step inside.

Today is one of those days where I am supposed to focus more on my company rather than the Bratva business. My company is in the talks of becoming the biggest financial planning firms in the entire country and the coming week is going to decide whether I am able to make that happen or not.

The goal is to dominate the Bratva and the business world with such efficiency that my enemies quake in fear at just the sound of my name.

I have managed to achieve just that in the last seven years since I took command, but this year, is going to be the last push needed for me to shoot into the unbound skies.

“Sir, you have a meeting with Mrs. Wilson from Wilson and Daughters. They would like to give their account to us.” I sit down beside my desk, listening to Jeremiah talk, before I look at him questioningly.

“What are their numbers?”

He grins, “they’ll bring about thirty million in business every month. They’re old money, and with their newly reformed work ethic, they’re taking the world of streaming services by storm.”

That’s what I like to hear. I need all the possible biggest clients by my side, locked in.

“Perfect.” I say taking a sip of the coffee, “set it— f**k what is this?”

I break into coughs uncontrollably as a taste of hot pepper stings my tongue as I try to swallow the small sip of coffee that I managed to drink. Even my throat burns as I stretch my hand towards Jeremiah, “take it away! Why does my coffee have spice in it?” I growl at him and he looks positively afraid as he hurries to take the cup from my hand.

“Sir, I gave the barista downstairs your usual order, what are you talking about…?” He mutters before taking a sip of the coffee himself and his eyes widen as he too doubles over, ready to cough up his guts— evidently his case looks worse than my own, perhaps he had a larger sip.

Gulping down on water, I stare at Jeremiah trying to get back to normal somehow as he throws the coffee in the dustbin with a disgusted look on his face.

“I’ll talk to him about this.” His entire face is red because of the effect of the pepper as I shake my head.

“Don’t bother.” I already know just what I am going to do about the f*****g barista. “Buy the building next door. You’re dismissed.” His eyes widen at my words as he quickly nods his head and rushes out of the door.

I huff, shaking my head as I sit down behind my desk, wiping at the small beads of sweat that gathered on my forehead before grabbing a wet napkin and making sure that I look proper for the upcoming meeting.

I lose myself in some work until it is time for my meeting, and right as the clock strikes eleven, the landline on my desk rings before beeping and Jeremiah’s voice comes through.

“Sir, Mrs. Wilson is waiting for you in conference room C.”

I stand up, buttoning my suit as I stride out of my office and call out to Jeremiah, “is it done?” I question and he shakes his head with pursed lips. “Why?” I scowl.

“There are some complications. I’m still on the phone with the owner. I’ll get it done by the time you’re done with your meeting.” He tells me with a frown of distaste.

I couldn’t care less. I turn and walk towards the conference room, not bothering about the fact that sometimes, Jeremiah isn’t all too happy with what it entails being my personal secretary.

He’s a man with morals. He knows what I am going to do to the cafe owner downstairs. I anyways have a lot to be angry about and my morning coffee isn’t something that should be messed with because that just sets me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Hence, the barista is going to be fired and I would install my own staff in his place.

There are no second chances in my world.

Simple as that.

“Mrs. Wilson.” She gives me a tight lipped smile as she stands up.

“Mr. Mikhailov.” I tighten my jaw at the nauseating reminder of my wife; fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I shake her hand before the two of us sit down on opposite sides of the table.

“Shall we?” I ask and so, the two of us launch into a discussion about our expectations and benefits of any possibility of business between our funds.

It is about twenty minutes later that we reach on concluding notes for our meeting as I complete my sentence and wait for her response. From the way she has been humbly handling this meeting, I feel confident that our deal is almost done.

“Mr. Mikhailov, I was looking forward to working with you in the first place because I thought that our morals and work ethics align and I believed giving you my accounts would be beneficial for us.” I smile at her, encouraging her to continue as a frown makes its way onto her lips and confusion settles in my own heart, “however, I have found another venture, and my advisor seems to think that it is the best way to go. I only came here as a courtesy to our long standing acquaintance but I don’t think that we’re the right fit.”

That’s a first.

I blink at her, clearly taken aback by the fact that for the first time in my entire career, a potential client of mine has declined my offer, even after the said offer being more than generous.

The only reason I even made this offer so generous was because I deep down respect Mrs. Wilson’s way of working and would have wanted us to be equally involved and benefitted from this exchange.

But her words from just five seconds ago tell me enough about the fact that she thinks quite differently than what I had assumed.

“I see.” I mumble before clearing my throat as I stand up, putting forth my hand, “I understand.” She gives me a surprised look as she joins my hand, but right when she pulls away, I tighten my grip slightly as I stare into her eyes with what I know is a viciously dark look, “but,” I say clicking my tongue once, “I would like to know who this new competition of mine is. Surely you can tell me about them?” I quirk my brow, leaving her hand as I wait for her reaction.

She gulps, clearly not understanding where the polite and friendly man from thirty seconds ago is now gone.

“It’s Duarte Finances.”

A sliver of realisation and betrayal hisses inside my conscience like a viper.

Duarte Finances is a financial management firm owned by Leo’s distant cousin. It is one of the biggest financial management firms on the East Coast and used to be a competition of mine until about ten clients ago.

At present, my firm is far ahead of them.

But somehow, I know for a fact that this change of heart that Mrs. Wilson has just gone through is less because of my company’s ratings and efficiencies, but more to do with the pretty little vixen that is my wife.

“You come after something of my own, I go after something of yours. Mark tonight as the night that your losing streak begins.”

“I’m certain you can see yourself out. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I turn on my heel and stride out of the room with a full mind to just murder someone right at this moment.

Arabella. f*****g. Mancini.

My death.

The cause of my agitation.

Shaking my head, I try to calm myself down knowing that I have a full day of work ahead of myself and I cannot let my anger rule me right now, because in that case, only two things will happen— either someone will die by my hand, or Arabella will be punished for her insolence.

Although I am itching to do the second more than the first.

“Did you buy the f*****g building or not?” I growl at Jeremiah who is currently holding the landline to his ear, looking positively jittery. He jumps at my tone as he meets my gaze and I see his almond eyes widening with clear fear showing through them.

He gulps. And then shakes his head.

That’s it. The universe is f*****g testing me today.

I slam my hand on his desk, “why?” I glower at him as the man practically shakes in his hair. His porcelain forehead is currently beaded with sweat.

“The owner is waiting for you downstairs in the cafe. She said she will meet you and sell you the building in person.” He manages to stutter out after endless pauses which make me want to slam his f*****g head into the wall.

I clench my fists, “fine, I’ll f*****g do it myself.”

I am beyond angry at this point. First my f*****g coffee is ruined, then I find out that the deal that was supposed to crown me as the undefeated champion in the world if American finance is out of my hands and I have convincing suspicions that my wife is behind this, and now this f*****g building.

I am pissed and probably, that is the reason that the moment I enter the elevator, the other employees who were already in there hurry to step out before the f*****g thing starts moving down.

It takes forever for the elevator to reach the lobby as I realise that I am getting worried and scared looks from my staff and security, probably because of the expression on my face.

But right now, all I care about is going to this stupid cafe and threatening the f**k out of the owner to make sure that they know who they’re dealing with.

People don’t say no to me.

I need a f*****g win today and this is it.

I am anyways on edge thinking about what Arabella meant last night. About what she’s planning.

And as I enter the cafe, I go still when my eyes clash with vibrant green ones.

And there my wife sits, wearing her victorious grin as she stares at me with one thing written all over her face—

“Got you, Mr. Mikhailov.”