Page 44 of Convenient Vows

Viktor lifts a brow, his sharp, assessing gaze sweeping over me.

“Zasha? What are you doing here this early?” he asks smoothly, folding his arms. “Shouldn’t you be with your new bride?”

Lev smirks, leaning one elbow on the table, his grin lazy and knowing.

“Man,” he drawls, “didn’t peg you for the type to run out on a pretty wife.”

I keep my face cool, my voice flat.

“You both remember this is a business arrangement?”

Viktor holds my gaze for a second longer, something flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t speak.

Lev flicks a finger toward the table. “Come on then. Let’s get back to it.”

We gather around the spread of papers, slipping easily back into rhythm.

Viktor runs through the plan, his voice low and precise.

“We’ve got three entry points — south dock, upper-level access through the old bottling line, and the alley side. Lev, you and I will take the dock. Zasha, you hit the alley flank. Clean sweep. Fast and silent.”

I nod, fingers skimming over the map, tracing the narrow alleyway, the choke points, the hidden exits.

My mind sharpens, falling into familiar patterns — angles, numbers, routes, tactics. But just beneath the surface, a flicker remains.

The image of Mara.

The way she looked at me this morning was soft, open, and maybe a little hopeful. The way my fingers had itched, just briefly, to reach out and tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

I shove the thought down, clearing my throat, forcing my focus back onto the layout in front of me. This is what matters. This is who I am.

A soldier. A bratva blade. The man who doesn’t get distracted.

And yet, as Viktor delves into the finer points like signal timings, fallback routes, and target confirmation, that flicker refuses to completely fade away.

It stubbornly lingers at the edge of my mind. Reminding me it is the one thing I can’t seem to control.

The warehouse is a maze of rusted beams, cracked concrete, and shadows that swallow sound.

My boots hit the ground with a practiced rhythm, my body humming with the familiar pulse of adrenaline.

Beside me, Viktor gives sharp hand signals — two fingers forward, one tap to the side. Lev ghosts along the outer edge, weapon raised, eyes sharp.

We move fast, silent, slicing through the dark.

The intel was good — three rivals posted near the southern loading bay, two more near the office upstairs, one lookout by the alley.

I take the flank, slipping through the narrow corridor, my knife tight in my palm.

There’s the scent of old oil, damp stone, the faint electric burn of tension hanging in the air.

A shape looms ahead — one of theirs.

I move like a whisper, cutting him down before he even has time to grunt. My move is cold, efficient, and clean. This is what I do. This is who I am.

And yet —

Her face keeps intruding.

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