Page 7 of Twisted Vows

The tumblers clicked into place, one by one, until the safe’s door swung open with a soft hiss of escaping air. Inside, a single manila folder lay nestled amidst the shadows, its innocuous appearance belying the weight of its contents.

Malachi retrieved it, his movements reverent as he cradled it in his hands. He opened it briefly to confirm before nodding. “It’s the roster.”

I nodded, exhaling in relief. There had been a risk that the Armenians had misdirected us, likely having realized their interrogation would end with termination, but they'd been too scared to lie.

We slipped back into the night, our steps lighter now that our mission had been successful. The roster burned in my pocket as we walked to meet Viktor, our Pakhan.

Viktor’s new safehouse was a nondescript building that blended seamlessly into the urban landscape, its unassuming facade concealing the hastily erected nerve center of our operations after our original location was compromised. We approached with caution, senses attuned to the slightest hint of danger.

The door swung open at our approach, revealing Viktor himself, his imposing frame silhouetted against the dim interior. His eyes narrowed as he took in our battered appearances, the lines of his face etched with the weight of a thousand battles fought and won. “You have it?” he asked, his anxiety faintly visible beneath his calm exterior.

I stepped forward, the weight of the manila folder heavy in my hands. “We have it, pakhan.”

Viktor’s gaze flickered to the folder, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he processed the implications of our success. With a nod, he beckoned us inside, the door swinging shut behind us with a soft click that seemed to echo in the hushed silence. Viktor strode to a battered table that stood in the center of the room, his movements imbued with a sense of purpose that commanded respect.

“Show me,” he said.

With deliberate movements, I laid the folder on the table and slid it toward Viktor. He traced the edge of the folder, expression inscrutable as he contemplated the weight of its contents. Finally, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he opened it, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the pages within.

The air seemed to grow thick with tension, the silence stretching like a taut wire ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Viktor’s brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as he absorbed the information before him. His gaze remained fixed on the documents, his expression a mask of inscrutable concentration. The silence stretched into an eternity. Finally, he spoke in a low rumble that echoed through the room. “You have done well.”

A wave of relief washed over me, but Malachi’s expression remained guarded. “This isn’t over. We had to...interrogate two of Petrosian’s men.”

Viktor nodded in agreement. “Indeed. The Armenians are still a threat. We must be prepared for retaliation.”

He turned to me, his eyes piercing. “I want you and Malachi to increase security at all our safehouses and businesses. We can’t afford any more breaches.”

“It will be done, pakhan,” I said, my voice steady.

His gaze shifted to Malachi. “Watch our backs. We need to eliminate this threat.”

Malachi nodded, eyes burning with determination. “Consider it done.”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Good. You have both earned a rest. Take some time to recover from your wounds.”

“Thank you, pakhan,” said Malachi.

I nodded in acknowledgement.

We turned to leave, and stepped out into the night.

Malachi looked at me. “What do you think Petrosian will do?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.

I shrugged, my mind racing through the possibilities. “He’ll strike back, probably using Levon or Narek, but how and when is the question.”

“We need to be ready for anything.”

“Da, we do.”

Chapter Three – nika

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and the gentle hiss of the espresso machine greeted me as I stepped behind the counter at Jitter Beans. Another day, another routine, but one I relished. Tying my apron strings, I surveyed the cozy cafe, its warm tones and inviting decor a welcome respite from the bustling city outside.

My fingers danced across the gleaming espresso maker, muscle memory guiding my movements as I prepared the first orders of the day. The rich, earthy scent of the beans filled my nostrils, and I smiled. This was my happy place amidst the chaos of college life and pursuing a degree in interior design.

As the morning rush began, a familiar face caught my eye—Malachi, his tall, imposing frame cutting through the crowd with effortless grace. My heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he graced the cafe with his presence. With a roguish grin and a wink, he sidled up to the counter.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he said, his voice like velvet caressing my senses. “The usual, please.” There were fading bruises on his face, and healing sores on his knuckles, but I stilled the impulse to ask about them.

---