Page 12 of Bound Vows (Empire City Syndicate #3)

Maya

Disguises work best when they transform everything people expect to recognize, which explains why I’m letting Andrei’s stylist fit me with a platinum blonde wig that makes me look like a Scandinavian mistress.

“Hold still, bella ,” Sophia complains as she adjusts the hairpiece. “Between this hair and the magic I can work with makeup, you’ll be unrecognizable to anyone who knows Maya Mastroni.”

The decision to go undercover came to me once I realized that walking into a room full of Italian patriarchs as myself would result in suspicious questions I couldn’t convincingly answer.

How did you escape? Where has Andrei been keeping you?

What are his security weaknesses? The interrogation would expose me before I could gather anything useful.

Better to become someone else.

“The blonde suits your bone structure,” Andrei observes from where he’s positioned in the corner of his penthouse salon, watching my transformation. “Though I confess I’ll miss those dark curls wrapped around my fingers.”

Heat gathers in my core at the memory of when those curls were wrapped around his fingers—a moment of weakness that makes me question my sanity—and I catch his knowing smile in the mirror.

The bastard knows what he’s doing to me, just like he knows how to exploit my traitorous response to his touch.

“Focus on the mission,” I snap. “Sentiment gets people killed.”

“On the contrary, Piccola. The best operatives use every emotion available to them.” Andrei approaches my chair and runs his fingers along my shoulder, sending electricity through the silk of my robe. “Your anger about this situation will make your performance more convincing.”

Sophia secures the wig with pins that feel like tiny daggers against my scalp, then begins applying makeup that will complete the transformation from Mediterranean goddess to Nordic queen.

“Contact lenses next.” Andrei opens a small case containing blue glass discs. “Your green eyes are too distinctive for this kind of work.”

I tip back my head and slide the colored contacts into place. When I blink and focus on the mirror, a stranger stares back at me—platinum hair, ice-blue eyes, and features that could belong to any number of Eastern European models.

“Perfect,” Andrei breathes against my ear, and his reflection joins mine in the mirror as he positions himself behind my chair. “Though you’re beautiful regardless of what disguise you wear.”

“Flattery won’t make me forget that you’re sending me to spy on my father’s allies.”

“Flattery serves multiple purposes.” His hands settle on my shoulders. “Relaxation improves performance in high-stress situations.”

Sophia begins styling the wig into an elegant updo that changes the shape of my face while Andrei massages with the skill of someone who understands how to affect my body. I should tell him to stop, but his touch dissolves my resistance like sugar in hot coffee.

“Wardrobe selection next,” he declares as Sophia puts finishing touches on hair that now belongs to someone else. “I’ve had several options prepared based on the guest list.”

He leads me to an adjoining room where three evening gowns hang, each designed to help me blend seamlessly into high society while concealing the weapons I’ll need for protection.

The black Versace screams wealth and sophistication; the navy Armani whispers old money discretion; the burgundy Oscar de la Renta promises dangerous elegance.

“The navy,” I decide after examining each option. “It matches my new personality.”

“Excellent choice.” Andrei lifts the gown from its hanger and holds it against my body, and his knuckles brush my ribs through the silk robe. “This color will complement your temporary blue eyes while maintaining the sophistication necessary for tonight’s performance.”

Sophia vanishes, and I’m alone with Andrei and a dress that looks like a trap disguised as couture. When I reach for the gown, he pulls it away.

“Allow me.” His tone suggests this isn’t a request.

I drop my robe and stand before him in nothing but black lace underwear, watching his pupils dilate as his gaze travels over every inch of exposed skin. The hunger in his eyes makes my breath catch despite every rational thought telling me to cover myself.

“Arms up,” he commands, and I comply without thinking, which pisses me off.

Andrei slides the dress over my head with reverent care, and his fingers trail along my arms as he guides them through the sleeves.

The navy fabric settles against my skin like liquid sin, and when he fastens the tiny buttons that run from my lower back to my neck, each touch sends shivers through my nervous system.

“You realize you’re trying to seduce your operative,” I point out as his knuckles graze my spine.

