Page 10 of Possessive Vows

“Da, papa. We understand,” Artur responds.

I step forward and place my hand on his bony shoulder. He will grow into a fine young man. I give him a gentle squeeze before repeating the motion on Maksim’s shoulder and patting Zoya’s head on my way past.

Less than thirty minutes later, I slide into the driver’s seat of a large black SUV.

My father’s second wife, Tatiana, agreed to maintain Zoya’s hair while I am gone, and Katya, Boris’s wife, will include my trio with her five children as often as possible.

Guilt and worry gnaw at my guts, but my family will ensure my children are safe as I hunt my exiled youngest brother.

My chosen five men join me in the vehicle and ride in silence for the first half an hour as I run through every possibility in my head.

“We will split into three teams of two and cover as much ground as possible as soon as we arrive,” I instruct.

After assigning each group a New York family to investigate and relaying what little information I have, we fall back into silence for the rest of the drive.

The hours drag on as we bypass the inside of the airport and head straight to the commercial overseas flight. No one blinks an eye as the captain ushers us to our seats. Near the end of the flight, we change into street clothes—jeans, shirts, and New York style jackets—and exit the plane before the rest of the passengers. When I shake the hand of the pilot for our connecting flight, I slip him several extra bills to ignore the weapons strapped to our bodies and settle into my seat for several more hours of travel. The travel case of bandages digs into my hip, but I refuse to move it to another pocket.

After watching the sunset through the smog of New York City as we land in America and coordinating new phones, extra weapons, and several days’ worth of supplies, we break into our teams and begin what we came for.

Yerik, my junior by eight years but whose brutality and loyalty rivals my own, walks on the opposite sidewalk as me. Keeping a low profile isn’t easy with the American population, since most lack our height, but he blends in as much as possible.

Even as the nightlife roars to life and jet lag weighs down my entire body, I remain alert and focused on gathering as much information as possible, which is dreadfully easy. The rumor mills in bars and clubs offer access to information my father and brother could not find from Russia. All it takes is leaning against the wall in select hallways, and you hear so many damning things.

In less than a day, we learn enough to have a decent grasp of my brother’s recent history. He began by gaining supporters in smaller cities, which earned him attention from Narciso Vivaldi, who was the consigliere of the Vivaldi family, but he is apparently dead now. Matteo Vivaldi, his brother and don, is still alive, but he no longer holds power. His son, Giorgio, took over—peacefully, which is no easy feat—and made Fiero Capito his consigliere.

Serenity Vivaldi, his younger sister, married Nico Russo, the most feared mafia don in NYC. His older sister, Camilla, was supposed to wed the Russo heir, but my exiled brother stopped them somehow.

Mid musings, I glimpse a familiar head in the crowd. I’ve seen him with Feliks before. His blond hair and crooked nose are hard to forget. With fury simmering in my veins, I push off the wall and follow the man until he slips out the back door. I borrow a local cigarette from a woman with her tits halfway popping out of her dress and turn her toward a bouncer when she proves too drunk to keep her balance in her sky-high heels. The bulky man gives me a nod before fending off her pathetic advances and leading her toward the booths where her friends squeal like stuck pigs.

I meet Yerik’s eyes, flick a glance toward the back, then tilt my chin toward the front door, silently directing him to exit through the front and sneak his way into the alley. He nods as he smiles down at the curvy blonde giggling and squeezing his bicep.

These Americans have no control. No respect. No sense of propriety. They wander around like feral beasts in need of a swift kick.

I join a group of men who smell of cloying body spray, hair gel, and tequila as they stumble out into the smoking area and disappear into the nearest shadows to creep toward the familiar head and shoulders lingering near the dumpster. Another man, one I have never seen before, joins him.

When they speak in Russian, I know my instincts led me to the right place. After greeting each other, they talk without filtering their words or lowering their voices, overconfident in the language barrier between them and the Americans.

“Remember that Vivaldi bitch we destroyed a few months ago?” the new man asks.

My stomach sours. Now I know why Camilla Vivaldi didn’t marry Nico Russo. Feliks sicked his men on her.

I light my cigarette and lean back against the brick wall as though I’m with the group of rowdy smokers to my left.

“Da. She was a fun one to break. I still jerk off to the memory of her screams. What about her?” asks my brother’s henchman.

I fill my lungs with weak cigarette smoke and grimace at the menthol taste but prefer it over the queasiness from listening to Feliks’s goons. Men who hurt those weaker than them for pleasure deserve a long, excruciating death.

“I found her.”

Ice runs through my veins.

If Camilla Vivaldi can no longer marry because of my exiled brother, then I am partially responsible for her, even though I was on the other side of the globe. I shouldn’t have allowed Anastasia’s death to distract me for so long. My late wife would never forgive me if she knew I failed so many people.

The man’s crooked nose gleams in the streetlamp as he perks up, but after a moment, hetsksand leans back on the brick wall.

“So what? We already used her up,” he mumbles.

“No one else knows where she is,” the first man says in a suggestive tone. “It could be just us. No waiting for a turn.”

---