Page 10 of Convenient Vows

My father’s pride in the Bratva men is no secret. Viktor, Lev, and Zasha built their empire here in New York from nothing, transforming it into one of the most respected and feared organizations in the criminal underworld. My father openly admires their resilience, strength, and unshakeable loyalty. He speaks of them like legends, his voice filled with reverence. And whenever he mentions Viktor, Zasha, and Lev, it’s always with a hint of envy and awe.

My father had once desperately sought an alliance with Viktor himself—offering him marriage into our cartel. But Viktor swiftly and decisively rejected the offer, choosing instead a woman he loved fiercely. It was an embarrassing blow to my father’s pride, although he never openly admitted it.

Then came the second chance two years ago. Viktor’s sister had been unmarried, a perfect opportunity for a union between ourorganizations. But that, too, had fallen apart, leaving my father once again bitterly disappointed.

Two unsuccessful attempts at a coveted alliance. But as they say, the third time’s the charm.

My heartbeat accelerates. Yes, this is it—the perfect plan. If the Bratva men themselves propose the match, my father won’t refuse. A marriage proposal coming from the bratva for me would feel like a personal victory rather than a concession.

A faint smile curves my lips. There’s just one thing I need to do: convince Zasha to approach my father about arranging our marriage.

My cheeks flush at the thought of facing Zasha directly with such a proposal. There is no doubt he still sees me as nothing but trouble. He has always been distant and impossible to read—a puzzle I’ve never dared try to solve. Yet even now, the mere memory of his quiet, commanding presence sends warmth rushing through my veins.

I shake my head lightly, banishing foolish daydreams. If I’m going to approach Zasha, I need to do it strategically, practically. He needs to understand that this arrangement will benefit him as well. I’ll need to offer something compelling enough to persuade him. But what?

Freedom. My pulse quickens at the idea. Zasha’s reputation is that of a cold, detached enforcer, loyal and dedicated, but ultimately controlled by duty. Surely a man like him wouldwelcome the promise of an arrangement with clear terms—one year of marriage, after which we both would be free again. That way, he could cement the alliance my father desires while knowing that it would come with an expiration date. No strings attached. No entanglements.

My heart sinks slightly at the thought of only a year with him, but I push the irrational disappointment aside. I have to stay realistic. I can’t afford fantasies or naïve hopes—not when so much depends on this going exactly according to plan.

I walk toward my balcony doors and push them open, breathing in the cool night air, seeking calm. Beneath me, the sprawling gardens of our estate stretch into darkness. The gentle fragrance of blooming flowers drifts upward, soothing my frayed nerves. But despite the beauty and peace surrounding me, my mind remains restless, carefully piecing together my strategy.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll approach Zasha privately, quietly, discreetly. I'll propose my arrangement clearly, confidently. I’ll tell him he only needs to suggest the alliance to Viktor. Viktor will in turn approach my father. It will look like their initiative, their victory, something my father won’t be able to refuse.

My stomach flips anxiously. I've admired Zasha from afar for years, watching quietly from the edges of crowded rooms, always careful to never let him suspect my attraction. I’ve studied his strength, his calm authority, his unshakeable loyalty to his friends. Everything about him captivates me, from the sharp edge of his jawline to the dangerous intelligence that gleams in his eyes.

And now I'm planning to approach him myself, laying bare my intentions.

I exhale slowly, steadying my nerves. This is my moment—my chance to finally grasp control of my own fate. If I succeed, I'll not only secure my future but finally have Zasha within reach, even if only for a short while. If I fail…

I shake the thought away fiercely. I won’t fail. I refuse to consider any other possibility.

I turn away from the balcony, closing the doors behind me and drawing the curtains. My mind races forward, already rehearsing what I’ll say, how I’ll say it. My pulse quickens once more, not with fear, but with excitement—an electrifying rush of adrenaline and anticipation.

Tonight is the last night I'll spend wondering what it would feel like to be close to Zasha. Tomorrow I'll stop dreaming—and finally take action.

4

Chapter 2

Xiomara

I can’t move freely in this life, not as Thiago’s only daughter.

Even at my age, I can still feel the invisible leash around my life tightening. Security shadows me like a second skin everywhere I go. They think I don’t notice the rotation around me, but I do. They think I don’t hear the quiet murmurs into earpieces when I linger too long in one place. I do.

Freedom feels like expensive air, and I’m suffocating from lack of it. Since I was a teenager, I have learned how to create my own freedom, even if it is in bits and pieces.

So, when I heard my father telling my mom last night that Viktor is sending Zasha to him tomorrow morning to discuss someroute matters, I saw a glimmer of opportunity—and I made sure to seize it.

The next morning, I hurriedly dress. Knowing my father, he isn't going to sit in his office waiting for Zasha to arrive. Instead, he will make him wait for at least five minutes, and that's all the time I have to present my proposal to Zasha.

I’m not supposed to be on this side of the estate except by invitation. This area is strictly for business only. Yet, no one questions me as I slip past the colonnade, my heels silent on the stone. I’ve perfected the art of appearing innocent even when I’m doing something bold. My guards hang back—trained to obey my father’s “don’t smother her” orders—but I know they’re watching. However, their prying eyes do not deter me as I put my plans into motion.

The East Wing is quiet as I walk its halls, and I do my best to look unbothered. I know what it means to be seen with a man behind closed doors. I can’t afford whispers. Not with the kind of favor I’m about to ask.

Thankfully, I catch him just as he’s turning the corner at the far end of the hall—dark suit, clean lines, with black gloves on his hands. Zasha Petrov moves like a man who doesn't question the ground beneath his feet. He walks on it as though he owns it.

“Mr Petrov?”

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