Vicious Oath: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Ivanov Crime Family Book 2)

by Zoe Blake

  That was not the case with the Columbians. There was no central family to approach. No one I would trust to keep their word. They were who I really feared with regards to Yelena. The only way to truly protect her from the Columbians was to make it a matter of war if they touched her.

  If she were my wife and they harmed her, it would mean war.

  And if there was one thing no one wanted, it was war with the Russians.

  No one fucked with us for a reason.

  “Yes. The Columbians. I hear you made the same deal with them. I must say Fredo was not happy when he learned that not only was he taking a beating because of you, but that you had planned to double cross him all along.”

  “I’m telling you, they're all lying! This is a big setup against me. That bitch Yelena is probably behind it all!”

  Once more holding his gaze, I flicked open the chamber. I selected a bullet and held it up. “Do you know what this bullet is for, Levin?”

  He screeched. His voice rose several octaves with panic. “Please, Mr. Ivanov. I didn’t talk to the Columbians!”

  Ignoring him, I continued. “This bullet is special. Very special. You see, this bullet is for Yelena.”

  Levin's eyes widened. “Yelena?”

  “Yes, your stepdaughter. Yelena. The girl who was entrusted into your care.”

  Levin sputtered as he reached for the vodka bottle. “You can’t make me pay for what that bitch did! It’s her fault! It’s all her fault! Kill her! She deserves it. Set an example with her. Kill her, not me!”

  This time, he didn’t even bother with the shot glass but drank straight from the bottle. He guzzled down the clear liquid as it sloshed over his cheeks and jaw, drenching the soiled collar of his shirt.

  “Yelena is very important to my sister, which makes her important to me. I’ve seen her black eye, Levin.”

  Levin shrugged. “She gets mouthy. Always complaining about something. What do you expect me to do? A man shouldn’t have to listen to that in his own house! And then when I’m going through her room for some money, you know for her upkeep, I find all those cashed-in Pick Six racing tickets. The selfish bitch knew how to make thousands, and she was keeping it from me.”

  I slipped the third bullet into the chamber. Flicked it closed and spun it. I pushed the gun toward him. “Only a spineless coward would punch a woman.”

  Levin hesitated. The false courage given to him by the vodka was starting to wear off. He knew the gun now held three bullets in its six chambers. The odds were severely against him.

  He reached for the gun. Wrapped his fingers around the black handle. Leaving his fist on the table, he lifted the gun up.

  It was now pointed directly at me.

  His cloudy brown eyes narrowed.

  If the odds of death increased for him if he pulled the trigger, they also just increased for me.

  With a tremble, he lifted the gun higher.

  It was still pointed at me.

  My men, who were positioned directly behind him, stirred.

  Without shifting my gaze, I raised a single finger from my hand which was lying flat on the table, warning them without words to stand down.

  Staring down the barrel of the gun, I reached for my shot glass and calmly drank the rest of the scotch. I flipped the glass over and returned it to the table.

  Sensing his own defeat, Levin wrapped his dirty hand around the neck of the vodka bottle and took another long swig.

  He then held the gun to his temple… and pulled the trigger.

  It was fitting that it was Yelena’s bullet.

  Rising, I reached for my overcoat and put it on. I then pried my gun from the dead man’s grasp. Walking away without a backward glance, I said to my men, “Throw out the trash.”

  Just being in that man’s presence made me want to shower. I was going to go home, shower, burn these clothes, and then head to the hotel.

  I needed to see Yelena, my future wife.

  Chapter 11

  Damien

  Chicago, Illinois - Three years later

  I hadn’t slept through the night in three long years.

  Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured Yelena.

  She’s chained to a basement floor. Naked on some filthy mattress, crying as a shadowy figure stands over her.

  Every night.

  Every time I closed my eyes.

  I would see her crying and would be powerless to stop it.

  I stared at my reflection in the knife blade I was holding. Hard eyes stared back. Three years. I’d caused a lot of pain and suffering in those years. Each time, it chipped another piece of my heart away. I doubted there was anything left.

  Three years ago, I'd still had a semblance of a conscience. I had still at least felt guilty for some of my actions. Still weighed the consequences against my immortal soul.

  And now? Now I no longer cared.

  With Yelena by my side, I had had a chance to hold on to a glimmer of my humanity. I would have drawn from her warmth and kept that small spark alive. In her eyes, I might have salvaged a piece of the man I wanted to be. The man I would have become had family honor and loyalty not demanded the extreme sacrifice of my soul.

  But she'd run, and it had all turned to ice.

  Three years had turned me into the same cold, unfeeling man my father was with his same narrow-minded ideals of family and duty.

  “You’re sure it’s them this time?” asked Gregor, breaking into my dangerous thoughts.

  I answered without turning around. “I’m sure.”

  Our private plane had a large lounge setup and a bar in the main cabin. I was seated toward the front in one of the large, swiveling leather seats. Gregor was behind me, a file filled with photos of Samara on his lap. I had a similar file with photos of Yelena.

  Yelena in Mexico, in Boston, in Los Angeles, in Montreal, and now in Chicago.

