Page 10 of Devil's Vows
Never again. I never again want to have a year like this past one.
“Let’s go see what’s for dinner,” I say, stepping around the desk, away from the photos, the work I haven’t finished, and the general shitshow that’s become my life.
So far, I’ve managed to hold it together, but only just. It would seem the story we’ve sold to the rest of the Bratva is holding the fort. The Pakhan has retired and moved to Hawai'i with his wife. As his son, I’m the new Pakhan of the New York and New Jersey Bratva. The image is established, but it’s like a flimsy piece of paper haphazardly stuck behind a windshield wiper. Just one gust, just one swipe, and I’m a fucking goner.
And with it the rest of my world.
Katya’s grubby hand tugs at my collar as she holds on. Irisha is slip-sliding as she’s bigger, but I hold on for dear life.
“How was your day,malyshki?”
“The grass was wet,” Katya says.
Her ballet stockings are not only crusted with dirt, but also wet to her feet. Right. The dance studio is in the far corner of the property, and they must have rushed across to the house in the rain. Good thing it’s bath time.
“That happens when it rains,malyshka,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. “And how was your ballet lesson?”
“Fun.” Irisha yawns and nudges her head into my neck.
“Good.”
They are sleeping better, but it’s been a battle. Too much upheaval, too much change in a short time, and too much uncertainty. They need routine, and that’s the one thing I’m struggling with on top of everything I’m juggling. I’m going to have to figure out a way to stabilize this rocking boat, and soon.
A wife would do the trick nicely. Sons are a slow solution, but one I have to start working on. I need to find something else to tide us over.
As I stride into the kitchen, my heart squeezes when Milana looks up from where she’s waiting for the kettle to boil. Those fucking photos. I bet she still won’t tell me who took them. I don’t blame her. It’s probably someone from the outside, a fellow student from Juilliard who hasn’t realized he’s messing with the wrong people yet. For all I know, there was more than one person in the room. Killing civilians isn’t in the cards, but sometimes, it’s called for. Especially when there’s more pressing shit to deal with.
I don’t want to tell her about this new package and the attempt to blackmail her. Not when she has this hollow look in her eyes. Not with the gaunt shape of her that is slowly killing me, too. It’s as if the months we’ve been separated have plowed too deep, ripped us apart in ways I didn’t foresee when I made the decisions I did.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask, forcing myself to act normal and hoping she’ll join us for a change.
She shrugs. “A chicken and broccoli bake.”
“Stay? Eat with us, please,” I ask her as the girls slide down my legs and I settle them on their feet.
They don’t let go, though, and cling to me. Neither of them chirps a word. Even the easy camaraderie we had between thefour of us before I forced Milana to go hide out in Russia is gone. Before I shipped my girls off to a destination I still haven’t disclosed to anybody, in case I need to use it again.
The kettle hasn’t boiled, but Milana picks it up and pours water into the mug. “I’m battling a really hard piece right now. Maybe tomorrow night.”
With that, she walks out toward the corridor leading to the other side of the house, leaving a faint trail of peppermint from her tea in her wake. To her sanctuary. The music room with its antique Steinway and soundproof walls.
My beautiful, tortured, musical genius of a little sister. I bet she wouldn’t want to touch any of those ivory keys if she knew whose blood had spilled on them.
6
IVAN
Through the chatter of dinner, bath time, some compulsory wrestling once the girls are in their pajamas, and five bedtime stories that nearly put me to sleep, I find myself grappling with my inner thoughts. The pros and cons of the arranged marriage I’m expecting Milana to enter into, and the fact she’s been overwrought since coming back from Russia to New York.
I get it—so much has changed, but she hasn’t been here for most of it, and our position isn’t secure. Not by a long shot. I hate, loathe,despisethat I’m going to do this to her, because hasn’t her welfare been my top priority from the day she was born?
Even worse, I hate that I’ve come to the point where I need to use my sister to cement a weak alliance. I’m not even convinced her union with Boryslav Petrenko will serve us well. We don’t have other options, though, not from where I’m standing.
I press a soft kiss to Katya’s and then Irisha’s cheek, chubby and perfectly framed by the angelic blond curls tumbling loose around their faces. For one last minute, I enjoy the moment of having them right here, fast asleep and safe. Then I scoot downthe middle of my bed to not wake them and head to the walk-in closet and adjacent bathroom. I need to wash off this day before I talk to Milana, clear my mind in some way.
With a fresh T-shirt and sleep shorts in hand, I pad into the bathroom and lock the door. I toss the clothes onto the vanity and strip, hanging my suit over the valet stand for Kostya, our do-it-all runner when he isn’t dealing with other shit, to send for dry cleaning in the morning.
As I unbutton my shirt, my skin reveals how I’m not the same man I was a year ago, either. Where my pecs and sides only sported a few insignificant cutting scars from knife fights I got while training, I now have two bullet wound scars glaring at me like devil’s eyes.
