Page 37 of Betrayal and Vows

It’s one of the perimeter guards. A young guy who’s just a little too eager.

“Malikov,” he says. His eyes drop to the gun in my hand. “Sasha wants you in the dining room.”

I smirk. “A bed and a meal. Lucky me.”

He looks confused. “He’s not eating.”

I don’t roll my eyes, but I want to. Obviously, he’s not eating. Sasha is one of Mikhail’s guards. Like we’re going to sit down and break bread in the formal dining room.

It’s a meeting. Orders. Demands.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He swallows and nods.

The hallway stretches ahead with the red carpet and dark panels making it feel like we’re in a cave. Every surface screams wealth and power. The walls are lined with oil paintings in heavy gold frames, each one depicting some long-dead Russian aristocrat or battle scene from the motherland's bloody history.

I recognize some of the faces. Vadim's ancestors.Myancestors. The Orlov family tree stretches back centuries, rooted in violence and watered with blood. They've been killing and conquering since before the Tsars fell. The Bratva is just the latest incarnation of their legacy.

It always looks different on the outside, but it’s still the same powerful force moving in the shadows. Pulling strings and running the city with ruthless control.

The ceiling soars fifteen feet above us, detailed with intricate moldings and a chandelier that could crush a man if it fell. Everything here is designed to intimidate. To remind visitors that they are small, temporary, and disposable.

I know from research the estate has been stolen several times over, like a castle in medieval times. Every owner adds their own mark. Apparently, Vadim’s mark is ostentatious.

And not in a good way.

The young man leads the way. I’ve been here before, but never as a live-in guest. It will take me some time to get used to the layout, something I plan to do today. I can’t afford not to know where the exits are.

We end up in the foyer, a place I do remember. The dining room will be ahead to my left. We pass several guards that all look at me with a combination of fear and disgust.

I’m an enforcer. The hitman. I’m the man that gets his hands dirty so these assholes can bask in the luxury of their Pakhan’s estate.

There is no love lost between any of us.

My escort drops off as I walk into the dining room.

Sasha has his arms crossed and looks pissed. I follow the direction of his glare.

Lena.

She’s got her back to us and her phone to her ear. She’s wearing a short black skirt and boots that nearly reach the hem of the skirt. She’s got her blonde hair in a ponytail and a pink sweater on.

She looks like something out of a dream I can’t forget.

I show no reaction and keep my scowl in place.

Lena’s chattering about a handbag or some shit.

“Lena!” Sasha’s voice makes her jump.

And that pisses me off.

I have to fight the urge not to punch him in his throat for yelling at my woman.

My woman?

What the fuck?