Page 100 of Vendetta Vows

Mikayla continues to watch me with suspicion. She's protective of her uncle, still uncertain about this stranger who appeared from nowhere. I don't blame her. I'd be suspicious too.

"Uncle Ruslan, can we have ice cream?" Sofia asks, batting her eyelashes.

"After you finish your vegetables," he answers, stern but kind.

My heart squeezes watching him with these girls. He's the perfect uncle. Patient, attentive, present. No wonder Tamara wanted him for herself. The thought of that woman makes anger flare in my chest at what she did to him.

I watch Sofia shove one broccoli after another into her mouth with aggressive gusto, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk's. She chews twice, swallows hard, then beams up at Ruslan.

"Finished!" she announces, proudly displaying her empty plate.

"Good job," Ruslan praises, his voice warm with affection. The tenderness in his expression makes my chest tighten.

Not to be outdone, Stella attacks her own vegetables with equal fervor.

"Ice cream now," she demands the moment she's done, already pushing back her chair. "You promised!"

Ruslan chuckles. "So I did." He stands, giving me an apologetic glance. "We'll be back shortly."

As they leave, Sofia's excited chatter about chocolate sprinkles echoes down the hallway until it fades completely, leaving me alone with Mikayla.

The silence between us is thick. Uncomfortable. Her eyes never leave me, calculating and cold. I shift in my seat, resisting the urge to check if there's something on my face, and I have to remind myself that she's still fifteen.

"Thank you," she finally says, her voice startling me, "for standing up for me the other day."

I open my mouth to respond, but she raises her hand to cut me off.

"Not many people dare to stand up to a pakhan."

"I just thought?—"

"The reason they don't," she interrupts again, leaning forward, "is because it's very stupid."

Her gaze is unblinking, direct in a way that reminds me of her uncle.

"You know very little about how this world works," she continues. It's not a question.

I fold my hands in my lap. "You're right. I don't." I meet her eyes. "But I'd like to learn."

Mikayla studies me for a long moment, then gives a short nod before her jaw tightens. "I don't like the reason why we're here, but I've come to understand it."

"It was for your safety," I say softly to Mikayla. "You and your sisters."

She drums her finger against the polished table. "That may be true." Her eyes lock with mine. "But what about my mother's safety?"

The question hits me unexpectedly. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

When Ruslan and I crafted this plan, Tamara was just a concept. A name. An obsessed woman who'd do anything to have him.

I'd formed a villain in my mind without ever seeing her face.

But now I'm sitting across from her daughter.

"I..." I struggle to find words. "I don't know."

Mikayla's lips twist. "My grand-uncle Semyon is like the pakhans of old before Gregor Belov united the Russian families of California. Ruthless. Cruel. Vindictive." She says this matter-of-factly. "He accepted that my mother was the solution to the Mikonov family's survival after Vitaly first defeated them in war."

My stomach tightens as I process her words.

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