Page 11 of Bound Vows
“And the bride?” Alexei nods toward Maya.
“Comes with us. We’ll finalize the marriage arrangements as soon as possible.” I turn back to Maya, who’s still secured to the headboard. “I hope you’re not attached to long engagements, because this wedding is going to happen much sooner than planned.”
“Can’t wait,” Maya replies with savage sweetness. “Though I should warn you that Mastroni weddings tend to be explosive affairs.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Chapter 5
Maya
The thread count suggests royalty, but a prison’s still a prison when the door locks from the outside.
I stand in the center of Andrei’s guest bedroom, finally free from the restraints that kept me bound to the headboard for hours.
The zip ties lie cut and discarded on the silk sheets, and I can hear the whir of electronics that suggest surveillance equipment.
Still, being able to move feels like a victory, even a small one.
I start my exploration with the obvious, testing the windows that span from floor to ceiling along the far wall. The glass is thick enough to stop bullets, which means it’ll stop me, too. There’s no convenient fire escape or balcony access; just a spectacular view of Central Park that might as well be a painting for all the good it does me.
The bedroom is decorated in whites and grays that scream expensive minimalism. The surroundings look like they belongin an architectural magazine, which means everything is probably custom and ridiculously overpriced.
A girl could get used to the luxury… if she ignored the kidnapping part.
I examine every inch of the room, running my fingers along the baseboards and crown molding as I search for hidden panels or emergency exits. Andrei mentioned that this penthouse was designed for security, so whoever built it thought about things like escape routes and safe rooms.
The bathroom yields more interesting results. Behind the mirror that hangs over the vanity, I find the outline of what looks like a hidden panel. When I press along the edges, it clicks open to reveal a small compartment containing medical supplies—bandages, sutures, antiseptic, and enough painkillers to stock a pharmacy.
Someone in this penthouse gets hurt regularly enough to need a private medical kit. I pocket a scalpel and a vial of morphine before closing the panel. It’s not much, but I’ve killed with less.
The bedroom door unlocks with an electronic beep just then, and I step into a hallway that feels more like a museum than a home. Original artwork covers the walls, many of them paintings that I recognize from art history classes. These pieces belong in galleries rather than private residences.
Either Andrei has impeccable taste and unlimited funds, or he’s very good at acquiring things that don’t belong to him.
The penthouse layout unfolds like a maze. Multiple hallways branch off in different directions, and I count at least six doors that could lead to bedrooms, offices, or God knows what else.Motion sensors track my movement, tiny red dots that follow me from room to room like electronic eyes.
I find his office behind a door marked with subtle biometric scanners. The lock clicks open when I approach, which means Andrei programmed it to recognize me. Whether that represents trust or arrogance remains to be seen.
The office takes my breath away, though I try not to let it show. Top-to-bottom bookshelves line three walls and are filled with volumes in multiple languages. A massive desk dominates the center of the room. Its surface is clear except for a laptop and a single photograph in an ornate silver frame.
I pick up the photograph and immediately understand why Andrei keeps it so close. Six people smile back at me from a family dinner: two adults and four teenagers who share the same ice-blue eyes and platinum hair. The man in the center has Andrei’s strong jaw and confident bearing, while the woman beside him radiates an elegance that comes from generations of good breeding and wealth.
The four children look happy and carefree in a way that catches me off-guard. Andrei stands between his twin brothers with his arm around a beautiful girl who can only be Anastasia. None of them has any idea that this moment represents the calm before a storm that will destroy everything they know.
I set the photograph down carefully and continue my exploration. The desk drawers are locked, but the filing cabinets along the far wall reveal more interesting discoveries. Medical journals and anatomy textbooks fill one drawer, along with detailed notes. Either he has a secret passion for medicine, or he’s learned to treat his injuries out of necessity.
The notes reveal someone with extensive knowledge of trauma surgery, pain management, and psychological therapy. Andrei Volkov apparently knows how to stitch wounds, set bones, and treat the injuries that come from a violent life. One notebook contains detailed sketches of gunshot wounds and their treatment; another focuses on knife injuries and their long-term effects.
At the bottom of the drawer, I find something that stops me cold. A sleep study report dated six months ago with Andrei’s name at the top. According to the summary, he averages fewer than three hours of sleep per night, suffers from chronic nightmares, and shows symptoms of severe post-traumatic stress disorder.
The massacre didn’t just kill his family. It broke something inside him that sixteen years of revenge planning couldn’t fix.
I’m still working through this information when I hear footsteps in the hallway. I quickly return everything to its proper place, move away from the desk, and settle into one of the leather chairs positioned near the window.
Andrei enters his office like he owns the world, which I suppose he does in his mind. He’s changed from the tailored suit he wore this morning into dark jeans and a black sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. The casual clothes make him look younger, though no less dangerous.
“Enjoying your tour?” he asks before settling behind his desk with the easy confidence of someone who knows every inch of his territory.
