Page 36 of The Enforcer's Vow
"Get out," I tell him.
He leaves, but his question echoes in the space. I return to my seat on the couch, checking my phone for confirmation texts from vendors. Everything is falling into place, each piece of the trap clicking into position.
My phone buzzes with a text from the venue manager confirming Saturday's arrangements. The marriage announcement will be in tomorrow's papers, spread through social media, whispered in every Bratva-connected establishment in the city. Damir will hear about it within hours.
But as I sit there planning his elimination, my mind keeps returning to Zoya's voice on the phone. The way she said my name, the careful modulation of her responses. She's playing her part perfectly, but underneath the performance, I caught something else—a thread of genuine anticipation that mirrors my own. But instead of pulling back, I find myself looking forward to Saturday with an intensity that has nothing to do with drawing out her brother.
My phone rings, interrupting the dangerous direction of my thoughts. Rolan's name appears on the screen.
"The announcements are out," he says without preamble. "Half of Moscow will know by evening."
"Good." I keep my voice level, professional. "Any word from our contacts about unusual movement?"
"Nothing yet. But give it time. Family loyalty is a powerful motivator."
The irony isn't lost on me. Family loyalty—the very thing that will bring Damir to us is the same force that's kept Zoya protecting him despite everything he's done. It's the thread that connects all of us, the weakness that can be exploited or the strength that can be wielded.
After ending the call, I lean back in my chair and consider what we've set in motion. Somewhere across the city, Zoya is preparing for a wedding that will change everything. The trap is set, the players are moving into position, and Saturday will bring the culmination of weeks of careful planning.
But as I review the guest list one more time, I can't shake the feeling that I'm the one walking into a trap of my own making.
15
ZOYA
Maksim's apartment sits on the top floor of a building that overlooks the Moskva River. The elevator ride up feels endless, and I use the time to pop another peppermint into my mouth. The sharp taste helps with the nausea that's been creeping up on me for days now. I tell myself it's nerves, that anyone would feel sick when their brother's life depends on how well they can seduce his executioner.
Maksim opens the door before I can knock. He's dressed casually—dark jeans and a black sweater that shows off his lean frame. His hair is still damp from a shower, and when he steps aside to let me in, I catch the scent of his soap.
"You came," he says, and there's relief in his voice that I didn't expect.
"You asked me to." I step into his living room, taking in the sparse furniture and clean lines. Everything here is functional, expensive, and cold. The only personal touch is a single photograph on the mantel—him and his brothers at some family gathering, all of them looking serious in expensive suits.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, moving closer.
"Fine." I turn to face him, working to keep my expression steady. "Why?"
"You've seemed tired lately." He reaches out and touches my cheek, his fingers cool against my skin. "Are you sleeping well?"
The concern in his voice throws me off balance. I've been preparing for this moment, planning how to use his attraction to me, how to make him see me as more than just Damir's sister. But the way he's looking at me right now—like he actually cares—makes my chest tighten in ways I didn't anticipate.
"I'm fine," I repeat, but my voice quavers.
"You're beautiful, Zoya." His thumb traces along my jawline. "Do you know that?"
The compliment should feel calculated, part of the game we're both playing. But when he says it, his voice drops to that low register that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with morning sickness.
"Maksim—"
"I know this is fast," he says, his other hand coming up to cup my face. "But I'm sure about this. About us. Are you?"
I should say yes, should lean into the role I've been playing, let him think I'm as invested as he is. But standing here in his apartment, with his hands on my face and his eyes searching mine, the words stick in my throat.
"I think so," I whisper, and it's closer to the truth than I want to admit.
He leans down and kisses me then like he's asking permission. When I don't pull away, he deepens it, his hands sliding into my hair. The kiss tastes dangerous because it is, but I find myself kissing him back despite every rational thought screaming at me to stay focused.
When we break apart, I'm panting. "This is happening so fast," I tell him, because even if it means Damir lives, it also means I'm walking into something I can't possibly understand.Maksim makes me feel things, but that doesn't mean those things are good things for me in the long run.
