Page 6 of Bound Vows
Alexei nods once, though his reluctance is obvious. “How much collateral damage are you willing to accept?”
“Whatever it takes to claim my prize.”
Maya Mastroni has no idea what’s coming for her, but she will soon. And when she does, she’ll discover that some hunters are patient enough to stalk their prey for months before making the killing strike.
The difference is, I don’t plan to kill Maya.
I plan to keep her.
Chapter 3
Maya
Diamonds lie almost as well as the people who wear them, which makes charity galas the perfect hunting ground for hypocrites with deep pockets.
I lean against the marble bar, watching New York’s elite perform their annual ritual of throwing money at problems they helped create. The ballroom sparkles with crystal chandeliers and designer gowns while waiters glide between guests carrying trays of champagne and caviar-topped everything. Everyone here has blood on their hands; they just pay other people to wash it off.
“Another Cristal, Miss Mastroni?” The bartender appears with a fresh glass before I can answer, even though it took me twenty minutes to nurse the last one.
“Why not.” I accept the champagne and take a delicate sip, playing my role as the sophisticated socialite who doesn’t have three knives strapped to her body. The beaded Valentino gownI wear creates the perfect illusion of elegance, wealth, and innocence.
Max insisted that I attend tonight’s Children’s Hospital fundraiser, claiming the family needs to maintain our legitimate business façade. What he really meant is that potential investors get nervous when crime families stop pretending to care about society. Nothing says “we’re not laundering money” like a tax-deductible donation to sick children.
The crowd flows around me in predictable patterns, with politicians glad-handing potential donors, society wives comparing jewelry, and businessmen making deals they’ll regret in the morning. I memorize faces and connections out of habit, filing away information that might prove useful later.
“You look bored,” a voice observes from behind me.
I turn to find a man watching me with the kind of attention that makes my skin prickle with warning. He’s tall—easily six-foot-four—with platinum blond hair styled in a way that screams European money. His suit is tailored perfectly, and it emphasizes his broad shoulders and lean build. Something about those muscles and that dangerous smile tell me he’s familiar with physical violence despite his polished appearance.
Ice-blue eyes meet mine with a heat that makes me step back instinctively. There’s something predatory in those eyes, like he’s already decided I belong to him and is simply waiting for me to realize it. A thin scar runs from his left temple to his jaw, too neat to be accidental and too visible to be hidden by makeup. Not that he strikes me as the type to wear concealer.
And God help me, every rational instinct I possess is being drowned out by my body’s response to his presence. He’s thekind of dangerous that makes smart women do stupid things, and I’m apparently no exception. The way he fills out his suit should be illegal, and the way he’s looking at me makes heat pool low in my stomach despite every warning bell in my head.
“Should I be entertained?” I counter, raising my champagne glass in a mock salute. “Watching rich people pretend to have souls is my favorite pastime.”
His laugh is deep and genuinely amused, which surprises me. Most men at these events expect me to simper and agree with everything they say.
“Andre.” He extends his hand with old-world courtesy. “And you’re Maya Mastroni, though I suspect you’re tired of people recognizing you.”
I accept his handshake and regret it immediately. His grip is commanding and confident, calloused in ways that suggest he’s more than just a trust fund baby playing dress-up. When he doesn’t release my hand, I tug gently, and he lets go with obvious reluctance.
“Guilty as charged.” I study his face for clues about his identity. His accent is faint but definitely European. Russian, maybe, though he’s spent time perfecting his English. “Should I know you, Andre?”
“We haven’t been formally introduced, but your reputation precedes you.” His smile reveals perfect teeth that somehow make him look more dangerous rather than less. “The stories about your… skills… are fascinating.”
Alarms clang in my head. Nobody talks about my “skills” at charity galas unless they’re fishing for information.
“I have many skills,” I reply carefully. “Perhaps you could be more specific.”
“Your knife work, for instance. I hear you’re quite… artistic… with blades.”
My blood turns to ice. Three people in this room should know about my weapon preferences: Max, Vincent, and the bartender who’s probably been briefed on my security requirements. Andre isn’t any of those people.
“I think you have me confused with someone else.” I set my champagne on the bar and shift my weight, positioning myself for quick movement. “I’m just a boring socialite who writes checks to charity.”
“Of course. My mistake.” Andre signals the bartender, who appears with two glasses of something that isn’t champagne. “Shall we start over? I’m Andre, and I’m very pleased to meet the most interesting woman in the room.”
He offers me one of the glasses, and I notice his fingers are long and elegant like a pianist’s. Or a surgeon’s. The kind of hands that could be gentle or deadly, depending on the situation.
