Page 12 of Blood Oath Christmas
“I want to know every move Vadim makes,” I say as soon as Maksim closes the office door. “I don’t want him taking a shit without someone watching.”
Maksim raises a surprised eyebrow but nods. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
I’m not sure how much I want to tell him yet. He’s my brigadier, but this is a strange situation. Normally, I wouldn’t try and protect someone because they witnessed a murder, even if the guy doing the killing is Vadim. But Ivy is different. I madea blood oath and I intend to keep it. Plus, after watching over her all these years, I feel as if I know her, and the thought of someone hurting her brings a strange ache to my heart.
But how much should I tell Maksim? Or should I say anything? Eventually, I might have to, but not right now.
“Anything out of the ordinary. I want to know the minute he leaves, where he goes, and who he takes with him. Also, if you notice an unusual amount of activity, more guys hanging around or being sent out on business.”
“I’ll gather a crew now,” Maksim answers, then leaves.
The door barely closes behind him when my cell phone rings. Viktor’s name shows up on the screen and I answer it immediately. He’s been watching over Ivy at the safehouse and is supposed to check in with me every few hours or if something happens.
“Viktor.”
“All’s been quiet for a while now,” Viktor says, and I start to relax. “But there’s been some movement. I think Vadim’s men might have discovered where she’s staying.”
7
IVY
Two days. That’s how long I’ve been stuck in this beige box the FBI calls a “safehouse”. Two days of pacing across cheap carpet, eating stale takeout, and pretending that the locked doors and barred windows make me safer.
They took my phone the moment I got here. No calls. No texts. No scrolling. No checking email. No homework, no assignments, no connection to the real world. Just silence. The laptop they gave me is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. No internet, no way to even Google something harmless.
Which means I can’t tell my mom what’s happening. Not that she’d care. We hardly talk anymore, except for the occasional birthday text or a perfunctory “hope you’re doing well” at Christmas. Still, a part of me aches with the need to hear her voice—even if it’s cold, even if it’s dismissive—just to feel like I have family in this mess.
Frank, though. God, Frank. He must be losing his mind. He probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped, or worse. He doesn’t even know where I am, and the FBI won’t let me reach out. He’s probably calling every hospital in the city, or showing up at Otrava like he’s ready to tear the club apart looking for me. Iclose my eyes and rub the ache between them, wishing I could tell him I’m okay. Wishing I believed it myself.
Tomorrow, I’m supposed to go before a judge in a closed court and tell him what I saw—the execution. My stomach twists just thinking about it. My word against a monster like Vadim’s. The agents keep saying I’ll be protected, that they have contingencies, that the system will hold. But when I close my eyes at night, I see that gun, I hear the sound it made, the way the man fell and blood pooled around his head, and I wonder if testifying will make any difference at all.
Or if it will put me in that much more danger.
The TV in the living room is stuck on basic cable. I flip channels out of boredom and regret it almost instantly.
“…the latest in the brutal killing outside the exclusive club, Otrava. Sources say authorities may have a witness…”
The anchor’s voice drops, like she’s savoring the word. Witness.
Ice floods my veins.
“They wouldn’t,” I whisper, leaning closer to the screen. They wouldn’t actually announce that.
But of course they would. Reporters don’t care who gets burned.
My fingers dig into the couch cushion. Every muscle in my body coils tight, like the news anchor might reach through the screen and point straight at me. If Vadim’s people are watching, if they even suspect someone saw…
I click the TV off so fast the remote nearly slips from my hand. The silence after the anchor’s voice is deafening, heavy in the little living room. My pulse is still racing. I can’t sit here alone, trapped with my thoughts gnawing at me.
Muffled laughter drifts from the kitchen. The agents.
I drag myself up and wander toward the sound. Three of them sit around the square dining table, a deck of cards spreadout, empty coffee mugs scattered between them. The yellow overhead light makes the room feel warmer than it really is.
“Look who decided to crawl out of her cave,” Agent Torres says with a grin, tossing down a card. He’s the youngest of the bunch, maybe mid-thirties, hair too long for FBI standards, but he wears his badge like he was born with it.
“Don’t tease her,” Agent Morgan chides gently. He sits across from Torres, broad-shouldered, gray at the temples, the kind of calm that feels unshakable. His voice lowers when his eyes meet mine. “You shouldn’t believe half of what you hear on the news, Ivy. They’ll say anything to get a story, and most of it’s speculation. Don’t let it rattle you.”
I nod, hugging my arms to my chest. “It’s hard not to. When they said there was a witness…” My throat tightens. “It felt like they were pointing right at me.”