  Always, I was too late.

  Always one step behind.

  She continued to cash in on her racetrack algorithm. She thought she was getting away with it. Thought she was safe by only hitting a Pick Six once every few months and each time at a different racetrack in a different state. She was wrong. You didn’t take millions of dollars out of the pocket of several mafia rackets without anyone noticing and tracking your movements.

  The Italians had been convinced to let her be. Usually with large, continuing payoffs from me.

  The Columbians refused.

  I knew they wanted to get their hands on Yelena. Badly.

  I also knew that, just like me, they had been tipped off she was in Chicago.

  There was a large race coming up in a few days. The first thoroughbred race of the season, The Sham Stakes. The race was held at the Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California but betting would take place worldwide. She would want to be in a major city where she’d be able to cash in her winning ticket quickly with the ready cash on hand from all the heavy betting, but not a place so visible, like Las Vegas. Chicago was perfect.

  This time I had her.

  This time there would be no escape.

  I was not sure when my pursuit of her had become such an obsession. Probably the moment I'd returned to her hotel room to find her gone. I had underestimated her. It wouldn’t happen again. I should have told her what she was facing. Should have laid it out to her in stark terms she’d understand.

  If I had, would she still have run?

  If I had asked her to marry me, would she have said yes?

  I'd never know.

  I'd returned to find a cold bed.

  Two weeks later, Samara was gone as well.

  It was galling to realize Yelena must have been hiding out nearby waiting to leave the entire time. My only consolation was she certainly would have learned the fate of her stepfather before she went on the run. I had hoped, perhaps, she would see that as at least a sign I could be trusted to protect her but no.

  She'd still run.

  Gregor and I had been chasing the girls ever si
nce. In a strange way, it brought us closer together as brothers. A common goal. To retrieve our runaway brides.

  I took a sip from my drink as I spun the chair around to face Gregor. He was holding up a photo of Samara taken on the street outside the art gallery where she now worked.

  “Rockabilly,” I said absentmindedly.

  “What?”

  “The dress. It’s a rockabilly style. Trim waist. Nice flare. High collar.”

  “What the hell?”

  “What? You fuck enough models you learn about fashion. It’s obvious Samara is all about the vintage 50s look. Red lips, cuffed jeans, the whole nine.”

  “Worry about your own girl, Versace.”

  I raised my glass in a mock salute and turned my chair back. We’d be landing at Midway soon.

  Soon, I would have Yelena in my grasp. My cock stirred at the thought. I couldn’t remember the last time I'd fucked a woman. At first, I had tried to erase her memory. Any beautiful woman with blonde hair and blue eyes was fair game. But they all paled in comparison to Yelena. They all were false. Their beauty brittle. Their intellect a thin veneer. Their eyes didn’t have the same sparkle of defiance that Yelena’s had. Their skin wasn’t as silky soft. Their lips lacked her sweetness.

  Before, I had hesitated because of her age. She had been barely eighteen. Still a child.

  Now there was no such barrier.

  I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  This time, when I found her, the first thing I was going to do was claim her for my own.

  Once and for all.

  Before, I was drawn to Yelena because of her beauty and intellect and her fiery spirit.

  Now, I was obsessed with the idea of possessing her simply to own her.

  To control her.

  To show her the Ivanovs have all the power.

  To show her I have all the power.

  To make her pay for taunting me with the notion that salvation was possible for a man like me.

  And she would pay.

  I still had every intention of marrying her. She would be mine in every respect of the word.

  Except now, I wouldn't bother asking first.

  Chapter 12

  Yelena

  Picking up my phone, I listened to Samara’s voicemails.

  They all had essentially the same message.

  Run!

  I knew what that meant. We would scramble for our safe house in Montreal. Until then, we would have no choice but to go off the radar. Radio silence. No phones unless absolutely necessary. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself to focus.

  I needed to get the hell out of town. We would figure out our next move when we were safely in Montreal. It was a shame; like Samara, I was starting to like Chicago and the idea that maybe we could stop running.

  Heading to my desk, I withdrew every scrap of paper. I kept all important documents in a lockbox in a bank in Los Angeles, but you never knew what someone could glean from a few receipts or scraps of paper.

  Carrying the bundle to the sink, I opened my junk drawer and searched for matches. Lighting one, I held it to the corner of several papers till they started to brown and curl. Eventually, they caught the flame. I lit another match and repeated the gesture. As they started to smoke, the fire alarm went off. Grabbing a broom, I smashed it with the handle till it went silent.

  Grabbing a bucket from under the sink, I went into the bathroom. I wrenched the top drawer out and dumped its contents into the bucket. I did the same for the second and third, watching all my expensive Mac and Chanel makeup pile up. It broke my heart, but it was bulky and I needed to travel light. I then took my hairbrushes and toothbrush and curlers into the kitchen. I opened the dishwasher door and pulled out the dish racks. I dumped my makeup and the rest of my beauty products into the bottom. Opening a bottle of bleach, I poured it over the pile. Closing the door, I started the dishwasher. I then stripped the bed of its sheets and put them in the washer. That should take care of any DNA. You could never be too careful.

