Bloody Vows

Chapter One

Simone

My father is dead, and someone will come for what is mine.

My father is dead.

Those four words beat around the inside of my skull until it aches as I stand in the middle of the grand entryway to my childhood home, a dull grief settling somewhere in the core of my being.

Not for my father, exactly. I don’t have any warm memories of him. There are no recollections of hugs or dolls or fatherly nicknames for me to recall as I stand here, looking around a house that’s far too big for one person. 

I was never his princess or his tesoro. Never anything other than a means to an end, an only child that should have been a son, if he was only going to get one. A child who could inherit all of this, carry on his name, his empire, his legacy.

But I—

I’m just something that can be bartered away. And since that deal was never closed, since no one put a ring on my finger before my father died, my position is both uncertain and dangerous.

There were potential suitors, of course. One, even, who nearly got as far as signing the paperwork for the betrothal. But before ink could be put to paper, my father blew it all up in the name of greed.

Acid burns in my gut at the thought of what he did. I walk through the entryway, past the spiral staircase, my heels clicking on the marble as I stop in front of the door to his office. I reach into my pocket, fishing for the ring of house keys that will open this door—previously closed to me. My keys, for now.

Not for long.

Someone will come to claim what I can’t. Inner strength doesn’t matter; whatever toughness I’ve cultivated over a lifetime of being not good enough won’t save me. I’m swimming in bloody waters, and the sharks will come.

Someone will swallow me whole and devour what my father built. And I have no way of stopping it. My father’s men are dead or scattered. I didn’t care for the man who could have been my husband; I know he won’t offer me any agency in all of this. And I can’t hold it on my own.

Money. Power. An empire.

I’m the key to all of it—to taking it legitimately, without blood or war. Any man who marries me claims the Russo empire.

My father’s office smells uniquely like him—wood, smoke, leather, the faint whiff of his cologne still lingering in the air. I pause in the doorway, still feeling some childish inclination that I’ll be in trouble if I’m caught snooping in here, but I shake it off.

My father has been dead for three days. In a coffin, in the ground, beneath piles of earth. He can’t control me any longer—but I also don’t have his protection.

I’m alone.

I step into the office, the click of my heel against the polished wood feeling like something momentous, a brief speck of time where my world is my own and no one has any claim on my agency but me. I walk past the bookshelves slowly, sliding my fingers across the spines, tracing the back of my hand over one of the leather chairs in front of his desk, and finally circle around it to what was left there just before he died.

Paperwork, neatly stacked. A nonfiction book on the American economy at the turn of the 20th century that he must have been reading. A half-smoked cigar resting in a crystal dish. I stand there for a long moment, trying to picture what he must have been doing before he left.

He was gone for a week before his death. I thought he was gone on business. But Konstantin Abramov, at his funeral, painted a bloody and graphic picture of the truth for me… all of it.

My father was trafficking women. Stealing them from the clubs that he co-owned with Konstantin, the Bratva pakhan, and selling them to buyers in other countries. My stomach twists every time I think about it. My father wasn’t a warm man, or a kind one, or even someone I greatly respected, but I didn’t think he had that kind of evil in him. I’m well aware of the moral complexities, all of the grey areas of the mafia life, the brutality and the killing and the blood that is often shed, but that…

I still can’t quite wrap my head around it. Nor can I wrap my head around the rest of what Konstantin told me: that in the last week of his life he was running from Konstantin and his men, or that he died in a shitty safe house somewhere on the outskirts of Miami, taken down by a bullet from Konstantin’s enforcer, Damian Kutnezsov. That my father had tried to infiltrate Konstantin’s estate, that he’d threatened Konstantin’s family, Damian’s family. That he was far worse than the man I knew.

It feels like some kind of horrible nightmare, knowing that the man who raised me was capable of such terrible things, and I don’t have time to come to terms with it. His legacy has been left unprotected and unclaimed because he was too greedy to see what the outcome of going behind Konstantin’s back would be, and too proud to think that he could ever be brought down.

So he left me—unmarried and alone—in a world that accepts neither from women born into families of power within it.

I sink down into his chair, pressing my fingers to my temples. I want to be left alone. To be given time to grieve not only the loss of my father, but the loss of who I thought he was. I’m going to get neither. And the knock on the office door reminds me of that, the sharp rapping noise making icepick jolts of pain shoot through my aching head.

“Come in,” I say after a moment passes, letting out a long breath. “I’m in here.”

The door creaks open, and Nora, our housekeeper, walks in gingerly. She’s been in here before—at least to direct staff on cleaning and upkeep, but she looks as uncomfortable as I feel. She’s wearing her housekeeper’s uniform—slacks, grey today, and a white button-down blouse—and her hair is up in a neat bun, her weathered face without a speck of makeup. 

