Page 35 of The Enforcer's Vow
The words sound rehearsed, but something about her tone makes me hesitate. There's no game in her voice, no edge of manipulation. Just breathless shock trying to catch up with reality. Maybe she knew this was coming, but that doesn’t mean she was prepared. Not for how fast, how final, how public this would become. For a moment, I let myself believe her agreement isn't strategy—it’s surrender. And I hate how much that matters to me.
"The louder, the better," I tell her. "Everyone needs to know."
"I understand. Should I... is there anything I need to do?" Zoya sounds flustered.
"Invite your family. Everyone you want there."
The silence stretches longer this time. When she speaks, her voice carries a different quality—the sound of someone choosing their words carefully. "I don't have family, Maksim. Not really.And I haven't heard from my brother since..." She lets the sentence hang unfinished.
The lie slides off her tongue as smooth as water, but I catch the tremor underneath. She's protecting Damir even now, even knowing what he's done. Family loyalty runs deeper than survival instincts, which is exactly what we're counting on. I don't give a single fuck what happens to her brother, and if she'll allow me when this is over, I will be the comfort she needs. She just has to stop lying to me.
"I'll handle the arrangements," I tell her. "Someone will be by to help you prepare."
After ending the call, I find Rolan watching me with sharp interest. His expression reveals nothing, but I know that look—the one that says he's cataloging every micro-expression, every vocal inflection.
"She agreed," I report.
"Of course she did." He stands, moving to the window. "Damir will surface. He won't be able to resist."
The certainty in his voice matches my own assessment. Damir Mirov might be a murderer, but he's also a brother—a protective one. The announcement will draw him out of whatever hole he's hiding in, and when he makes his move, we'll be ready.
I spend the next hour in Rolan's living room making calls, arranging details and assuring everything is perfect. A wedding planner for Zoya, a dressmaker sent to her apartment. The venue manager at the Nevsky knows better than to claim unavailability when a Vetrov calls. The florist, the photographer, the officiant—all fall into line with utter obedience as they hear the dollar amounts thrown out.
By noon, invitations are being hand-delivered across Moscow. The guest list reads like a catalog of Bratva families, along with select members of the legitimate business communitywho serve as our public face. Everyone will know that Zoya Mirova is now under Vetrov protection, that any move against her is a move against us.
Grisha appears in the doorway as I finish the final call, his expression carrying the particular brand of concern that means he's about to say something I won't want to hear.
"Damir will come for you," he warns, "especially if he thinks you're using his sister."
I slide my phone into my pocket, meeting his gaze. "That's the point."
"Is it?" His tone carries skepticism. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're taking this marriage seriously."
The observation hits closer to target than I care to admit. I stand and stride to the liquor cabinet where I pour a drink and down it before responding. "I need you to arrange for a stylist to go to Zoya's apartment. Today. Everything she needs."
Grisha nods, pulling out his phone to make notes. "Dress, hair, makeup. Got it."
"Dress is handled, but call the track. Have her terminated, effective immediately."
Now his eyebrows rise. "Max, she's been working there for years. It's her normal life?—"
"She's marrying into the Vetrov family." My eyes snap up to meet his, and his jaw sets as his shoulders square. Grisha is a valuable and wise member of this family, but I refuse to let him bully me with his lectures. "I won't have my wife seen working at some illegal gambling den."
Grisha's expression shifts through several emotions—surprise, calculation, something that might be understanding. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully neutral.
"Your wife," he repeats.
"The woman carrying my name," I correct, but the distinction feels hollow even as I make it.
"Right." He types another note into his phone. "I'll handle it."
But he doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he studies me with the same intensity Rolan displayed earlier, and I realize I've revealed more than intended. The careful control I've maintained since this operation began shows hairline cracks.
"Grisha." My voice carries a warning.
"I'm just wondering," he says, pocketing his phone, "what happens when this is over? When we have Damir, when the job is done, what happens to her then?"
The original plan remains unchanged—eliminate Damir, tie up loose ends, move on to the next assignment. But the thought of Zoya as a loose end sends something cold through my chest.
