Page 18 of Hateful Vows
Finally, Ivan Dobrev whimpers in fear. I bare my teeth at him.
“Look at her,” I tell my father, holding his head up so he can’t miss the smile playing on Irina’s face. It’s the first time I’m seeing it in years. “She’s gonna be a mafia queen. And since I will never father a child, her children will be Bratva royalty. They’ll take over after me once I’m done erasing everything you’ve ever done, everything you’ve ever been.”
He spits in her direction weakly and I laugh. It’s an unhinged sound. One that fills me with joy. Actual fucking delight.
“Everything you’ve ever dreamt of, everything you built, I’ll unmake. Starting with your agreements with Petrov. As of today, the London Bratva declares its independence.” I raise my eyes to the camera in the corner, blinking red. I’m live. My father’s men will be seeing this. “If you’re not with me. You’re against me. And this is what happens to traitors.”
My father trembles and I step in front of him, hiding his view of Irina. He trained me to kill with my bare hands, so I wrap them around his throat. I’m only doing what I was made for.
Ivan struggles against my hold but I squeeze harder. His hate-filled eyes mean nothing to me.
“I gave you… everything,” he rasps.
“All you gave me waspain,” I shout into his face, losing control.
“I… made… you strong,” he replies. How far does his delusion go?
“Strong? The only strength I have isher! You made me a tool. But no more. You will be forgotten, like you never existed. No one will know your name. You will not only die today. You’re going to be erased.”
Calm washes over me as I declare his death sentence. I let my hands go and he takes a laboured, deep breath. Hope flashes behind his dark, tired irises. I peek at the cameras and notice Boris, Ilia and their men spreading into the house and dousing it in petrol. It’s over.
“You’re never… gonna win… against Petrov,” he says, his last effort to make me cower in fear. But that will never happen again.
“I guess you’ll never know.”
Then, I snap his neck.
NINE
IRINA
Aweek later, the day before the wedding, we burn my step-father’s corpse.
When Ilia and Boris torched the mansion, we kept his body as a macabre display for anyone who thought to challenge Aleksei and his new claim to the London Bratva.
No one did.
The police declared the whole thing an accident and we moved on like Ivan Dobrev never existed. But he did, and Aleksei and I both bear the scars. Some more visible than others.
Now, in the middle of a random forest in bumfuck nowhere, hours from our territory, everyone in the organisation surrounds Aleksei and I in their black, formal attire. Ivan’s rotting corpse is laying on a pyre, ready to ignite and be turned to ashes.
The menacing sky threatens to fall on our heads with heavy clouds and thunder. If it starts to rain, I swear I’m ditching this ridiculous power trip. I know it’s good for Aleksei’s image, but my heels are diving into the mud and the smell of cowshit seems to permeate the very air we breathe. I hate the countryside.
My step-brother holds a torch, then sets the pyre on fire. Everyone beats a fist to their chest and nods once, recognising their new leader. Pride surges through me, unbidden andunwelcome. It has my stomach feel funny in a way I know too intimately.
The only strength I have is her.
We watch for a few minutes, until the heat and smell make me gag. When I turn on my heels, Aleksei clasps a hand around my wrist. My gaze snaps to his face but he’s looking straight ahead. He squeezes once then releases me, and I don’t know what to do with that. I swallow hard, my lip trembling uncomfortably. Once I’m in the town car, I take comfort in Perceval’s presence and put this entire interaction into a neat closed folder in the deep recesses of my mind, along with all the other ones.
The door of the car opens and Aleksei sits next to me.
Before he can say anything, his phone rings, an unknown caller displayed on the screen.
We both frown. He picks up, and the voice on the other side of the line makes my throat clog and my stomach fall to my feet.
“I’ve heard congratulations are in order,” Misha Petrov says in Russian.
We remain silent, but it doesn’t seem to deter him. “I expect you to uphold your predecessor’s agreement. I’ll be in London in?—”