“Several men have arrived, Simone,” she says softly. “The heads of some of the families are here to pay their respects.”

The sharks have arrived. They paid their respects at my father’s funeral and the reception that was held after; there’s no need to do so again. But they’re not here for that. They’re here to see just how bloodied I am. If my eyes are red-rimmed, or my head is held high. How hard I’ll negotiate for what happens to my father’s legacy, to his money, and to me, in the wake of all of this. If I’ll crumble, or if I’ll fight.

And, I expect, Konstantin Abramov is out there too, but possibly for different reasons.

He’s the only man I’m truly afraid of. With Don Genovese and now my father, Don Russo, both dead, he’s the most powerful mob boss in Miami, with no one else coming close in terms of money, alliances outside of South Florida, business interests, or manpower. He rules Miami without question, and it goes without saying that whoever tries to claim me and my father’s empire will either need to ally with him—or be in direct opposition to him.

Or… he could kill me, and take it for himself.

Marriage isn’t an option for Konstantin—he’s already married. But my father wronged him. My father betrayed him, threatened him, and now…

Now I’m all that’s left of the Russo line. Konstantin is known to be a man of diplomacy, a man who prefers words to bullets and peace to blood, but men change. And it’s entirely possible that rather than allow a single speck of my father’s line to continue—rather than allow some other man to take up my father’s empire, Konstantin will simply kill me and take it all for himself.

There’s no one in Miami who could or would stop him. The thought is terrifying. It makes my blood run cold as I stand up, smoothing my hands down the front of my slim black pants and swallowing hard.

I have to face them. I have no other choice, just as I’ve never had many choices throughout all of my life. And for all I know, before the day is over, I’ll be in the ground beside my father.

It’s not fair. I allow myself a single, petulant, childish moment of thinking how very unfair it is that I was born into this life, without choices, without options, without anyone ever asking me what it is that I want.

And then, I let it go. My choices are few, but I still have some—namely, how I’m going to present myself to the men out there waiting for me, to the sharks. Whether I will be wilting or strong, frightened or brave, and I know what I choose.

I’ll never allow any of them to see that I’m terrified, even if I am. 

"Tell them I'll be out in a moment," I say to Nora, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs. "Offer them drinks. Whatever they want." I need a moment to compose myself. Just one. Inhale. Exhale. A moment to breathe and remind myself of who I am, that even if I was raised as a pawn, even the pawn has some control of the board. 

Nora nods, her dark eyes filled with concern as she looks at me. She's been with our family since before I was born, and she's the closest thing to a mother I've ever had. My own mother died when I was seven, of a fast-moving cancer, and Nora stepped in to fill that void as much as she could, given her position in our household. She knows me better than anyone, and I can see in her expression that she's worried about what's about to happen.

She knows the rules of this world, too. She knows what my place in it is, and to some extent, how my father left things. That I don’t have a husband, not even a fiancé. She knows how much danger I’m in. 

"Be careful, mija," she says quietly. "These men, they are not here for your benefit. They’re here for theirs."

I take a deep breath. “I know,” I say softly, appreciating her concern, the maternal instinct that makes her want to protect me even when there's nothing she can do. "But I have to face them. There's no other choice." There’s so much more that I could say. That my father left me in an untenable position. That he pissed off the most powerful man in Miami. That even though I’m the heiress, I have none of the passwords, none of the bank information, no knowledge of his contacts. I have a debit card that he reloaded with my allowance every month, a credit card that he paid monthly without question, and nothing else to my name except my designer dresses, and shoes, and jewelry, all the fine things I surrounded myself with. I never thought about the fact that one day my father could leave me adrift, in need of a man to take the reins, because I was never given access to any of the knowledge that could let me run it myself.

Not because I wouldn’t have wanted to, but because it was made very clear to me, from a young age, that I would never be allowed to. That there was no point in thinking about it, because it was an impossibility, a ridiculous thought. 

Nora nods again, reluctantly, and leaves me alone in the office. “I will get them all drinks,” she says, before stepping out and closing the door behind her. “That should keep them busy long enough.”

Long enough for me to compose myself, to get my head in the right place. I look composed, my slim black pants and black silk blouse smooth and pressed and spotless, my high heels angling my figure to its best advantage and adding four inches to my height, my long dark hair swept up in a high, flawless chignon. My makeup is simple, my jewelry understated—every inch of me is meant to look expensive and pampered, the heiress deep in the throes of grief but not allowing it to show. 

I look like what I am—a mafia princess. Polished, refined, untouchable. It's armor, this appearance, and I need every piece of protection I can get.

I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk out of the office.

The formal living room of our mansion is spacious enough to host parties, with high ceilings, gleaming wooden floors dotted with expensive rugs, and furniture that costs more than most people make in a year. It's designed to impress, to intimidate, to remind visitors of the wealth and power of the Russo family, and it’s always been the place where guests are received. Today, it feels like a stage where I'm about to perform the most important role of my life.

