Page 7 of Betrayal and Vows

I get back to my apartment and take the stairs up to the third floor. The building is owned by the Orlov Bratva. It’s one of the newer buildings in Moscow and considered luxury. I know the corners that were cut. But it’s comfortable. I sit on the chair I keep near the door. It’s a must. I take off my boots and notice dried blood. I place my boots on the plastic tray I keep near the door for this exact reason.

I leave my boots and walk into my bedroom. It’s one of two bedrooms. The place is far too nice for a man like me.

I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. Hot water sluices down my body, turning pink as it hits the tile. I scrub away blood that isn’t mine and try not to see her face in the steam.

The memory still plays like a reel behind my eyes—soft mouth, sharp tongue. The girl who kissed me like she wasn’t afraid.

The only one who’s ever made me feel like I was more than the sum of my sins.

Stupid.

She ruined me.

I towel off, pull on a pair of boxer briefs and walk straight into the workout room. My fists curl, and I go at the punching bag just like Dmitri knew I would. The leather groans beneath each strike, swinging wildly as I lay into it.

Left. Right. Elbow. Hook.

It’s my ritual. I can’t sleep until I work out the frustration the woman has left me with. I hit until my arms no longer want to cooperate.

I walk into the kitchen, pull the bottle of Stolichnaya from the fridge and pour myself a glass. The vodka slides down my throat as I stare out the window.

It’s early for me. Not yet one in the morning.

I should sleep. I never know when I’m going to get pulled in to handle a job and be up for days.

I take another drink and close my eyes, allowing myself to think about the blonde, blue-eyed woman that I will never have.

Chapter 2

Lena

The lights are too bright.

The music too loud.

It was all so much. I want to be happy.

I want to drink champagne and celebrate.

But it would be like celebrating at my own funeral. That’s what this felt like.

More like the lead up to my funeral. I knew the day I died and all my friends were celebrating the occasion. It was me attending my pre-wake.

Everyone was so happy. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they understand?

"To Lena!"

I don’t even know who says it.

Anya or that influencer girl Kira invited. The table erupts with cheers. Glasses clink. Glitter rains from the ceiling like we’re pop stars on stage for the grand finale. Someone shoves a glass into my hand.

“Drink!”

I smile. I’m good at smiling. Years of practice. I’m a Bratva princess. Technically, I’m more like a duchess, just one step down but I will be a Bratva queen in two weeks.

And that thought nearly has my smile slipping away.

A shirtless waiter carrying a bottle of Dom Pérignon arrives. He looks like he works as a dancer on the side. If this were any other celebration, I would enjoy the display.