Page 50 of Vendetta Vows

I nod, suddenly exhausted. The weight of everything crashes down on me at once.

Ruslan turns and walks to the door. When he reaches it, he pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back over his shoulder at me, sighing.

"If there's one good thing that happened on this awful day," he says quietly. "It's the fact that I managed to save you."

The weight behind those words makes my breath stutter. There's history there. Pain and failure and something else I can't name.

My curiosity piques despite myself. What makes this dangerous man tick? What drives him? And why does he care so much about saving a girl he barely knows?

14

RUSLAN

I standin the entryway of the mansion, shaking hands with men who'd slit my throat if the situation called for it, and accepting condolences from women who'll gossip about the strength of my handshake the moment they're in their cars.

"Thank you for coming," I say to Dmitri Balakirev, the chief banker of theZapadniye Vori, my voice steadier than it has any right to be.

Grief sits in my chest like concrete, hardening with every breath.

But I can't let them see. A Dragunov doesn't break. Not in public. Not when the vultures are circling.

I turn to my mother Liliya, still seated in her chair near the black and white portraits of Lev and Mikhail. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry now. She's been weeping silently throughout the service, the way a bratva matriarch should. Dignified even in her sorrow.

Her gold-flecked eyes—so like mine—fix on the massive arrangement of white lilies, and she finally lets out a small choking sob.

The only expression of the grief ripping her apart from the insides.

"You did well with the arrangements, Lanchik," she says, her voice hollow.

My throat tightens. I've been holding everything together with sheer force of will since I got the call about Lev. Since I found out about Mikhail. Since I realized that I'm truly alone now.

I reach toward her, placing my hand on her shoulder. "Mamechka?—"

"No, Ruslan Vitalyevich." She bats my hand away with surprising force. "Not until the doors are locked and the curtains drawn."

I withdraw my hand, feeling like a scolded child. The urge to weep for my brother and nephew burns behind my eyes, but I blink it back.

Turning away from my mother, I scan the emptying room until I find my nieces.

And my heart cracks at the sight of them.

Mikayla stands with her back straight, a fifteen-year-old girl forced into adulthood overnight. She keeps dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, trying not to cry in public the way a proper bratva princess ought to. But behind her composure, I see the lost little girl who just wants her father and brother back.

Sofia and Stella cling to each other, their faces streaked with tears even if they don't realize the gravity or permanence of what has happened.

I cross the room and kneel to their level. "Devushki."

They rush into my arms, and for a moment, I let myself hold them tight. They're all that I have left of Lev.

"Uncle Ruslan," Sofia whimpers against my shoulder, "when is Papa coming back?"

My throat closes up. I stroke her hair instead of answering.

Tamara swoops in, elegant in her grief and designer black dress. "Girls, go to Babushka. I need to speak with your uncle."

As they reluctantly pull away, Tamara wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her body flush against mine. Her lips brush my ear as she whispers, "We need each other now more than ever, Lanchik."

"Your husband and son aren't even in the ground yet." My voice comes out as a growl. "Show some respect."

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