Savage Vow: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Ivanov Crime Family Book 1)

by Zoe Blake

  This man’s black hair was brushed casually back from his face, displaying painfully sharp cheekbones, but he was still mostly in shadow inside the car.

  As he stepped from the vehicle, he smoothly buttoned his suit jacket over what was no doubt a muscular, flat abdomen. Being friends with someone like Yelena meant learning to recognize the tailored lines of a bespoke suit. The silver pinstripe suit fit him to perfection. As he adjusted his cuffs, I was certain I glimpsed cut black stone cufflinks. Black diamond? Perhaps black sapphire.

  Everything about this man said money… and power.

  Gregor.

  A flutter of unease rippled through me.

  It was him.

  Gregor Ivanov.

  I stood frozen to the spot. Unable to move.

  His hand was already on the handle of the glass gallery door.

  It was too late to run.

  Would my wig and the passing years be enough of a disguise?

  I no longer looked like the naïve teenager I once was.

  Three years on the run will do that to you.

  My face was more angular. My cheekbones higher and sharper. The slightly plump curves of a suburban teenager with no cares had been replaced by the lean muscle of a woman who constantly looked over her shoulder and saw monsters in every shadow.

  The last time he had seen me was in a dark bedroom, and the time before that I had been little more than a girl. Besides, I was probably only one woman among thousands to a man like Gregor. He probably couldn’t even remember my eye color.

  I’ve got this.

  I’m Gwen Stevens.

  Taking a step back, I waited for him to open the door.

  The moment he did, I knew I was fooling myself.

  I don’t have this.

  It was Gregor.

  He had found me… and I was fucked.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Stevens, I assume? I’m Julius Davidson.”

  I was momentarily taken aback by his casual tone.

  It took a second to register what he had just said. Julius. He had introduced himself as Julius.

  So, we were both going to do this subterfuge?

  That’s right.

  I forgot how much Gregor liked his twisted games.

  This was just another version of Russian roulette.

  His voice was low and dark, every word uttered with a precise clip on the end, as if he were using his sharp white teeth to bite off the edges.

  Fine.

  Let’s play, Gregor.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Davidson. I’ve been expecting you,” I said, perhaps a bit too breathlessly, as I extended my hand.

  His own warm hand engulfed mine in a strong yet gentle grip. I remembered the feel of his hands. Large and slightly scarred. Callused, but not rough. Heavily tattooed. The most visible image was a swallow on the back of his right hand. I remembered googling it once. A swallow tattoo symbolized fidelity and loyalty. It fit. Gregor wasn’t just the loyal leader of the Ivanov family; he was the family and embodied all the power and savagery that name symbolized.

  “Julius,” he corrected, piercing me with his platinum gray eyes.

  Platinum Gray eyes.

  Chromatic Black hair.

  Butter Pecan lightly tanned skin.

  “Julius,” I whispered back as I lowered my eyes, slightly shaken from his gaze.

  He slips the single bullet into the chamber and spins it.

  Breathe.

  You got this.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing what you have arranged for me this afternoon… Gwen.”

  First pull of the trigger.

  Misfire.

  The chamber spins.

  He knows, my mind screamed.

  I wasn’t fooling him for a second.

  The way he said my name, with the subtle pause and emphasis.

  My sense of self-preservation screamed at me to run, although I knew it was too late. I wouldn’t get two steps across the gallery before he grabbed me.

  I needed to play this charade out.

  See what he had planned for me. For us.

  Interlocking my fingers to hide my nervousness, I walked ahead of him, keeping my head low and cocked at an angle.

  I’m being silly.

  Everything is fine.

  I’m Gwen Stevens.

  “You mentioned this acquisition was for your corporate headquarters. I thought something sleek yet engaging, forceful yet approachable would be best.”

  Stopping before the first painting, I refused to turn around, keeping my face averted and my focus on the wall ahead. Every nerve ending felt his presence behind me. He was so close; I could feel the brush of his warm breath on my exposed neck. Why did I have to choose the bob wig for today?

  Dammit.

  I inhaled a warm woodsy scent with a hint of spicy ginger.

  Bleu de Chanel

  His cologne.

  Gesturing towards the painting, I continued. “This is a widely in demand artist among the exclusive circles. You could acquire his work for a fraction of what it will be worth after his show in New York next month.”

  “I see,” Gregor murmured from his powerful stance behind me.

  The hum from his words sent a shock to my system. I didn’t just hear them; I could feel them.

  “You’ll notice the use of form and color, the unnatural brush strokes. Ingenious. As you can see, I have arranged to have several pieces of his here today as an exclusive showing.”

  “He appears to be a rare talent,” Gregor said obligingly.

  Why did it sound like he wasn’t referring to the painting?

  He cocks the hammer back.

  I took a deliberate step to the side, then a few additional steps away from his unnerving presence.

  He smoothly followed. The light scrape of his shoe on the hardwood floor was the only sound in the quiet gallery space.

  This time, I stood perpendicular to the wall. I was now firmly on the defense.

  “Here is another sample of his work. Notice the use of geometric shapes.”

