Page 48 of Wicked Vows (Suvorov Bratva 2)

Kiril’s eyes follow Kozar’s every move like he’s anticipating a death sentence.

And in many ways, this is precisely that.

Kozar turns to me. “At your order, pakhan.”

I nod for Kiril to move to the table. He mechanically follows my orders and settles into the chair next to the tattoo gun, sternly studying the materials. I hover near Kozar and point to Kiril’s right hand.

“Smertson the palm,” I instruct. “He’s been sentenced to death by his Bratva, but he’ll have a chance to redeem his name.”

Kozar prepares fresh needles and starts loading them into the tattoo gun. “Anything else, pakhan?”

I stare at Kiril for a long time. Something passes between us, an understanding that this isn’t the end.

Hardly.

“On the back of his hand,” I add. “Predatyl.”

Kiril flinches and whispers, “Traitor.”

Andthat’sthe understanding.

Kiril belongs to me again. He’ll never be able to run back to Felix, no matter what he offers the man. He’s been branded in every sense. The words on his hands alone will be enough to put him in the ground.

His life—hisfamily—is now in my hands. Their fate is tied together in ways that they’ll never be able to escape.

And I’m the one holding all the strings.

I rest my hand on Kiril’s shoulder as he pinches his lips together. The tattoo gun buzzes in the background, and Kiril remains silent. I squeeze his shoulder and give him the very last order that’s part of his new deal.

“Set up a meeting with Cardona,” I tell him. “Tell him that you found your daughter and you’re ready to take the next step. Pick somewhere…remote.”

He flinches slightly but otherwise keeps his reactions under control.

“And when he shows up, Kiril,” I say while bending toward his ear. “Kill him, and bring me proof.”

I’m expecting him to demand to see his daughter before he goes on such a dangerous mission.

But he does not. He tilts his head to meet my gaze and says with conviction, “Yes, pakhan.”

I straighten my posture and pat his shoulder approvingly. I feel a sense of begrudging respect for him. He’s met every demand, and he’s sitting patiently through two tattoos that condemn him forever. He may have turned against the Bratva in the past, but he still understands the rules.

All without asking to see Zoya.

A man like Kiril is defiant by nature—like a horse that needs to be broken and shown who the true master is.

In this moment, he is broken. But that is of no concern to me.

After all, a dull edge can still draw blood, and a broken knife can still kill.

Chapter Thirteen

Pavel

Viktoria meets me at the door.

It’s late, and the thunderous remnants of bass linger in my ears as I hand her my blazer. I’m loosening my tie when I scan the living room, inhaling the emptiness around me.

No Liya. No Zoya.

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