Page 40 of The Enforcer's Vow
"Do you, Zoya Mirova, take Maksim Vetrov to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She doesn't hesitate. "I do."
Her voice is steady, confident, and when she says the words, I believe them completely. Whatever game she's playing, whatever angle she's working, in this moment, she means it.
The officiant declares us husband and wife. When he tells me to kiss the bride, I cup her face in my hands and kiss her with deliberate tenderness. Her lips are soft, and when she kisses me back, there's nothing calculated about it. For the space of that kiss, we're not adversaries or pawns in someone else's game. We're just two people who chose each other.
The crowd erupts in applause. Cameras flash. Champagne corks pop. But I only see Zoya's face, the way her cheeks flush pink, the way she looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time.
"Mrs. Vetrova," I say, and she smiles—a real smile, not the careful mask she usually wears.
"Mr. Vetrov," she replies, and there's something in her tone that makes my chest tighten.
The reception flows around us in a blur of congratulations and toasts. Zoya plays her part perfectly, accepting kisses on her cheek from men who could order her death with a phone call, making small talk with their wives about honeymoon destinations and wedding planning. She moves through the crowd like she belongs here, like she was born to this life.
But I catch her tells. The way she touches her stomach when she thinks no one is looking. The way she sips her champagne but never actually drinks it. The way she excuses herself to the restroom more frequently than necessary. Small things that add up to a picture I'm not ready to examine.
"Beautiful ceremony," says a voice behind me. I turn to find Dominik, a distant cousin who runs numbers for the family. His smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Your wife is lovely. You're a lucky man."
"Thank you." I keep my voice neutral, but my hand moves automatically to the knife concealed in my jacket. Dominik has always been ambitious, always looking for an angle.
"I knew her brother, you know. Damir. Good man. Shame about his current situation."
The words are carefully chosen, designed to provoke a reaction. I don't give him one. "I'm sure he'll surface eventually."
"Oh, I'm sure he will." Dominik's smile widens. "Family has a way of finding each other."
He moves away before I can respond, but his message is clear. People are watching, waiting to see how this plays out. The marriage announcement has already served its purpose—everyone knows Zoya belongs to me now, which means Damir will have to act.
Grisha appears at my elbow as the crowd begins to thin. "Boss, we need to talk."
I follow him to a corner of the rooftop where we can speak without being overheard. The city spreads out below us, Moscow's skyline glittering in the afternoon sun. From here, the world looks manageable, controllable. But I know better.
"Damir showed up at one of the crew garages," Grisha says without preamble. "About an hour ago. Unannounced."
My pulse quickens. "Where?"
"The Sokolniki spot. He walked in asking questions about his sister, about the wedding. Got aggressive when nobody wanted to talk." Grisha's expression is grim. "We tried to corner him, but he slipped out before we could pin him down."
I curse under my breath. We've been waiting for this moment, planning for it, but the timing is wrong. Too public, too many witnesses. "How many men?"
"Six. They're mobilizing now, spreading out to cover his likely routes. But boss..." Grisha hesitates. "He looked desperate. Angry. This isn't going to be clean."
I glance back at the reception, where Zoya is accepting congratulations from another group of guests. She laughs at something someone says, the sound carrying across the rooftop. For a moment, she looks genuinely happy.
"Keep her here," I tell Grisha. "Make sure she doesn't leave until I get back."
"What do I tell her?"
"Nothing. Just keep her busy."
I stride toward the exit, already pulling out my phone to coordinate with the men in the field. The elevator ride down feels endless, and by the time I reach the parking garage, my jaw is clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
The garage is dimly lit, full of shadows and blind spots. My footsteps echo off the concrete walls as I walk toward my car. The keys are in my hand when I hear the soft scrape of a shoe on pavement.
"Maksim."
I turn slowly. Damir Mirov steps out from behind a concrete pillar, a pistol held steady in his right hand. He's thinner than I remember, his clothes wrinkled and stained. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his usually neat hair hangs in greasy strands. But his grip on the gun is steady.