  “A unique talent.” Gregor stood before me, not looking at the painting.

  There was the faint rustle of his suit as he lifted his arm. Before I could step back, one strong finger hooked under my chin and lifted my face.

  Was now the moment?

  Was he going to rip the wig off my head and drag me out of the gallery?

  Taking a step closer, he stared at my red lips before asking, “Can I see the rest of the paintings?”

  Pulls the trigger.

  Another misfire.

  My mouth dropped open in surprise.

  That was not what I was expecting him to say.

  I watched as what I thought was a spark of something intense flitted across his dark eyes before they were quickly shuttered.

  He was playing with me.

  He was enjoying this.

  He spins the chamber again.

  How many misfires had there been?

  What was the law of probability that I would survive this little game of his?

  “Yes… yes, of course,” I stuttered as I lifted my jaw and turned my head away. “Here is another artist they will be showing in California next Summer. This is one of her early prints. Notice the use of a stark white background to enforce her message of spirituality through shape and form.”

  “What about that one?” he asked. Placing a hand at my lower back, he guided me to the end of the gallery. As we stood before the painting, he did not remove his hand.

  Shifting my foot, I meant to slide out of his grasp before responding.

  The slightest, subtle press of his hand warned me not to move.

  I obeyed.

  “This is a Simes. A notoriously anti-social painter who only deals with a very select number of consultants and refuses to show his work in any public forum.”

  “Well, aren’t you the lucky girl?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been chosen.”

  He pul
ls back the hammer.

  Chosen.

  To marry him?

  He pulls the trigger.

  Heedless of the silent command of his hand on my back, I broke contact and stepped back.

  He followed.

  I took another step back, hitting the wall. My breath came in gasps.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I whisper, desperately trying to read his set features.

  He leaned down, his lips so close I could smell the hint of mint on his breath. “Simes. You mentioned he is very selective in who he chooses to work with.”

  The gun goes off.

  Misfire.

  Another spin of the chamber.

  “I think I see what I want… I’ll be back later to claim it,” he said, almost against my mouth.

  He then straightened and turned on his heel. His confident stride took him back to the entrance to the gallery. There was a slight rush of cool air from the open door. It brushed over my heated cheeks.

  Without moving, I watched the pavement outside as his driver opened the door for him.

  He entered, and within moments, the sleek Escalade pulled away.

  Only then did I release the breath I was holding.

  I had survived… but for how long?

  And why?

  The chamber spun again.

  The hammer cocked back…

  Bang.

  Chapter 9

  Samara

  Tearing off my wig, I pushed my long, tangled hair out of my face and called Yelena again. “Yelena, call me back. Code Red! Code Red!”

  I had already left her four voicemails.

  Where the fuck was she?

  We had to get out of town. Now.

  Worst case scenario, if I couldn’t get ahold of her, we had a Plan B in place, for just this scenario. We would meet up at a small house we bought in Montreal and decide where to go next.

  Still, I would feel better knowing she was safe.

  If Gregor was here then that meant that his brother Damien probably was as well. I know he and Yelena had sparred with one another in the past. Plus, he was probably really pissed that she continued to work that racetrack scam. If Gregor found me then there was an exceptional chance Damien had found Yelena. Fuck!

  Gregor’s car had barely pulled away from the curb before I was grabbing my purse and sneaking out the back door. I had changed cabs four times on my way back home in case I was followed.

  It was probably all for nothing.

  If he knew where I worked then he knew where I lived, but I clung to a sliver of hope.

  I had no choice.

  Fuck.

  I wish I hadn’t been so stupid as to leave my fake passports and IDs at home. Yelena had taught me better. I should have had them with me at all times. I was in a hurry this morning and got sloppy. Now I had no choice but to risk going back because I obviously couldn’t use the Gwen Stevens ID and credit cards anymore, and I definitely didn’t have enough cash on me to flee to another country.

  Maybe it'll be okay?

  Maybe he hadn’t recognized me after all?

  He did leave.

  Why did he do that?

  Was it just to mess with me?

  To get in my head?

  Well, it's fucking working!

  Finally, I was back at my loft. There was no sign of his Escalade on the street.

  With shaking hands, I punched in the key code to enter the building

  I paused in the hallway and placed my ear to my apartment door. Everything seemed quiet and still. Holding my breath, I carefully slipped the key in the lock and turned it, cringing when the lock gave with a loud metallic click. I paused. Nothing. I let out the breath I was holding. Pushing the door open slightly, I peeked inside. Nothing seemed amiss.

  Shuffling inside, I pivoted to close the door quickly.

  A man’s arm reached over my head and stopped it from closing.

  Letting out a shocked scream, I dropped my purse and keys on the floor, my gaze rose to face a pair of platinum gray eyes.

  Gregor stood before me like a vengeful god.

  “Welcome home, Gwen.” His voice was dark and low… controlled.

  I opened my mouth to scream.

  His hand closed around my throat. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. I can’t have you screaming like that, malyshka.”

  My fingers clawed at the back of his hands.

