Page 29 of Tangled Vows

Shit...

Viktor Yelchin is always blunt. Our Pakhan rules the organization with an iron fist. So, his message this morning confirmed my suspicion.

We fucked up.

I knew we’d made a mess when we kidnapped Kevorkian. Hell, just staking him out was a mistake on its own. To do that, we needed approval from Sergei Karashev, our underboss, or Viktor Yelchin, our boss. First, we had to offer them at least one good reason for us to watch our target. Then, we would either get the green light or be told to drop this. We never took the issue to our superiors.

Now, our Pakhan is upset. I just hope that leaving Leonid alone with Kevorkian last night wasn’t an even bigger mistake. If he’s tortured him, we’re in for major punishment. Viktor is a proud man. He likes to maintain a stellar reputation. He’s got the respect of both friends and enemies. Nobody is going to appreciate the fact that a couple of Bratva captains roughed up an Armenian underboss without their Pakhan’s approval.

There’s a chill in the air when I reach the marina. The warm Miami weather has morphed into an overcast sky. Leaving my car, I spot Leonid pacing up and down the edge of the pier, hands in his pockets. Viktor watches us from the deck, his guards flanking him. He points at the staircase of his huge yacht, his gaze darting from me to Leonid and back to my brother. I jog to catch up to him, eager to find out what he was up to the night before.

“Tell me you didn’t torture Kevorkian,” I say, urgency roughing my voice.

“I didn’t,” he responds, walking up the stairs alongside me. “I had a feeling it would get us in bigger trouble than we already are.”

It’s a good thing he knows what we’ve done, but it’s not going to smooth things over with Viktor. We’re going to need a hell of a lot more if we want to get back in his good graces.

Our boss has a menacing look in his eyes when we join him on the bridge. He snaps his fingers and gestures his guards out, squeezing his lips together. I’m ten feet away from him, and I can hear his heavy breathing. I may not be afraid, but I hate to see him like this, especially when I know I’m responsible.

“My captains are a joke!” he growls, pointing at Leonid first, then at me. “I leave you in charge and you go after an Armenian underboss? I should shoot you myself!”

“Viktor—”

“Shut the fuck up!” he interrupts Leonid, his eyes dark with rage. “What the fuck were you thinking?! Both of you!”

“Payback.” One word slips out of my mouth. “The Armenians targeted Leonid. We had to find out who put out the hit. It had to be someone high up in the food chain, like Kevorkian.”

Straightening his jacket, Viktor halts just two paces from us.

“Let’s go back to the targeting part,” he suggests, his voice still deep with anger. “You say it was the Armenians. Where’s the proof? And when did you show it to me or Karashev?”

“I have a video of some punk planting that bomb in my car,” Leonid says. “That’s the only thing we’ve got for now, but the Armenians are still butt-hurt about us stealing their precious cargo. They had the motive to try and pull this off.”

Viktor lets out a brief, ironic laugh, looking away from my brother for a moment.

“Your adventures with that American girl have made you sloppy,” Viktor scolds, shifting his attention to me. “The same goes for you. Where is that punk? Why are you here instead of trying to beat the truth out of him? Because if you had him, you wouldn’t have had to go after Kevorkian, would you?”

“I guess not,” I say in a low voice, my gaze dropping to the floor.

“Don’t make me have to tell you how to do your job,” Victor groans, a short step bringing him even closer. “Next time you get sloppy, prepare to accept the consequences. Now, I’m going to ask you something, and I hope you give me the right answer. Did you torture Kevorkian?”

“No.” Leonid’s answer is sharp. “I left my men clear instructions not to hurt him.”

“Good,” Viktor gives a nod of praise. “Set him free and apologize to him. Then, find the son of a bitch who put the bomb in your car and make him suffer, Bratva-style. Get the fuck out of my sight. Now! Don’t come back without the names of the people who tried to blow you up.”

If anyone else had talked to me like that, they would be counting their teeth by now. But this is no ordinary man. This is Viktor Yelchin, the Pakhan of Miami. He’s got my respect and Leonid’s, too. More than that, he has a point. We were impulsive. We jumped at the opportunity of hitting the Armenians. Neither of us took a step back to think about what we were doing when we kidnapped Kevorkian.

Clare

The sun is hiding behind the clouds on this melancholic afternoon, colors of the sunset painting their edges muted shades of pink and orange. The setting has an impact on my mood. Used to the gloomy weather in northwest Oregon, I don’t like days with little to no sunshine in Miami. After all, I’m in the Sunshine State of Florida. I just want the weather to be nice.

I put my hands on the wooden railing, a sense of gloominess settling within. But, before I get a chance to reminisce about happier times back home, a noise perks me up. A car rolls onto the property and skids across the dirt, its headlights washing upon the soil. It comes to a rough halt almost immediately, the front door clicking open. I hear conversations in Russian. Two of Leonid’s men are standing in front of him, the other two emerging from inside his home.

His impressive height helps him stand out. Yet, it also works against him tonight. Leonid looks like he’s been through a war. The vibrant blue in his eyes is gone, now narrowed for some reason. I may not understand what he’s saying, but I can sense his tone. His voice is low; his hair is a mess, several locks standing on end. Our eyes meet across the front yard.

“Welcome back,” I tell him, my voice coming out hesitant. “What’s the matter? You look...” I falter. “Upset, to put it mildly.”

“There she is,” he says, a bitter smile on his face. “My distraction.”

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