Page 37 of Obsessive Vows

Anastasia Markov in that black dress that matched her alluring dark eyes, the glass of vodka in her hand as she looked at me in my penthouse—her intelligence sharp as a blade, the realness of her genuine in a world built on falsehoods.

Later, her skin like silk beneath my hands in the darkness of my penthouse, her lips parting in surprise as I trace my fingers across her shoulder.

The vulnerability in her eyes, so at odds with her surname, with everything the Markov name represents. For a few stolen hours, I allow myself to forget why I'm in Paris, why I’m outside that rainy night, before sprinting to rescue her.

The mission blurring as she arches beneath me, my name on her lips like a benediction I don't deserve.

"You need to forget her." Anton's words cut through the memory with unwelcome advice. "She's Markov's daughter, Viktor. A complication we can't afford."

"I know exactly who she is." My voice hardens as I pull a clean shirt over my head. "It was one night. A tactical error."

Anton studies me with the uncomfortable insight of long friendship. "If that were true, you wouldn't still be dreaming about her."

I don't deny it. Can't deny it. The woman haunts my thoughts with increasing frequency—inconvenient and dangerous for a man whose only purpose is vengeance.

"Tonight's meeting," I say instead, changing the subject. "What time?"

Anton accepts the deflection with visible reluctance. "Midnight. The Old Town house, not the main compound."

The information raises red flags immediately. "That's execution territory." The Old Town house, a pre-revolutionary mansion in central Moscow, served one primary function in Markov's operation—eliminating problems permanently, away from the more public headquarters.

"Precisely why I need you on alert. If something goes wrong?—"

"Nothing will go wrong," I interrupt, clapping him on the shoulder with force that makes him wince. Another performance of Viktor Baranov, Bratva enforcer—confident, slightly cruel, always in control. "Besides, you've survived worse."

"Barely." His hand unconsciously moves to the scar at his temple—a souvenir from our early days establishing my cover, when a weapons deal went sideways. I'd gotten him out, but not before he took a grazing bullet to the head.

"Report everything," I tell him, moving toward the showers. "Every word, every person present. We're close, Anton. I can feel it."

After he leaves, I stand under scalding water, letting it sluice away sweat and the phantom sensations of violence that cling to my skin. Years of planning, of becoming someone—something—my father would barely recognize. The end justifies the means. It must.

But as steam fills the shower stall, it's not Mikhail Markov's face I see, not visions of finally avenging my family. Instead, brown eyes and soft skin materialize in the mist—Anastasia, the one variable I never calculated, the unexpected weakness in an otherwise flawless operation.

I press my forehead against the cool tile, forcing her image away. There is no room for distraction, for misplaced desire. Only the mission matters—dismantling Markov's empire piece by bloody piece until he understands exactly what he destroyed that night years ago.

Yet even as I dress in the uniform of my cover identity—expensive suit, subtle shoulder holster, the heavy Bratva signet ring that marks me as Markov's man—her memory lingers like perfume, undermining my resolve in ways I cannot afford.

The irony isn't lost on me. To destroy Mikhail Markov completely, I worked my way into his organization, into his trusted circle. Yet the most devastating blow might have been unintentional—one night with his daughter, who doesn't suspect for a moment that the man who touched her with such reverence is plotting her father's downfall.

My phone vibrates with an incoming message from Yevgeny, Markov's second-in-command:Meeting with the pakhan. 3 PM. Your presence requested.

Not the midnight gathering Anton mentioned—something else. My pulse quickens with both anticipation and wariness. Every summons brings me closer to the inner circle, to Markov himself. Every meeting is both opportunity and danger.

I check my weapons—the Makarov under my arm, the ceramic blade in my boot, the garrote wire concealed in my watch. Tools of a trade I never wanted to learn but have mastered with frightening proficiency.

As I leave the training facility, junior Bratva soldiers step aside, eyes carefully averted. Their fear is palpable, satisfying in its usefulness. Viktor Baranov has a reputation now—efficient, ruthless, fiercely loyal to the pakhan. The perfect lieutenant.

The perfect lie.

A lie that brings me closer each day to the truth, to justice for my family, to the reckoning Mikhail Markov has evaded for too long.

If only Anastasia's ghost would stop haunting me, stop making me question whether vengeance is worth the collateral damage that will inevitably follow.

If only I could forget the way she looked at me that night in Paris, with trust I haven't earned and cannot honor.

10

ANASTASIA

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