Page 3 of Hateful Vows
“I’m always a target for Ivan Dobrev and I will never cower like my mother,” she hisses.
Our eyes lock, her amber ones burning with pride and spite. I don’t relent and neither does she. Unfortunately for her, I’m not in the mood to cater to her whims today.
“As you wish.”
I bend at the waist and swoop my step-sister over my shoulder, wincing as her torso hits my back. The wounds under my shirt are still fresh, courtesy of my father’s latest training session. She protests and slaps her hands against my spine.
It’s not sweat dripping down underneath my clothes. I’m glad I have the suit jacket on to hide the evidence of the gruelling lashing I received as my weekly mental and physical training my father insists on putting me through. I’ve lived like this for seventeen years, since the day I turned fifteen. I passed out the first time. By now, I bite my tongue and hold my breath.
I throw Irina onto the bed in the spare bedroom that’s undisturbed by the unwanted guest, and quickly close the door behind me, locking her in.
“Let me out.” Her voice comes out muffled but it’s irate. She bangs on the door and I don’t answer. I’ll do what I have to to protect her. I always have.
When I march towards the entrance of my flat, her creature sits in my way, hissing. I point a finger at it. “If you pee on my Persian rugs, I’ll throw you off the balcony.”
My threat falls on unbothered ears and the cat disappears from view.
I stretch my neck and shift my shoulder blades. After picking up a fresh shirt from my closet, I let Jivko drive me to my father’s condo.
“You could have looked more presentable for the Pakhan,moy syn,” my father sneers as he takes me in.
Ivan Dobrev is the portrait of Russian royalty, seated at the desk of his Edwardian mansion in the centre of a wealthy London suburb, and surrounded by golden clocks and priceless trinkets. A square jaw and greying brown hair cropped short accentuate a proud nose and strong brow. We look a lot alike if not for the scars on my face. They offend him even though he’s the one who tried to carve my eye out, and gave me a joker smile.
Not the same day, but for the same reason.
Her.
I take a deep inhale, trying to calm the rage boiling inside my chest and keep it contained. I could look well rested, be dressed in a few thousand-pound custom suit and freshly shaved—and I’m all three right now—he’d still find me lacking. There’s no point in antagonising him.
“Yes,Otets.”
“Where’s Irina?”
“I don’t know,Otets. I haven’t seen her since last night.”
“That fucking good-for-nothing air-head,” he mutters. “It’s better she isn’t here today, anyway. When Pakhan arrives, keep your mouth shut.”
I nod and stand at his back. He rarely brings Irina up in conversation, and when he does, it’s never good. My whole body tenses as we wait for the kingpin.
A few minutes later, the doors to the study open to reveal three heavily armed men guarding Misha Petrov. Tall, athletic, well-dressed, and looking like a mean motherfucker with a bald head and a crooked nose, the man we’re supposed to serve isn’t here for pleasantries. His cool demeanour sends a shiver down my spine.
What I’m not prepared for is a metal chain in his hand leading to the neck of a crawling girl in scraps of underwear following him around.
Fucking hell.
She looks barely legal. Her hair is filthy and her hands and knees are torn, her face wincing with every movement. With her gaze affixed on the floor, she whimpers inaudibly when Petrov pulls on the chain to have her sit at his heels.
My years of training are the only thing preventing me from peeking at my father. Is that his grand new plan he kept boasting about for the past few weeks? Are we to enter the fucking flesh trade? My blood boils with anger and the need to do something. Anything for the woman on the floor.
I’m about to draw my gun and put a bullet in between the eyes of Bratva’s Pakhan when he opens his mouth, changing the tide.
“I see my prize isn’t here.”
I bristle. Surely, he isn’t talking about who I think he is.
“Since we have yet to reach an agreement, Pakhan, I left her at her flat,” my father says sweetly, the lies falling offhis lips with practiced ease. “I thought she would make fine entertainment for the celebration, later on.”
Spiders creep up my entire body, my blood singing in my ears with the implication he’s making. My father has never loved Irina; he’s barely tolerated her. But even for him, this would be a new low. I don’t have any hope for him to be kind to my step-sister, but selling her… I can’t even think about it. This can’t be happening.
