Page 7 of Possessive Vows

“Feed him to the pigs. Let the ravens take his eyes,” I snarl.

I stalk through the trees and over the hill to the cars parked on the other side. Not bothering to check for prying eyes despite the farmhouse further down the hill, I pull my phone out of my pocket and dial my father as I open my trunk.

He answers on the second ring.

“Feliks is in New York City,” I snarl.

Although in his early seventies, my father’s mind is as sharp as ever. His silence relays the depths of his fury. My brother’s curse carries over the line.

Boris, my younger brother by five years, will take his place as head of the family when our father passes, but neither of us wishes him a premature demise. He is a wise and loyal man, and we would be stupid to end his days.

I stand by his decision to exile our youngest brother, Feliks. The weasel never knew when to quit, and his conniving put the family at too much risk.

His trip to America isn’t coincidental either. He wouldn’t have been able to weave so many strands of his web if I hadn’t been mourning my late wife.

I would stay in mourning for several more years if he wasn’t forcing me to clean up his messes. Our families may have arranged my marriage with Anastasia, but she was a strong and devoted partner. I wanted so many more years with her, so ending my mourning merely twelve months after her death fills me with rage.

I put the call on speaker, open my trunk, and shrug my suit coat off my shoulders.

“You must go to America,ubiytsa.”

My father’s voice carries the weight of our family’s entire empire as he invokes my role of assassin.

“As you command,Pakhan,” I respond.

We have heard rumors of discord between New York’s founding mafia families but had no reason to intervene without proof my exiled brother was involved.

I unbuckle my belt, place my gun and holster in the trunk, and slip the leather free of my waistband. Bittersweet memories flow through me as I pull the tiny travel case of colorful bandages out of my pocket. This was the gift my wife gave to me to announce our first pregnancy eight years ago.

You must learn the art of healing others now, ubiytsa, just like how I must learn to share you.

I shove my emotions away and toss the bandages into the trunk.

“You will take five men with you,” my father commands.

I sneer at the phone and begin unbuttoning my shirt, but my father speaks before I can form a respectful response.

“Do not argue,moy syn. Your mother visited me in my dreams last night,” he says.

Although my mother died over a decade ago and my father is happily remarried, no wise man in the bratva would ignore a warning from their lost loved ones.

I pull my shirttails out of my trousers, shrug my button down off my shoulders, and pull my undershirt over my head before I speak.

“I will not argue,Papa,” I promise.

“Good. Stop by the manor before you leave. Your children ran off another nanny,” he says.

He hides his frustration behind an indifferent tone, but I hold the same worries in my soul.

Even with my exiled brother on the other side of the globe, his influence continues to sneak past our defenses. Vetting caretakers was never a simple task, especially since the Volkov family has so many enemies, but with Feliks’s vow to destroy us from the inside repeating in our thoughts, the process is nearly impossible.

My children do not help with their pranks either. This is the third nanny they’ve scared off.

I bite back a growl and shove my trousers down my legs.

“I am done here. I will be there in a few hours,” I say.

After a curt goodbye, I end the call and grab the plastic bag containing a bar of soap and washcloth and stalk to the old water pump. Despite the tepid summer wind, I wash and dry quickly, my bones forever chilled from the extreme winters of my homeland, and stride back to my trunk.

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