Page 12 of Forced Marriage Vows

“I said I was going to make you Pakhan. I never said I’d hold your hand or wipe your ass while at it,” he replies.Ouch. “Nothing in this life is free or easy, little Morozova. I’ll make you Pakhan, but you get to choose what kind of Pakhan you want to be. One I can respect? Or a simple puppet?”

I meet his brown eyes head on, liking the challenge I find in his gaze. I’ve never been able to back down from a challenge, and I’m not going to start now. And earning the respect of a man like Ivan Volkov is definitely something worth doing.

The rhythmic pounding of my feet against the treadmill fills my ears, perfectly synced with the steady beat of music pulsing through my earbuds. The numbers on the screen blur as I push harder, faster. Every step is calculated, every breath controlled.

For a few moments, the only thing that exists is the track beneath me and the fire in my muscles. Then I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. Jerome waves timidly, trying to draw my attention.

I grit my teeth, ignoring him. He knows better than to interrupt me while I’m working out. Still, I can feel him hovering, his presence persistent. After a few more seconds of trying to push past it, I sigh and slow the treadmill to a stop. Pulling out my earbuds, I glance at him, catching my breath.

“What is it, Jerome?” I ask, not bothering to mask the irritation in my voice.

He shifts uncomfortably, pushing his glasses up his nose. In light of recent events, I realize it was probably a mistake to bring him with me to Chicago. That being said, he could always surprise me, prove that he’s made out of tougher skin than most. I could just send him back, but he’s worked with me for years. And I’d have to find another assistant who’s as acclimated to me.

Unfortunately, Jerome has made himself indispensable.

“I wouldn’t have bothered you, but there’s an issue with the company.”

I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a towel, annoyed. “What issue?”

“The new software integration,” Jerome says quickly, his tone clipped. “The development team says it might delay the launch by a few weeks unless we intervene.”

Of course. There’s always something. It’s never justsmooth.

I give a short nod, already thinking through solutions. “Have them send a detailed report to me, and set up a call with the department head this afternoon. I’ll handle it.”

Jerome relaxes slightly at that. “On it, boss.”

“I can’t keep handling everything, though,” I say, stepping off the treadmill and draping a towel around my neck. “I’m not going to be with the company much longer.”

I watch Jerome’s reaction. His brow furrows, showing he was clearly caught off guard.

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

It makes sense. There’s no way I can continue to run a company full time while working as the Pakhan. Plus, it’ll be easier to distance myself completely so my new job doesn’t affect the company’s sales. Being the CEO of Vortex Technologies was great. I built the company from the ground up and it flourished. But that was never my end goal.

“I have other responsibilities. More important ones,” I say, meeting his gaze and wondering if I’ll have to spell it out for him.

I’ll have to eventually, so he can choose if he’d want to be a part of the Bratva. Or if I should send him along on his merry way, back to the company. I’m actually curious about what he’ll choose.

“But, but,” he splutters, “you can’t just leave.”

“I’ll still oversee things from a distance,” I say to reassure him. “But an appointment will be made and someone else will handle to day-to-day affairs.”

Jerome swallows, clearly processing what I’ve said. I understand why he’d have reservations. He’s been right by my side through everything, starting from the company’s inception.

“Understood, sir,” he finally says, nodding.

I know he wants to ask other questions but he doesn’t, deciding to stay quiet.

“Good,” I reply, ready to turn away and get back to my workout. Then I remember something important. “You never got back to me on the Smithsonian issue.”

“Oh right. Sorry, Mr. Morozova. It skipped my mind,” he says.

“It’s fine. Did she get her deal?”

He shakes his head, “According to Mr. Rodriguez, Miss Vasiliev turned down the offer. He says she refused to work with them and that there was nothing he could do to convince her.”

“Did she now?” I murmur, amused. Anastasia continues to surprise me.

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