Page 87 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

Silence.

It’s the strangest thing.

Without all the reports, the social media posts, the text alerts about armed men running around—it’s like it’s not happening at all.

Suddenly, the sound of Pavel speaking Russian just sounds normal. It’s a regular Friday in the Suvorov Bratva. I’m about to go change before having my midmorning tea. Pavel might even join me if he has the time.

My phone buzzes. Another alert flashes in the notifications bar. This one repeats the missing report of Zoya in a more urgent fashion.

I cringe at the other notifications for hot tourist spots. Discount deals, photographs, tours—the works.

Despite what’s happening, every tourist attraction in the city is still open. People aren’t concerned about the web of violence branching out around them. They’re more content in their ignorance than anything else.

Ignorance is bliss.

And I have no one to talk to about this.

Pavel’s voice grows to a crescendo as I shuffle past his door. The sound dims as I wander to the bedroom, and then it mutes when I shut the door.

More silence.

Almost peaceful.

Except for the guilt chewing me away piece by piece.

I stare at my phone. I could call Willow, but she wouldn’t understand my position. And Pavel is busy with his Bratva. Besides, he told me exactly what to do with my guilt.

I roll my eyes.There’s just no way I can ignore it.

While clearing my notifications, I notice the missing persons text with Zoya’s picture again. I glance at the bedroom door.

She might understand exactly how I feel.

My feet carry me before I can think about what I’m doing. By the time I knock on Zoya’s door, Pavel is lost in a shouting match. Another disembodied voice in the room responds calmly. Pavel’s tone eases, but the authority still reigns. That’s just how he is.

Zoya opens the door. She looks me up and down, wariness flashing in her eyes.

“I just want to talk,” I assure her. “It’s um…It’s loud out here.”

She glances over my shoulder as she clutches the door. “Yeah, he sounds mad.”

I shrug and chuckle nervously. “It’s all Russian to me.”

The joke doesn’t land. At all. Zoya squints at me, trying to figure out what I want without me saying so.

I sigh. “I’m not here to play games. I just need someone to listen to me, okay?”

“About what?”

“About this whole mess.” I vaguely wave my hand. “The shootouts, the trauma, theguilt.”

Her eyebrows rise.

After a second, she steps back and opens the door wider to let me in. One step leads me inside. Another takes me to a cozy nook near the window, where several large purple cushions decorate the area.

I point to it. She nods.

I drop into one of the cushions and groan, spreading my limbs wide. “This is a nightmare.”

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