Page 45 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

I frown but say nothing.

“Because if you don’t.” Her pitiless gaze drills into mine. “Someone else will do it to you.”

Chapter Twelve

Pavel

Kiril’s name flashes on the screen of my phone.

I’m not surprised by the sight of him calling, but I know it’s going to be toeing the line just to speak to him. We never quite saw eye to eye in the past. As fierce and loyal as he used to be, he’s equally as stubborn and selfish.

Liya enters my mind as I lift my phone from my desk. Her words come back as clearly as they did on the terrace the very first time she showed me her true colors: orange and white.

A cunning fox, indeed.

Selfish and stubborn are not nearly the worst qualities among us. I know I have to hear him out. I have to see if he means business.

And it all starts with answering the call. “Kiril Vladimirovich.”

“Good evening, Pavel Sergeyevich,” he responds flatly. “I want to set up a meeting.”

“What kind of meeting?”

He hesitates, huffs, and then exhales slowly. “I want to discuss the terms of my return.”

“Why?”

A car honks in the background. Kiril curses as his footfalls clap on wet cement. The sound of rain splatters the ground as he curses again in Russian. A bell rings in the background. I can hear soft music playing faintly. He pauses a bit more until everything goes quiet.

“I’ll meet you wherever you want, Pavel Sergeyevich,” he finally says. “Give me a location.”

It’s music to my ears. But is he serious about this?

I wait for a second longer than necessary, keeping him on his toes. When I’m sure he’s sufficiently annoyed, I spit, “Meet me at the back office of Apex. Kostya will let you in.”

Click.

As I steeple my fingers together, I consider Liya’s words again.

This is an opportunity to get him back on my side, to secure his loyalty.

And it all depends on whether or not he’s willing to pay the price.

***

Bass thumps through the closed door where Kostya stands guard on the other side. Kiril sits across from me with his eyes trained on the desk and his hands resting innocuously on his knees. His back is straight, his hair is combed; he’s wearing a suit.

But he looks utterly defeated.

Lines etch his face, signs of exhaustion weighing the bags under his eyes. The blue that once radiated much like his daughter has faded significantly since the last time I saw him. There are a lot more new gray hairs on his head.

I lean back in my chair, narrowing my eyes at him expectantly.

His mouth opens and closes a few times. He closes his eyes, bows his head, and then allows his shoulders to slump slightly. “I’m sorry for betraying you and the Bratva, Pavel Sergeyevich.”

I don’t react. I don’t give him anything. I simply wait for him to finish.

“My actions put my brothers and my family at risk—and my pakhan,” he explains. “It won’t happen again.”

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