Page 127 of Vendetta Vows

"Vyacheslav Potyomkin," Gregor nods subtly toward a severe-looking man with a permanent scowl etched into his face. "The lord of Las Vegas. His first wife died under mysterious circumstances. So did the second, now that I think about it."

The woman beside Vyacheslav, his third wife I presume, keeps her eyes fixed on her lap, her shoulders curved inward like a wilting flower. She doesn't look a day over twenty-three, wearing a wedding ring that looks too heavy for her delicate finger.

As we continue our slow parade, more faces turn toward me. Some curious, some calculating, and some openly hostile.

"Ivan Svarikov," Gregor murmurs, nodding toward a man with silver streaks in his dark hair seated near the front. "And his wife Anastasia, who hasn't spoken a word since her sister's unfortunate death two years ago."

Ivan's gaze meets mine with unnerving directness. Unlike Vyacheslav's hungry stare, his eyes hold a cold, clinical interest that makes my skin crawl even more.

Anastasia wears a serene smile that doesn't reach her haunted eyes. The heavy choker necklace around her neck catches the sunlight, and I can't help notice the fading bruises peeking out beneath the diamonds.

"Ivan demands submission," Gregor adds with disturbing casualness, as though discussing the weather. "And he is fond of teaching very painful lessons."

One by one, Gregor introduces the men who rule this world—each more intimidating and awful than the last, each with a wife who seems utterly terrified beside him. All of them seem to have perfected the art of invisibility, existing without taking up space.

Mikayla's words echo in my mind:You have no idea the kind of horrors my mother endured at Lev's hands, the screams that I grew up hearing behind their bedroom door.

Is this to be my future? This silent submission, this careful tiptoeing around a husband's rage?

No. Ruslan isn't like them.

He's shown me kindness. Tenderness. He asked for my consent before ever touching me. He listened when I spoke. He wiped away my tears.

And together, he and I will save his nieces from suffering the fates of these other wives.

But with each step forward, doubt creeps in like poison. Especially when I notice how the other pakhans look at me with curiosity, amusement, and hunger.

To them, I'm fresh meat.

A novelty.

An outsider who doesn't understand the rules of their world.

For one wild moment, I imagine tearing my arm from Gregor's grasp and running past the guards, past the gates, and disappearing into the hills beyond the estate.

Freedom lies somewhere out there, doesn't it?

But I know better. There is no escape now. Not from Kristofer, who haunts my nightmares. Not from the bratva world I've willingly entered. The moment I said yes to Ruslan's proposal, I sealed my fate.

And now I must walk toward it, one step at a time, even as every instinct screams at me to flee.

I force myself to look away from this nightmare parade and focus on what awaits me at the altar.

On Ruslan.

He stands at the altar, his posture rigid and face arranged in that cold, impassive mask like the rest of the pakhans. His golden-brown hair catches the sunlight, and his suit fits his powerful frame with precision that speaks of wealth and authority.

But when I stare into his eyes, his expression transforms.

The cold mask remains for everyone else to see, but his eyes. Those light gold eyes that have looked down at me with such tenderness. They soften immediately.

It's like watching ice melt in spring sunshine, a private transformation meant only for me.

A silent message passes between us:I see you. I'm here with you. We're in this together.

And no one will dare hurt you.

His gaze steadies me like an anchor in a storm. Suddenly, the whispers, the stares, and the horrifying introductions. They all fade to background noise.

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