Four men and their entourages are waiting for me, scattered across the plush couches arranged in front of the rarely used fireplace—we are in Florida, after all—and overlooked by the large portrait of my father, my mother, and me as a baby that hangs above it. It’s a photograph, actually, but it was blown up and treated to look like an oil painting. My father said it made him feel like a king, having it overlooking the formal gatherings in this room.

It makes me uncomfortable, feeling as if his eyes are on me when I know now what he did. What he was a part of. The position that he left me in. 

The four men are all small-time players, and I recognize most of them immediately. Tony Marcelli, head of a smaller Italian family that operates primarily in the drug trade, who answered to my father and no doubt now thinks he can marry me off to his smirking son—the man who is barely a boy sitting next to him—and take everything that my father had. There’s also Marco Benedetti, another small Italian family head who handles the dock workers, and was also under my father’s umbrella. There’s Riko Sato, who heads up a small Yakuza faction, who I know only because I heard my father mention him as someone who owed him favors, and who no doubt now hopes to evade that by taking my father’s empire. The fourth man, I believe, is the head of the Cuban mob here, but I don’t know his name. Tony and Marco I know because they had dinners with us, business dinners under the guise of family. 

They’re all here now to see if they can claim what was my father’s, up until a few days ago.

They all stand when I enter the room, a show of respect that feels hollow given the circumstances. The bosses and their right-hands—or their sons, sometimes the same thing, but I’m unsure who is who—have all taken seats on the couches, while their security mills in the background. They all look at me at once, even their security. If one of these men claimed me for his own, the men who work for them wouldn’t be allowed to look at me the way their guards are now—hungry, assessing, curious. But right now, I’m untethered, a woman without a husband or a father in a world of mob bosses and criminals, and everyone takes an eyeful without hesitating.

I can see it in their eyes—the calculation, the assessment. They're looking at me like I'm a prize to be won, a commodity to be acquired. It makes my skin crawl, but I keep my expression neutral. Regal, even, if I can manage it. 

“Gentlemen.” I pause at the threshold, forcing a pleasant smile onto my face. “Thank you for coming to pay your respects. You didn’t need to; your presence at the funeral was appreciation enough.”

It’s a hint, the only one I can show, that I don’t want them here. I wonder if they realize it, or if they’re all too arrogant to pick up on that fact. 

"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 there will be 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. Not Simone any 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 at this 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 suggests they understand its importance. Whatever happens next will determine not just my fate, but the future balance of power in Miami's underworld.

I wonder if they’re all thinking, as I am, that Konstantin could easily kill me and take it all for himself. If they’re imagining what they would do in that scenario—in his scenario.

I think any one of them would put a bullet in my head. But I’ve been told more than once that Konstantin isn’t that kind of man. It’s the only hope I have to cling to. 

"Please," I say, gesturing toward the seating area. "Make yourselves comfortable." There’s a taut note to my voice that I try to banish, but it’s impossible to rid myself of it completely. Fear colors everything, I’ve learned recently, no matter how hard you try to erase it. 

Konstantin nods and moves to one of the leather armchairs, settling into it with the kind of casual authority that makes it clear he's the most powerful man in the room. The older stranger takes a seat nearby, but the younger one—the one with the green eyes and the arrogant smirk—remains standing, his gaze never leaving me. My skin crawls in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but I force myself to ignore it. Handsome or not, this man clearly poses a threat to me too—though I haven’t figured out quite what it is yet. I only know that I can feel it, wafting from him like a perfume, my every instinct screaming it loudly. 

"Allow me to introduce my associates," Konstantin says, his tone formal. "This is Finnegan O'Malley, and his son, Tristan O'Malley. They've come down from Boston to discuss some business opportunities in the wake of recent changes to Miami's landscape."

O'Malley. Irish, then. That explains the rough edges, the difference from the Italian men I'm accustomed to. The Irish mob operates differently from the Italian families, with different codes, different traditions. They're known for being more violent, more unpredictable—less so than the Bratva, but more so than the Italians. 

Not that the Italian mafia is any less violent. But there’s a polish over it that the Irish and the Bratva don’t bother with. 

I sink into an armchair that leaves me mostly facing the room, giving myself as much of an air of authority as I can manage under the circumstances. They’re here for a reason, and I very much feel that I don’t want to know what it is. But if Konstantin has brought them here, then it has something to do with my father’s passing. And from the way the younger O’Malley—Tristan—is looking at me, with that arrogant, possessive smile on his face, I can begin to guess.

I have a feeling that, for some reason that I’m as of yet unaware of, Konstantin has brought Tristan here as my future husband.