Page 9 of Bound Vows
“Marriage.” I settle into the leather chair positioned beside the bed, close enough to read every micro-expression that crosses her face. “Specifically, marriage to me.”
Maya blinks twice before barking out a laugh. “You drugged and kidnapped me to propose? That’s either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, or you’re completely insane.”
“Possibly both,” I concede, “though I prefer to think of it as ensuring we have privacy for sensitive negotiations.”
“Negotiations usually involve willing participants.”
“Willingness is relative. You’re here, I’m here, and we’re talking. The restraints are purely precautionary until we reach an understanding.”
Maya tests the bonds again, but the headboard still doesn’t budge, and she screws up her face in frustration before she regains control.
“You said your name was Andre. Was that much true, at least?”
“Andrei Volkov. Andre seemed more appropriate for a charity gala.” I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, watching her reaction to my family name. “Perhaps you recognize it.”
Recognition dawns slowly, and I watch her face cycle from confusion to understanding to something approaching horror.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
“A common misconception. The Volkov massacre left one survivor, though your family probably didn’t think to verifythat detail.” I stand and walk to the window, giving her time to process while I enjoy the view. “Sloppy work, really. In our business, loose ends have a way of becoming problems.”
“That was sixteen years ago. I was nine years old.”
“Old enough to remember, I’d imagine. Tell me, Maya, what did your father tell you about that night?”
She grinds those perfect teeth, and for a moment, she doesn’t answer. When she finally speaks, her voice carries the weight of old memories.
“He said the Volkovs were expanding too aggressively. Moving into territories that belonged to established families. There was a meeting to discuss boundaries, and violence erupted.”
“Violence erupted.” I turn back to face her with a sneer. “Such a passive way to describe systematic execution. Would you like to know what actually happened that night?”
She lets out a long breath and deflates on the bed. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me regardless of what I want.”
“Your father, along with representatives from three other families, arranged a peace summit at our estate in the Hamptons. My parents brought my younger sister Anastasia and my twin brothers because the meeting was supposed to establish Anastasia’s engagement to the Torrino heir. A celebration, not an execution.”
Maya’s face remains impassive, but I catch the slight tension around her eyes. She’s listening with the focus of someone who suspects they won’t like what they’re about to hear.
“The Italians came armed. They waited until dinner was served, until my family was relaxed and celebrating, and then theyopened fire.” I pace to the other side of the room with memories of that night playing behind my eyes like a horror film I can never escape. “My parents died at the dinner table. My younger sister was shot while trying to reach the panic room. My brothers made it to the hallway before they were cut down.”
“Where were you?”
“Hiding in the wine cellar like a coward,” I grind out. “I was supposed to be at dinner, but I snuck away to steal champagne for a girl I was trying to impress.” The irony of that detail still tastes bitter after all these years. “My family died while I was playing Romeo in the basement.”
“What makes you think my father was involved?” she demands. “Lots of families had problems with the Volkovs.”
I walk to the dresser and retrieve a manila folder filled with photographs and documents. “Because I spent sixteen years gathering evidence. Bank records showing payments from Mastroni accounts to the shooters. Surveillance footage from that night showing your father’s car leaving our estate an hour after the massacre. Testimony from one of the gunmen before I killed him.”
I spread the contents across the bed where Maya can see them and watch her face as she examines the evidence. Each photograph shows a piece of the puzzle. Her father meeting with known assassins, financial transactions dated days before the massacre, and even security footage from that night.
“This doesn’t prove anything,” Maya claims, but her voice lacks conviction.
“It proves your father orchestrated the murder of my entire family to claim our territory and assets. The question is what you plan to do about it.”
“What I plan to do about it?” Maya laughs, though the sound carries no humor. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m tied to a bed in your penthouse. My options are somewhat limited.”
“On the contrary, you have a very important choice to make.” I gather the evidence and return it to the folder. “You can marry me willingly and help legitimize my claim to the territories your father stole, or you can refuse and watch me systematically destroy everyone you care about.”
“Ah, there’s the threat I was waiting for. You almost seemed reasonable for a minute. Understandably jilted, but reasonable.”
