Page 23 of Tattooed Vow

She nods as if my non-answer tells her everything she needs to know.

And then, as if summoned by memory, the kiss comes rushing back. The wine cellar at Angelina’s first birthday party. The taste of her and the way her body melted against mine for one stolen second before she pulled away. I can still feel her lips on mine, the shock in her breath, the wild beat of her heart echoingagainst my chest. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did. And it wasn’t supposed to matter, but it does.

I should bury it. Lock it down like I do everything else. But I can’t, not with her.

She pauses, noticing me watching, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she turns and goes upstairs, boots heavy on the old steps. I should look away. I don’t.

I sink into the worn leather couch, staring into the flames. Upstairs, the soft creak of floorboards marks her movements. I can picture her alone in that room, locking the door like I told her, like she needs to.

Thunder crashes outside, closer now. The storm is moving, mirroring the turmoil inside me. I checked my phone again, and there were no messages from Aleksandr, which could be good or bad. The sound of water running upstairs tells me Sandy is in the shower. I try not to think about it.

Eventually, I force myself into the kitchen, letting the routine of movement dull the noise in my head. I’m gathering something to eat when I hear her footsteps on the stairs.

She appears in the doorway, hair damp from the shower. She’s wearing a loose sweater that falls off one shoulder and leggings that hug her curves. She’s washed away her makeup. Without it, she looks younger and more vulnerable. Something protective surges in my chest.

“You hungry?” I ask.

She hesitates. “Yes...actually, I am.”

I motion to the table. “Sit. I’ll make something.”

She watches me cautiously but takes the seat, her eyes never leaving me as I move through the kitchen. I sauté onions and garlic, throw a quick risotto together, and warm some bread, simple but hot. The familiar motions help steady my nerves, giving me something to focus on besides how her presence wraps around me like gravity.

Halfway through cooking, she speaks. “Tell me what happened.”

I don’t turn around. “About what?”

“Morozov. Why is he coming after you? After me?”

I grip the spatula tighter. “It’s not important.”

She stands. Her hands go to her hips, voice sharp. “If my life is on the line, it’s important.”

Her voice is steady, but I hear the tremor beneath it, the fear she’s trying like hell to hide. I don’t want to watch her face when she hears the truth. But I know she won’t drop it. She’s not built like that.

So, I tell her.

I tell her about Morozov’s brother. About the night I put a bullet between his eyes on Aleksandr’s orders, about how it was quick, necessary, and how Morozov has been waiting ever since to make me pay.

“It was years ago,” I say, voice low. “Morozov and his brother were running a trafficking ring out of Brighton Beach. Young women from Eastern Europe, promised jobs and futures. Instead, they got a nightmare.”

I stir the risotto, focusing on the grains rather than the images in my mind.

“Aleksandr found out. The Bratva might be criminals, but we have codes. Rules. And what they were doing crossed every line. So, he gave the order.”

Lightning flashes again, lighting up the kitchen with a strobe of white-blue.

“I tracked Morozov’s men to a warehouse by the docks. When I got there…” I pause, the images slicing through my mind like razors. “There were girls there. Locked in cages like animals. Some of them couldn’t have been more than sixteen.”

Sandy’s breath catches, but she doesn’t speak. I can feel her staring at me, absorbing every word.

“I called for backup to get the girls out. We took out the men, but Sergei, Morozov’s brother, wasn’t there. Aleksandr gave the order to execute him. He was the spine of their operation. Cut him out, and everything collapses.”

I turn and place the plate in front of her. Her expression is unreadable.

Sandy’s gaze locks with mine. Her hands are tight in her lap. “So, you did what you were told.”

I shake my head. “I did what needed to be done. Those women—” I swallow hard “were being used and discarded. Even in the Bratva, there are lines you don’t cross.”

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