  “You’ve been a very bad girl, Samara.”

  His grasp prevented me from speaking. After he could see I would no longer try to cry out, he lowered his arm. Straightening his suit cuffs, he ordered, “Now be a good girl and invite me in for a chat.”

  It was hard not to feel like Mina inviting the fiend Dracula in.

  Like Dracula, Gregor seemed to exude a dark energy which fed on my own fears and desires.

  Knowing I had no choice, I complied.

  “Won’t you come in?” I responded through clenched teeth as my hand grasped my throat.

  Taking a step forward, I shook as he made his presence known directly behind me.

  This was bad.

  Very bad.

  I quickly scanned the open area of the loft. There was no sign of his brother, Damien. We were alone. Was this why Yelena wasn’t answering her phone? Had Gregor’s brother already captured her?

  Fuck!

  If I had any chance of getting out of this, I needed to reach my bed. Under the pillow was one of two .38 specials Yelena and I bought for protection when we were in Mexico the first few months we were in hiding. Taking a few more hesitant steps, I waited till I was close, then lunged for the mattress. Falling across it on my stomach, I slid my hand under the pillow.

  There was nothing there.

  Horrified, I turned on my back and looked up at Gregor. He was standing close to the bed, legs spread wide as he towered over my prone form. Reaching behind him, he pulled the revolver free from his waistband. “Looking for this?”

  With a cry, I rolled onto my stomach and tried to scramble away across the rumpled bed sheets. He grabbed my ankle and pulled me toward him. Reaching down, he fisted my hair and lifted me up.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried out as I reached up to try to dislodge his grasp.

  Gregor dragged me across the room and pushed me against one of the wide, timber support beams that dotted my loft space.

  I watched as he inhaled deeply but said nothing.

  As if he needed a moment to control his emotions.

  This was not a man to piss off, I reminded myself.

  As I waited for his next move, I looked him over. While still handsome as hell, his face now had an even harder edge to it. The sharp angles of his jawline and lowered brow heightened the sense of dangerous power he exuded.

  I stayed silent. My fingers gripped the smooth wood of the beam behind me in an effort to ground myself and my rioting emotions.

  Gregor ran the back of his knuckles over my cheek. “You shouldn’t have run, Samara. You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whimpered.

  What else could I say?

  “Are you?” he challenged.

  His dark gaze lowered to my breasts as his fingers undid the first button of my cardigan.

  Oh God.

  “Please. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Gregor looked into my eyes. I could feel his warm fingers brush my skin as he undid another button.

  “If you don’t want me to hurt you, then you need to be a very good girl and not anger me.”

  Grabbing my jaw with his full hand, he pushed my head back till it connected with the beam. I watched in captive silence as his gaze moved from my eyes to my open lips and back.

  “Tell me why,” he ground out.

  He didn’t honestly expect me to tell him why I didn’t want to marry him?

  To his face?

  “I… I… please.” I faltered.

  He lowered his head. His mouth brushed mine. “That’s not an answer, malyshka.”

  His other han
d moved to span my belly. My entire body trembled. I could feel the scorching heat of him through my thin sweater. My traitorous body hummed as I waited to see if he would slide his hand higher or lower. How could a man who terrified me deep in my bones make my body quake like this? It was wrong. Sick. Dangerous.

  My fingernails dug into the wood beam. “Please, Gregor. Just let me go. You could have anyone you wanted.”

  “I want you. I own you.”

  I watched as his eyes flashed with unmistakable need as the possessive power of his words rang in my head. I realized I would never be free of this man. No matter how long or how far I ran he would always give chase. I just couldn’t understand why. This couldn’t possibly be about the money he loaned my father? I hadn’t spoken to my parents since the night I ran, but surely my father had paid him back by now. It had been three years.

  My teeth chattered with fear. I had to clench my jaw to even speak. Taking a deep breath through my nose, I risked it all. “You don’t own me. You’ll never own me, because I’ll never marry you.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I turned my head and braced for the violent blow I was certain was coming.

  I didn’t care.

  I was tired.

  Tired of running.

  Tired of always looking over my shoulder.

  Tired of watching the real me slowly disappear in the mirror.

  I just wanted it to end.

  My tiny bit of rebellion in speaking my mind had taken the last of my resolve.

  If it hadn’t been for his powerful presence pressing into my front, I would have collapsed to the floor as my knees buckled.

  After an agonizing stretch of silence, nothing happened.

  I hesitantly peeked at him through my lowered lashes.

  His dark gaze studied my face as his jaw tightened. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “Why would you want to marry someone who doesn’t want to marry you?” I cried, desperation making my voice high-pitched and thin.

  He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “I have my reasons.”

  His lips skimmed my cheek before crashing down to claim my mouth. Balling my hands into fists, I beat on his shoulders and chest as I twisted my head away. With a growl, he clasped my jaw in his hand and pushed my head back.

  “Open for me,” he commanded.

  This time when his head swooped down, I had no choice. The tips of his fingers pressed into the sides of my face, forcing my jaw open. His tongue swooped in to take possession.