  It would be better to just burn the whole condo, but that wasn’t really an option.

  Wrenching open the door to my closet, I headed to the secret panel behind a shoe shelf and pulled free a small black backpack—my go bag.

  Checking its contents, I opened up a few shoe boxes which contained some hidden cash and jewels and shoved them into the bag. I also made sure the gun Samara and I picked up in Mexico and my pink pearl-handled stiletto knife were there, as well. On second thought, I snatched up the knife and put it in the back pocket of my jeans so I could access it quickly.

  Next, I went into the living room and ran my arm along the mantle, tossing my favorite lucky charm Happy Meal toys into my bag. Although admittedly the little plastic toys had yet to bring me much luck. Taking one last look around, I picked up my car keys and pulled open the door.

  And screamed in terror.

  Chapter 13

  Yelena

  Every instinct in my body went on high alert.

  “No!” I screamed as I tried to slam the door.

  Damien shoved his foot over the threshold to prevent me.

  Despite that, I tried to slam the door again anyway. It just bounced back open. I took a few steps backward.

  Nervously, I licked my lips. My voice cracked as I asked, “How did you finally find me?”

  He gave me a wink. “You’re not the only one with skills, malyshka.”

  Tilting my chin up, I inhaled a shaky breath. “I want you to leave.”

  “Listen carefully, Yelena. You are in way over your head, so be a good girl and come with me and don’t give me any more trouble.”

  I shook my head.

  Damien sighed. “Apparently, you don’t remember what happens when you tell me no.”

  Oh, I remembered.

  I remembered very clearly what happened.

  Dropping my bag, I ran deeper into the condo.

  He followed.

  Racing down the hall, I bolted into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. After locking it, I turned to push the heavy bureau in front of it.

  There was a loud thud as the door rattled on its hinges.

  He was trying to break it down.

  I pushed harder on the bureau. It began to slowly slide across the carpet.

  Another loud thud. The frame splintered as the flimsy lightweight door buckled from the pressure.

  The bureau was only a few feet away. Crying out in frustration, I bent my knees and pushed harder.

  Too late.

  The door crashed open.

  “Tsk. Tsk. You are being a very bad girl, malen'kaya shalun'ya,” Damien said sardonically as he pushed the door — which was now only hanging by one hinge — out of the way and stepped into the room. The black combat boots, cargo pants, and form-fitting long sleeved shirt made him look even more menacing than before.

  It had been three years since I had seen him.

  Everything about him was bigger and scarier.

  The man was huge. Really huge. He was so tall and his shoulders so wide, I couldn't even imagine how he found clothes to fit him. And they really, really fit him. I bit my lip as I tried not to glance down.

  And the tattoos! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! There seemed to be more of them now. They covered both arms. I could even see a few new black swirls peeking out above the neckline of his t-shirt which meant a pretty sizable chest tattoo. With his dark hair and dark eyes, Damien could have been Jason Momoa’s brother.

  His face was more angular, giving it a hard, uncompromising look. The only problem was he’d become even sexier. There was something about the harsh glint to his gaze and the confident arrogance he exuded. As if he had settled into the reality of his violent life and embraced it where before, three years earlier, he was still at a crossroads.

  Well, he would find me changed, too.

  Three years ago, my fight had been all bravado, a flimsy house of cards easily tumbled by a harsh word or glare from him. I had put on a tough exte
rior while hiding my fear and pain. No more.

  I wasn’t that same girl who took a punch from her stepfather as her due for being a useless brat who burdened him after her mother’s death. I had done a great deal of growing up these last few years, and I now knew my self-worth. I was independent and strong and didn’t need anyone to survive.

  I shrieked as I reached for my stiletto knife. “Stay away from me.” With a press of a button, the sharp, four-inch blade sprang out.

  Damien put his hands up. “Yelena, baby. Listen to me. I’m here to protect you.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  No. Damien was here for revenge. He had to be. He was mad I'd run with all the money and left him to face the Italians and Columbians. Not to mention the fact that my partner in crime was his brother’s intended bride. If it hadn’t been for me and my money and resources Samara would never have run, let alone stayed just one step ahead of the Ivanov family’s grasp for three years. Now we had finally been trapped. For all I knew, Samara was in a worse situation than me as she faced off with Gregor.

  This is bad.

  Very bad.

  I had to get away from him.

  Holding up my knife, I threatened Damien. “Come one step closer, and I swear I’ll fucking kill you.”

  He laughed.

  The bastard laughed!

  “You really are adorable, but you are as threatening as a chipmunk.”

  Apparently, Damien and Gregor hadn’t gotten too deep into how Samara and I had spent the last three years. He obviously didn’t know about the time I spent in Mexico training or he wouldn’t be scoffing at my threat.

  While Samara tried to forget and lose herself in painting, I had taken a different route, taking as many self-defense classes as I could find. I wasn’t the same beaten-down teenager who couldn’t protect herself against the blows. Not anymore. And no one was going to get the upper hand on me ever again.

  A stiletto did not make for an accurate throwing knife. The blade was too thin and the handle too weighted, but it was my only option.