Page 7 of Convenient Vows

I shift subtly in my seat, legs crossed tightly beneath the polished mahogany table as yet another endless meeting drones on. My father's deep voice fills the room, slicing through the stale air with authority as he discusses territory disputes. These are important business to him, but deathly dull to me. My fingernails dig impatiently into the palms of my hands, hidden beneath the elegant silk folds of my dress, as I suppress the urgeto yawn aloud. For whatever reason, my father has decided it is time to involve me in the running of his organization fully.

But damn, I'd kill to be anywhere else right now.

Today, we are in a meeting with a few members of the cartel and the leaders of the Makarov bratva.

My gaze drifts over the familiar, grim faces gathered around the table—most of them are key figures within my father's cartel empire. However, their stone-cold expressions and rigid postures blend into one another, as monotonous as the ticking clock mounted on the wall.

My attention falters, wandering restlessly to the bratva men—until it settles on the one face that always makes my heart flutter. I peek at Zasha from beneath my eyelashes, and damn, he is becoming even more dangerously handsome as the years go by.

He sits silently at the far end with Viktor, who was once my father's deadliest and most trusted enforcer, but is now the leader of the Makarov bratva. He's a man whose very shadow breathes menace. My father had hoped to marry me off to him a few years ago, but thankfully, he found and married someone else. I shudder at the thought of being Viktor’s wife, despite his sinfully handsome features. Handsome or not, Viktor is the kind of man who could make children cry just by looking at them.

But it isn't Viktor who holds my attention. It's Zasha.

Tall, dark, and irritatingly intriguing, Zasha's posture is composed yet commanding. He radiates a quiet strength, as though he's patiently waiting for the right moment to strike. His eyes—intense, sharp, and nearly black—sweep carefully around the room, missing nothing. A single dark curl falls rebelliously over his forehead, a stark contrast to the otherwise perfect control he exudes.

My heart quickens, as it always does whenever we cross paths, and I wonder why I've never stopped crushing on him. Over the years, I’ve tried to convince myself that this silly crush would fade, but it never did—and even now, I can't tear my eyes away from him.

As if feeling my stare, Zasha's gaze snaps abruptly in my direction.

Heat rushes through me, embarrassment staining my cheeks. I quickly avert my gaze, feigning interest in the notepad before me. I need to stop being ridiculous. I'm twenty-five, not seventeen anymore, a woman who now navigates cartel politics. One man’s gaze shouldn't have the power to unravel me.

But it does. Oh, it fucking does.

I steal another glance from beneath my lashes and catch him still watching me. There’s no curiosity or warmth in his eyes, only a chilling intensity that sends shivers down my spine. It feels as if Zasha is studying me with the focus of a predator assessing its prey.

I swallow hard, my pulse racing beneath my carefully controlled façade. I lift my chin defiantly, determined to show him I'm not some sheltered mafia princess to be intimidated by a mere look.

Just then, the heavy wooden doors burst open unexpectedly, slamming against the walls and startling everyone in their seats. Santiago storms in, his face flushed scarlet with barely contained rage.

“Two fucking shipments in one fucking month,” Santiago snarls, slamming a trembling fist onto the table. “Millions of dollars gone because the goddamned Feds have their noses up our asses again!”

Every muscle in my body goes tense. My father’s eyes narrow dangerously, his jaw flexing beneath his neatly trimmed beard. He leans forward slightly, his voice deathly calm. “Watch your tone, Santiago. You're addressing me.”

“My tone?” Santiago laughs bitterly, shaking with fury. “I’ve got men being arrested, shipments disappearing, and now I’m bleeding money faster than I can count it. Where’s the fucking protection you promised? And why is the cartel cozying up to the damn Makarov bratva?” He asks, turning to face the bratva men, with a sneer on his face.

Around the table, hands subtly reach toward hidden holsters, eyes wary. Even Viktor shifts slightly, ready to intervene. But it's Zasha who moves first.

Without a word, he stands up from his chair, his posture deceptively relaxed as he approaches Santiago. Zasha’s movements are quiet, controlled—like a storm brewing beneath a deceptively calm sky. He stops just inches away from the enraged lieutenant, his voice low and chilling.

“You're interrupting an important meeting,” Zasha says, his voice icy and measured. “Lower your voice.”

Santiago pivots, teeth bared in rage. “And who the hell are you to speak to me—”

His words end abruptly as Zasha’s hand shoots out, seizing Santiago roughly by the collar. In one swift movement, Santiago is pinned to the wall, his feet barely touching the floor. Santiago struggles, his eyes bulging, grasping desperately at Zasha’s forearm. But Zasha holds him with effortless strength, his expression devoid of any mercy.

“Next time,” Zasha says, his voice deceptively soft, “it won't be your shirt collar I grab.”

The threat hangs thickly in the air, palpable and deadly. Zasha releases Santiago abruptly, letting him collapse to the floor, gasping for air. He stands over him a moment longer, unblinking, ensuring the message is unmistakable.

My breath catches in my throat, my heart hammering loudly. There's something terrifying yet impossibly captivating about Zasha in this moment—dangerously composed, utterly in control, and lethal.

My father finally rises, breaking the tense silence. His gaze sweeps around the table, a clear warning shimmering in his dark eyes. “Enough,” he says. “Santiago, leave now. We’ll discuss your concerns privately—later.”

Santiago scrambles to his feet, humiliation etched deeply into his expression, and exits quickly without another word. My father nods toward Zasha, an acknowledgment of respect in the subtle movement.

“Apologies for the interruption,” my father announces calmly, settling back into his seat. “Let's continue.”

But my heart hasn't slowed. My pulse thrums erratically, blood rushing in my ears, all my senses painfully aware of being in close proximity to Zasha. How can one man so effortlessly command my attention? I've grown up in this ruthless world, surrounded by violence, dominance, and power. None of it has ever made my heart pound like this before.

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