Page 4 of Ruthless Vows

I’ve amassed enough power that no one can ever take it from me. Not so long as I draw breath.

One kick to the shin and the man in front of me falls down to his knees. He promptly jumps back up, which is one point to him. Another point for raising his fists and protecting his face. But then he’s still in the same combat position, his stance leaving his shins open again.

So I kick him again, harder this time so that the thud resounds in the air around us. He yells in anguish as he collapses once again, the smooth angles of his face contorting in pain. He’s young, in his early twenties. I don’t remember his name anymore, although it was mentioned to me at the start of the fight. It’s irrelevant, inconsequential. Unless he’s able to beat me.

He stands again, legs shaky and face red as hell. I give the illusion that I’ll go for his legs again and he takes a step back, like a dumbass. As soon as he does, I grab him by the throat, because of course he left that unprotected. I tighten my hold, giving him just enough room to breathe.

“That was a poor show. And a waste of my time,” I pronounce, my voice ringing out.

The room is completely silent. Right now, we’re standing on mats in the middle of a boxing ring at my home. It’s where my men come to train and also where I engage in fights on occasion. The fights are initiations, tests to see if the men are worthy to join my ranks.

My lips curl in distaste as my eyes narrow onto the man still struggling for air in my grip.

“How does it feel? Being so thoroughly defeated? I’m asking because I’m genuinely curious,” I say in a low tone. “I’ve never experienced it before.”

I might be asking him questions, but I’m also not giving him an avenue to reply. He’s clawing at my arms now, trying to escape my grasp. I can feel my anger rising. Because he’s not only inept at fighting, he’s also weak.

“You’re lucky I’m not a fan of unnecessary murder,” I mutter before releasing him.

He promptly falls to the floor, gasping for air. I turn around, looking outside of the ring as my gaze narrows onto to my second-in-command. He doesn’t need me to speak or make any moves before he climbs into the ring, walking toward me.

“Explain why I was made to entertain this farce,” I order.

Ruslan’s face is hard as granite, unsmiling. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen the man smile. And I’ve known him for decades. He and I have fought side by side for as long as I can remember. He’s a man with unflinching loyalty.

He towers over me by a good three inches, despite my already impressive six-foot-three. Ruslan is built like a beast, and he fights like one, too.

“Sorry, boss. He’s the Pakhan’s nephew. Thought he’d try his luck getting in with us since the Pakhan wants nothing to do with him. I thought he’d be less…”

“Useless?” I state with an arched eyebrow. “Just get him out of my sight. There’s a reason the Pakhan wants nothing to do with him.”

I step out of the ring to cheers from the men gathered. Someone rushes forward with my jacket and I put it on, checking to ensure that my shirt is still smooth and devoid of any creases.

“What time am I scheduled to leave for New York?” I ask Ruslan, who’s already standing at my side as always.

“In two hours, sir. The pilot is ready to leave as soon as we arrive. You need to get there early so as not to miss your meeting with the Mincetti Don,” he replies.

“Let’s make a quick pit stop to the Pakhan’s house. I’m sure he has something to say with regard to the meeting. And I’d rather walk in there with all the information I’ll need.”

Ruslan nods once in understanding. By the time I step outside the training facility at my villa, a car has already beenpulled up, ready and waiting for me to enter. Ruslan opens the back door for me and I slide in. Once he’s seated in front, we’re on the move.

The drive to the Pakhan’s house is a short ten minutes. When we arrive, several cars populate the driveway—a common occurrence, considering that people are always trying to curry favor with him. As soon as I step out of my car, several gazes swing toward me.

I’m used to attracting attention. I’ve been doing so ever since my rise to the top. I don’t glance to the side as I walk up the steps leading into the Pakhan’s mansion. When I reach his office, I find him surrounded by three men. Three incredibly powerful men, high-ranking commanders in the Bratva.

And despite that, they get to their feet at my appearance. Only the Pakhan remains seated.

“Leave us,” I order in a low tone.

None of the other men are inclined to protest. They all walk out of the office and the door shuts, with Ruslan standing on the other side. Usually, the other commanders would have been allowed to stay, but this particular discussion is a fragile one. None of the others know that we’ve been in contact with the Mincettis in New York.

“Ivan,” the Pakhan drawls, crossing his feet as his dark gaze meets mine. “I wasn’t expecting the pleasure of your company.”

He’s an old man in his late sixties, although you wouldn’t know that by looking at him. The Pakhan, Igor Vasiliev, has a youthful look to him, in spite of the gray mixed in with the dark strands of his hair. He carries himself with authority, like a man who owns everything. And he might as well have.

One thing the Pakhan doesn’t possess, however, is me. A fact that pisses him off to no end. But it’s not something he can change, though. Igor might be the head of the Bratva, but I’m the one running this entire show from the shadows.

“You know me, I’ve always preferred doing the opposite of what is expected of me,” I say dryly as I take a seat on one of the chairs closest to his.

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