Page 1 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

1

THIS WASN’T A NEGOTIATION. (TAMARA)

“You’re marrying Aleksander Sokolov.”

The Mercedes glides to a stop in front of St. Nicholas Orthodox Cathedral, its golden domes catching a weak strip of winter light through the clouds, and my father’s words finally register.

“What?” I twist in the seat, silk whispering against leather. “Papa, what are you talking about?”

“You heard me.” His voice is clipped. The same tone he uses when discussing business. When discussing outcomes that don’t concern feelings or consent.

I wait for the punchline, for something in his face to crack.

It doesn’t.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“Do I look like I’m joking, Tamara?”

He doesn’t. David Kalinin never jokes. The hard set of his jaw tells me everything I need to know.

This is real.

“I don’t even know who Aleksander Sokolov is.” I force myself to breathe. Stay calm. Pretend this is just my father’s warped idea of matchmaking. “I’ve never met him.”

“He’s Igor Sokolov’s brother.” Papa adjusts his cufflinks as if we’re discussing seating arrangements instead of my life. “You know the family.”

The Sokolovs control one of the most powerful bratva organizations in New York.

“He’s a good-looking man,” he continues matter-of-factly. “You’ll like him.”

I bristle but bite it back. As if a handsome face is supposed to soften the fact that he’s offering me to a stranger.

“I don’t care if he looks like a goddamn movie star.” I grab the door handle and yank.

Nothing.

Locked.

The dress I wore to the office this morning isn’t meant for January. My coat is folded somewhere behind me out of reach, and the cold bleeding through the window feels pointed.

I look at him, furious. “Open the door, Father.”

He doesn’t even glance my way. His hand closes around my wrist, fast and bruising. The pressure is immediate and precise—a warning, not an accident. I bite back a sound.

“You can’t force me,” I snap. “I’m not saying yes.”

“You will.” His tone doesn’t change. “Because your duty is to this family. And right now, this family needs you.”

“For what?” I yank uselessly against his grip. “What’s so important that you’re selling me like⁠—”

“The Colombians are moving into our territory,” he cuts in, releasing me abruptly. “The smaller Russian organizations either fall in behind the Sokolovs, or they get picked apart.”

It isn’t fear in his voice. That would almost be easier.

It’s logistics. Routes. Men. Pressure points. The quiet arithmetic of power I spent my adult life pretending I hadn’t been raised to understand.

“So I’m the bargaining chip?” I hiss. “That’s your plan?”