Page 56 of The Enforcer's Vow
The hunt continues. And it won't end until Damir Mirov is dead.
23
ZOYA
Iwalk through the marble corridors of Maksim's estate with a heavy heart. The medical staff released me this morning with a clipboard full of instructions about rest and recovery, but they didn't tell me what I'm supposed to do with myself now that I'm mobile again. The burns on my hands have healed enough that I can grip things without wincing, and the smoke damage to my lungs has cleared, but I still feel fragile in a way that has nothing to do with my physical condition.
It's different here from his penthouse apartment in the heart of the city. This estate on the outskirts of town is much grander. The hallways stretch endlessly in both directions, lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men who share Maksim's angular features. Vetrov ancestors, I assume, watching me from their gilded frames with the same unreadable expression I've come to associate with their descendants. The marble beneath my bare feet is cold, and I pull the silk robe tighter around my body as I pass door after door of rooms I've never seen inside.
Am I a prisoner here, or am I his wife? The question follows me through the corridors, echoing in the vast spaces between the artwork and the antique furniture. I wear his ring on my finger,but did I really choose to put it there? I sleep in his guest room, but I don't know if I'm free to leave. The guards at the front gate nod respectfully when they see me, but I've never tested whether they would let me walk through those iron doors.
I find myself in the library, a room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the gardens. The shelves are filled with leather-bound volumes in Russian and English, and I run my fingers along the spines while I try to make sense of my situation. Philosophy, military history, poetry—an eclectic collection that tells me more about Maksim than any conversation we've had.
The burner phone weighs heavily in the pocket of my robe. I've been carrying it for three days, turning it over in my hands and trying to decide whether I have the courage to use it. The number is burned into my memory, but calling it feels like crossing a line I can't uncross. Still, I need answers, and Damir is the only person who might have them.
I dial his number and listen to it ring four times before he picks up.
"Zoya?" His voice sounds different—thinner, more strained than I remember. "Christ, I thought you were dead. Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I tell him, though the words feel hollow. "I'm at Maksim's estate. They pulled me out of the building before it collapsed."
There's a long pause, and I can hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line. "Good. That's good. Listen, you need to get out of there. Now. Tonight, if you can manage it."
I sink into one of the leather chairs by the window and watch the morning light filter through the trees. "It's not that simple, Damir. I'm married to him."
"That's not real," he says quickly. "Whatever ceremony they put you through, whatever papers they made you sign, it doesn't mean anything. You can walk away from this."
"Can I?" I ask. "Because I signed those papers willingly." Heat creeps into my face as I continue. "Besides, I don’t know where I'd go if I did leave."
"You come to me," he says. "I'll protect you. I'll get you out of the city, somewhere safe where the Vetrovs can't find you."
His words should comfort me, but they don't. There's something desperate in his voice, something that makes me think he's not telling me everything. "Damir, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."
"Of course."
"The drugs that killed the Bratva soldier. The ones that started all of this." I take a deep breath and force myself to say the words. "Did you mess with them? Did you lace the drugs with fentanyl? Was it a hit?"
The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long that I wonder if the connection has dropped. When he finally speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter who told me. I'm asking you."
"The Vetrovs are poisoning your mind," he says, and I can hear anger creeping into his tone. "You've been too close to Maksim for too long. He's making you doubt your own family."
"Answer the question, Damir."
"This is exactly what they want," he continues as if I haven't spoken. "They want you to turn against me, to believe their lies instead of trusting your own brother. How long have you been married to him? A few weeks? And already you're choosing his version of events over mine. You swore you were only getting close to him to find out what they know."
His deflection tells me everything I need to know, but I need to hear him say it. "You're not answering me."
"I'm trying to protect you from something bigger than you understand," he snaps. "There are forces at work here that go beyond the Vetrovs and their little power games. If you stay with Maksim, you're going to get caught in the crossfire."
"Your people nearly killed me," I remind him, my voice rising. "They kidnapped me, they held me in a building that they set on fire. How is that protecting me?"
"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says quickly. "The fire was an accident. They were only supposed to keep you safe until I could get you out of the city."
"Safe?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "They took my clothing and made me wear a fucking paper dress, then tied me up and locked me in a room. That's your idea of keeping me safe?"
"Zoya, listen to me?—"
