Page 3 of Bloody Vows
"Miss Russo," Tony Marcelli says, stepping forward slightly. He's a heavyset man in his late fifties, with graying hair and small, calculating eyes. "Please accept our condolences on your father's passing. He was a great man."
A great man.I wonder if he knew anything regarding what I know about my father's final weeks, about the women he trafficked, about the betrayal that led to his death. Maybe the women. I doubt he knew that my father tried to go up against Konstantin Abramov. I wonder if he cares. I doubt that, too. Women are a commodity in this world. If a woman like me, an heiress, the daughter of a boss, can be treated like this, then I doubt he would care the slightest bit about the fate of the kind of women my father tried to steal.
But I simply nod, accepting the lie because it's what's expected. Arguing it here would do nothing but undermine my position.
"Thank you," I reply instead, smooth and calm. "I appreciate your kind words."
The conversation that follows is stilted and formal, full of the kind of coded language that men in this world use when they're dancing around what they really want to say. They ask about my plans, about the future of my father's businesses, about whether I've given thought to my own security in these uncertain times. Each question is a probe, an attempt to gauge my vulnerability, my willingness to be absorbed into one of their organizations, to lift any one of them up by virtue of giving my hand in marriage away.
I answer as carefully as I can. That I’m still trying to determine what my father’s plans for me were, that I’m talking with my father’s lawyers about his businesses, that I will, of course, make careful and well-thought-out decisions about the future. I answer as if I have power, as if I have agency, when any one of these men could put a gun to my head and drag me in front of a priest, subsuming everything my father built.
The only reason that no one has acted yet is because they’re afraid of Konstantin. They’re waiting to see his move, if he makes one at all. If he arrives today—because he undoubtedly knows that they’re all here. But if he doesn’t appear, if he doesn’t seem to care what happens to me, then one of them will make a move.
There will be another visit. Someone will be bold enough to make an offer for my hand and my inheritance. And if I say no…
If I say no, then I need to have someone else in mind, or therewillbe a gun to my head, sooner rather than later.
The tension in the room is thick, oppressive, and I find myself holding my breath as I wait for someone to show their cards. But before any of them can, before anyone gives away his intentions, Nora appears in the doorway again.
"Miss Russo," she says, her voice carefully neutral. NotSimoneany longer—not in front of our somewhat-esteemed guests. "Mr. Abramov has arrived."
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. The other men exchange glances, and I can see the fear in their eyes. Konstantin Abramov's presence changes everything. He's not here to compete with these smaller fish—he's here to decide their fate, and mine.
If he’s here, then that means he doesn’t intend to have killed my father and left me hanging out to dry, waiting for someone to swoop in and make a claim. It means he intends to see it all through until the end—including what happens to the empire that he’s brought down.
"Show him in," I manage, head held high, proud that my voice doesn't shake. I sound like the mistress of this house, like the woman in charge. For this brief moment in time, I am, and I need to make the most of it.
When Konstantin enters the room, it’s with the kind of presence that commands immediate attention. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair and ice-blue eyes that seem to take in everything around him without effort. He's wearing a perfectly tailored suit, tattoos creeping at the edges of it at his neck and hands, and behind him are four guards, led by his enforcer, Damian Kutnezsov—another man who inspires terror. He looks cold, his face expressionless, his bearing that of a killer.
Everyone else in the room seems diminished by comparison. They always have. Konstantin is the king of Miami, as his father was, and only my father and Don Genovese could even come close to their power. But now, there’s only him.
I’m not startled by the force of his presence, or by the way the other men in the room shrink back. What startles me is that two other men flank Konstantin as he enters—men who are, undeniably, bosses in their own right. They exude power, just as he does.
I don’t recognize them, and that’s unusual. I know all the major players in Miami’s underworld—they’ve all had dinner atthis mansion, smoked cigars with my father, been spoken about in passing. I even know a few of the smaller ones, like Tony and Marco. But these men aren’t small players. All I have to do is look at them to see that.
The first man is older, probably in his sixties, with iron-gray hair and a handsome face despite the lines weathering it. He carries himself with authority, with the confidence of someone who's used to being obeyed without question. He exudes power without arrogance—he’s clearly settled in his position and knows no one will challenge him. But the second man?—
The second man is pure arrogance and pure sin, all wrapped up in a tailored dark suit that makes the blaze of his copper-brown hair and his green eyes stand out like a flame.
He’s likely in his early thirties, I’d guess, probably ten or so years older than me. He’s tall, easily over six feet, and the suit that perfectly clings to his figure hints at rippling muscles beneath the cloth. There’s nothing soft about this man, but there is an elegance to him, a smirking insouciance that oozes arrogance with his every step. He’s young enough to think he’s invincible, and powerful enough to make it true—and that can be a dangerous combination, in the wrong man.
His jaw is clean-shaven, but I can see the shadow of stubble. His hands are tattooed, as is his throat, speaking to the same blatant aggression that coats the Russians like a fine film. This is a man who is dangerous, and who doesn’t mind if everyone else knows it.
Even as elegant as he appears, I can tell that he’s nothing like the men I’m used to, the polished, sophisticated Italian men that my father entertained as possible matches for me. This man looks rough around the edges, a primal carnality oozing from him that I’ve never felt from a man before. He should repel me. I should find him as unattractive as I’ve always found the brutal Russians to be.
Instead, I find myself staring at him, my pulse quickening in a way that has nothing to do with the anxiety that's been coursing through my veins all day. There's something magnetic about him, something that draws my attention like a moth to flame. And when his green eyes flick to mine, finding me across the room as he, Konstantin, and Damian enter, I feel a jolt of electricity that makes my knees weak.
He's looking at me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with my precarious position in the aftermath of my father's death. I’ve never experienced that before, never felt even an ounce of attraction to the men my father has introduced me to. Never felt as if they were stripping me bare, laying me out for them to feast on with nothing but a look.
That look is possessive, too, in a way that he hasn’t earned. There’s something in it that suggests he's already decided something about me, about my future, and it makes me hate him instantly, makes me want to cross the room and smack that self-absorbed smirk off of his face.
I force myself to look at Konstantin, tearing my gaze away from the copper-haired stranger, though I can still feel his eyes on me, can still feel the heat of his attention like a physical touch.
“Mr. Abramov,” I say with as much pleasant neutrality as I can muster, inclining my head slightly in acknowledgment. I tamp down my fear. I can’t let him see it. This man is a predator—a bear, a wolf. If I show fear, he’ll tear me to shreds. “Thank you for coming. These other gentlemen have come to pay their respects to my father as well.”
"Simone.” He inclines his head slightly as well, his Russian accent lending a formal quality to my name. "I hope you will forgive the intrusion. I know this is a difficult time for you."
The other men in the room have gone silent, watching this exchange with the kind of attention that suggeststhey understand its importance. Whatever happens next will determine not just my fate, but the future balance of power in Miami's underworld.
