Page 46 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

I purse my lips thoughtfully. It’s as decent an apology as any. Making him apologize is just the first of many things I have in store for him.

I nod as I lean forward. “Why are you here, Kiril Vladimirovich?”

A sneer appears on his lips. But it’s not directed at me. He snorts and wipes his nose, reclining in his chair as he continues to stare at the desk. The dim light of the office causes shadows to dance over his face every time he tilts or bows his head.

He sighs. “I’m faced with the deplorable task of handing over my pregnant daughter to Felix.”

“What does he want with your daughter?”

“Her…dalliance with Jonas means she now carries his heir to the Citta Nostra.” He scoffs. “I’m sure you can imagine the reasons why Felix would need her.”

Emotionless, I ask, “Why would he need her?”

It’s only then that he looks at me. Fear glistens in his eyes, resembling the same anticipatory horror I would feel if my daughter were faced with such an awful future. Logically, I understand that trepidation.

But I want to hear him say it.

“His demands are clear,” Kiril states coldly. “I deliver her to suffer at his hand while I watch helplessly, or he finds her and inflicts the same suffering before killing her. In either case, he intends to shame her in front of me.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

Annoyance flashes in his gaze, but it dissipates as he bows his head. “I have no choice but to come back, Pavel Sergeyevich. You’re the only person who can…” His throat clicks as he swallows. “Who can help us.”

It’s true—Icankeep Zoya from getting used by Cardona. Putting Kiril back into the kennel gives me another hell hound to launch in Cardona’s direction.

And this time, I’ll have even more insider knowledge. It all works out.

I just want to make Kiril work for it.

“And where is your daughter, Kiril?” I ask.

The man is a compulsive liar. I know from years of experience. I wait for him to let it slip, to start spinning a fantasy of his own making.

But he doesn’t.

To my shock, he admits, “I have no idea where my Zoyechka went.”

I don’t see a brigadier who went off the deep end anymore. I see a father worried about his daughter. The hardened face weathered by killing, maiming, and manipulating others now droops with a kind of sorrow that I don’t know that I could ever comprehend without sitting in his position.

“I’m telling you the truth, Pavel Sergeyevich,” he says while holding up his palms. “I’m out of options. That’s why I came back. I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. If she’s safe…Or if she’s even alive.”

The knob in his throat bobs dangerously for a few seconds. He manages to control his emotions, a steel fortress returning like I recall from years past. Next to me, Kiril is the best at masking his true feelings. To see him come undone like this is cathartic.

It’ssatisfying.

I wait a few minutes, observing his physical response, the way he clutches his knees every so often as sweat beads on his forehead. His honesty impresses me—and his willingness to return despite the heat of his abrupt departure shows me his commitment.

I clear my throat and report flatly, “Zoya is safe.”

Relief floods his features. He sits up straight and perches on the edge of his chair, waiting for more information. The music thudding through the door lapses and then changes beats, shifting into a more sensual rhythm.

“She’s currently being held at an undisclosed location,” I continue. “Safe from both Cardona and the NYPD.”

He bows his head reverently. “Thank you, Pavel Sergeyevich.”

“If you wish to ensure her safety, you must earn the privilege to do so.”

His ears twitch, but otherwise, he has no reaction to my words.

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