That and an almost preternatural ability to identify what it was that a person most wanted in this world.
At school, his stature and intellect had seemed to entice weak-minded bullies who sought to either befriend or remove a possible threat to their power. But Roman had never entertained their games, nor had he existed within any specific circle—instead staying on the fringes, a lone wolf, ready and able to befriend or berate as suited his own personal needs. For he had learned at a young age that true power was about dependence and manipulation. Getting someone to willingly hand over what it was he wanted was far more valuable than coercion.
And as he grew older, through university and the following years building up a personal empire that made him one of the richest men in the western hemisphere, he had used that skill very well indeed. He had amassed a vast property empire, including a number of highly sought after and deeply exclusive nightclubs, but his true skill lay in brokering hugely successful business deals for others…at an eye-wateringly high price of course. His telephone contact list boasted several royals and world leaders on speed dial, more than a few oligarchs, and one or two more nefarious characters.
But, in spite of this, his one goal was Kolikov Holdings. It was his mother’s birthright, had her own father not cast her aside the moment she had failed to give in to his wishes and marry Nathaniel Riding. Instead, she had fallen in love with a weak-minded carpenter who had been bought off by Vladimir the moment he had discovered Tatiana’s unmarried pregnancy. As she had refused to give in to her father’s demands and terminate her child, Vladimir had severed all ties to his daughter and grandchild, emotional and financial. And Roman would make sure that he would pay for his actions.
The way he had felt when he had first realised that Ella had replaced his mother’s position had been as if his heart were gripped in a steel vice. In fact, it had been as the door had slammed on his face when he had begged and pleaded with Vladimir to provide the necessary finances to fund his mother’s treatment that he had first laid eyes on her. A little blonde girl of five years, hair curling around chubby cheeks and little fists grabbing for toys, the like of which Roman had never seen before in his life. He had ducked behind the bushes that lined his grandfather’s estate in Moscow and watched in rage as this little girl played happily with all the things that he and his mother had been denied. It had not taken much investigation to discover the story of the daughter who had been presented to Vladimir as his ward, nor had it taken long to realise that she was presently enjoying a life that should have been his mother’s.
And while he acknowledged that he could not place the blame for this at her feet, over the next few years he realised that Ella had become the apple of his grandfather’s eye. The one and only object of sentiment the old man seemed to possess, aside from his precious Kolikov Holdings. And while the bastard had shored up any and all attempts to breach the impenetrable walls around his company, Roman had marvelled at how the man had somehow managed to leave his ward so utterly vulnerable in this world.
Vladimir had seemed to delight in showing off the exquisitely beautiful trophy child at the Russian Debutante ball in London, or presenting her at some high-profile gala across the globe, and every picture, every newspaper article only twisted the knife deeper and confirmed his conviction that she was the only way to truly get what he wanted: Vladimir to hand over control of the company that should be Roman’s by right. Vladimir to pass ownership to the man he’d called a worthless bastard, good for nothing more than begging for scraps from a man who would rather cut his own nose off than acknowledge Roman’s legitimacy. And once Roman had control of that company he would tear it apart piece by piece right in front of Kolikov.
The creak of the large wooden door at the bottom of the church drew Roman’s thoughts back to the present. There she was. The key to his revenge. He was sure that it was that knowledge that made his heart leap in his chest—not the stunning sight of the lamb about to be sacrificed on the altar of his revenge.
Ella was dressed in an oyster silk dress, simple lines clinging to a figure most women would have paid thousands of euros to achieve. The low V of the dress moulded to Ella’s perfect frame and his heart beat a powerful tattoo that he was too stunned to fight. Something primal roared within him. Need and want a heady combination that burned through his veins and his soul. But he’d sold his soul long ago and couldn’t turn back now—no matter how much he might want to.
He felt his pupils widen as if trying to take as much in of the image of Ella before him. As if trying desperately to consume every single detail of this moment. And, for some inexplicable reason, he felt as if it would be his
