Page 33 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

I stare at him, seeing the resolve hardening in his features. He's already decided. In his mind, we're already on that plane.

"They'll torture us," I whisper. "They'll make it slow. Painful. You know what Mikhail is capable of."

"I know what I'm capable of too." His voice drops to that deadly quiet tone that means he's thinking about killing. "I've spent thirty years preparing for this moment, Lena. I know Vadim's organization inside and out. I know his weaknesses."

"And he knows yours." I gesture between us. "He knows exactly how to hurt you now."

Anton steps closer, his hands framing my face. "Then we make sure he doesn't get the chance."

I want to lean into his touch, let him convince me this insane plan could work. But I can't stop seeing images of what will happen to us.

What Mikhail will do to me while Anton watches.

What Vadim will do to him while I scream.

"There has to be another way," I plead. "We could disappear. Change our names again. Go anywhere.”

But we both know there is no other choice. When winter hits, we’ll freeze to death.

Death. Death. Death.

Every road leads to death.

The only hope is Anton can kill those who want us dead.

We both know the likelihood of that happening is very slim.

We’re choosing death on our terms.

That’s the only real option.

“Okay,” I say.

The tiny plane shudders and drops through another pocket of turbulence, my stomach lurching along with it.

I grip Anton's hand so tightly I'm probably cutting off his circulation, but he doesn't complain.

The engines whine and protest against the wind, and every few minutes the whole aircraft seems to pause mid-air before catching itself again.

"This thing is going to fall apart," I whisper, my knuckles white against the armrest.

"It won't," Anton says, but his voice is tight. Even he looks uncomfortable, and this is a man who's jumped out of moving cars.

The pilot is a grizzled man who looks like he's been flying since air travel was invented. He glances back at us with yellowed teeth. "Twenty minutes," he calls over the engine noise. "Weather's shit, but we'll make it."

I close my eyes and try not to think about crashing into the Russian countryside. Try not to think about what we're flying toward. Death. Almost certain death. But at least we'll face it together.

When we finally touch down on what can generously be called an airstrip—really just a cleared field with some lights—my legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand.

A black sedan waits at the edge of the field with the engine running. The driver is a woman I don't recognize, but Anton seems to know her. She nods at him curtly.

"Get in," she says. "Quickly."

We drive through the darkness in silence.

I watch the familiar landscape blur past the windows.

Birch forests and open fields dotted with small, dark villages. It feels surreal to be back.

Like returning to a nightmare I thought I escaped.

The apartment is on the outskirts of Moscow, in one of those Soviet-era blocks that all look identical.

Gray concrete, small windows, the smell of cabbage and old cigarettes in the hallways.

The woman leads us up three flights of stairs to a door at the end of the hall.

She knocks once. The door opens immediately.

"Mom?"

My mother stands in the doorway, and the sight of her breaks something loose in my chest.

She's alive.

Bruised—I can see the purple marks on her cheekbone, the split lip that's healing—but alive.

I launch myself into her arms before I can think about it, tears already streaming down my face. She holds me tight.

"My baby," she whispers against my hair. "My sweet girl. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you couldn't get away."

I pull back to look at her face, my hands trembling as I touch the bruises. "Did Dad do this to you?"

Her smile is sad but fierce. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we are going to finish this."

The woman that delivered us is already gone. It’s just the three of us.

My mother moves to sit on the worn couch, holding my hand in her lap. Anton stays near the door.

I can feel his tension, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“I never wanted this world for you, Lena,” Mom says. “But Lenoid... he pulled us in, and he never let go."

“Where is he?” Anton asks.

“With Orlov. They are planning. They know you’re returning.”

I’m not surprised.

Of course they know.

“Can you get a message to Orlov?” Anton asks.

I know exactly what he’s going to do.

“No, Anton.”

“Lena, he wants me. I have to get close enough to kill him. I will kill him.”

I understand. The realization settles in my chest like a stone. Anton is going to walk right into Vadim's hands, knowing it's a trap, because it's the only way to get close enough for a kill shot.

It's insane. Brilliant and insane.

"Dmitri will be here soon," my mother says, glancing toward the window. "He was losing a tail. Had to take the long way around."

My heart leaps at the mention of his name.

At least we won't face this alone. "Is he okay?"

"Dmitri is always okay," Anton says dryly, though I can hear the relief in his voice too. "Like a fucking cockroach. Impossible to kill."

My mother stands and moves to the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of vodka and three glasses.

Everything about her screams exhaustion, but there's a steel beneath it that I've never seen before.

"I've been in hiding since yesterday," she says, pouring generous shots. "Your father came home in a rage. Screaming about betrayal, about his whore wife and her dead friend's bastard son.”

Boom. Boom. Boom.

My mother freezes.

It’s not Dmitri. I don’t know the man well, but even I know he would never be so damn noisy.

Anton’s gun is out before the sound finishes echoing.

The door swings open.

And my father walks in.

"Lena," he says. "My darling girl."

I take a step back. Anton stands in front of me.

"Don’t. You. Fucking. Move."

My father lifts both hands in mock surrender. "I came to talk. Just talk."

Elena moves to my side. "You shouldn’t be here. How did you find us?"

"And yet here I am. Because I have no choice."

He looks at me with desperation in his eyes.

"They’ll kill me, Lena. Vadim is done with me. Unless I give him something. Unless I make a deal."

I narrow my eyes. "You mean me."

He doesn’t deny it.

"If you marry Mikhail, it’ll buy me time. Buy us time. We can protect each other. We can make this right."

Anton barks a bitter laugh. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

"You’ll be safe," Lenoid pleads. "Married to Mikhail, no one will touch you. He’s ambitious, yes, but he won’t harm you."

"No," I say, voice like steel. "I’d rather be dead."

He glances at Elena. "Then marry someone else. The Popov heir is willing to negotiate for your hand. They’ll protect you. And me. Please, Lena. You’re my daughter."

"No," Anton says. "She’s mine. You will not bargain with her life. We’re getting married."

He looks at me, eyes blazing. "If you’ll have me."

I stare at him, heart thudding.

"Yes," I breathe.

Lenoid collapses into a chair, defeated.

"Then I’m dead. You understand that? If I can’t give them something... I’m dead."

I meet his gaze.

For the first time, I see him clearly—not as a father.

But as a man who sold every soul around him for another breath of power.

"Then you’d better start running," I say.

Anton grabs him and shoves him out of the apartment.

“Come back here and I’ll kill you.”