“I’m ensuring my operative feels confident and desirable, which will enhance her performance.” His voice has dropped to a husky register that makes my knees weak. “Confidence is the most attractive quality a woman can possess.”

“Is that what you told your wife?”

The second it’s out, I want to take it back.

And Andrei’s hands pause. When he resumes buttoning the dress, his movements have become more methodical, though no less gentle.

“Elena didn’t require confidence lessons. She possessed natural poise that commanded attention in any room.” He finishes the last button and steps back to admire his handiwork. “Though she never had to pretend to be someone else.”

Something in his tone makes me turn to face him, and I catch a hint of affection that he quickly masks behind his usual arrogance. The mention of his dead wife has opened a wound that even sixteen years haven’t healed.

“That’s a conversation for another day.”

I press my lips together. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Her death taught me valuable lessons about the price of caring too much for people who can be used against you. Though some lessons prove more difficult to implement than others.”

His hands settle on my waist, and despite everything I know about this man’s capacity for violence, I don’t pull away. The heat between us has built since that first night in the gym, and being so close to him only makes it more difficult to ignore.

“The communication device,” I say, trying to redirect focus toward mission requirements.

Andrei reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws what looks like an expensive earring designed with tiny diamonds. When he brushes aside my hair to attach it, his breath against my neck makes me suppress a moan.

“One tap for yes, two for no, three for emergency extraction.” His fingers linger at the base of my throat as he explains the device’s operation.

“I’ll monitor your location and communications throughout the evening.

” Andrei steps back and retrieves a small pistol from his desk drawer.

“This goes in your purse. Use it only if necessary.”

I take the weapon and check its weight and balance out of habit, noting the custom grip that’s been modified for smaller hands. Even his contingency planning reflects intimate knowledge of my physical requirements.

Sophia returns with accessories that complete my transformation—a second diamond earring that matches the communication device, a vintage clutch that conceals the pistol, and shoes designed for someone who might need to run in formal wear.

When I check my reflection in the full-length mirror, Maya Mastroni has disappeared.

“Perfect,” Andrei declares as he studies my transformed appearance. “No one will recognize the woman who walked into this room.”

“Let’s hope they don’t recognize the woman walking out, either.”

Before leaving for the mission, I excuse myself to use the bathroom and quickly access Andrei’s computer while Sophia cleans up her supplies.

His password protection proves less sophisticated than expected, probably because he doesn’t anticipate threats from within his penthouse.

I’m looking for information on the men who will be in this meeting, but what I find is much more useful.

The files I discover reveal the true scope of his family’s massacre—photographs of crime scenes that look like war zones, medical records documenting injuries that should have killed him, and psychological evaluations that chart his transformation from traumatized teenager to cold killer.

One folder contains Elena’s autopsy report alongside wedding photos that show a younger, happier version of the man who’s holding my family hostage.

The most devastating file contains audio recordings of his family’s final moments, captured by security systems that couldn’t save them but preserved their terror for posterity.

I download everything onto a hidden drive before returning to the main room, my understanding of Andrei Volkov fundamentally altered by what I’ve learned.

He’s not just a criminal seeking profit or territory. He’s a broken man trying to resurrect a family that died sixteen years ago, and everyone who stands in his way represents another obstacle to an impossible goal.

The gathering takes place in a private dining room at Osteria del Borgo, where Italian families have conducted business for three generations.

I arrive fashionably late as Lucia Bellanti, distant cousin of the Chicago family who tragically lost her fiancé in a recent territorial dispute—a cover story that explains both my presence and my single status.

The name opens doors and garners sympathetic nods from security before I take my assigned seat near Frankie Benedetti, who immediately regales me with stories about the old country while other conversations swirl around us without a care in the world that I’m a stranger. I guess beauty does that to a man.

“You remind me of my dear Lucia,” Frankie tells me over the antipasti course. “She had the same way of listening that made men want to tell her their secrets.”

“I’m honored by the comparison.” I flash the sweetest smile I can manage. “Though I suspect your wife was far more accomplished than I could ever hope to be.”

The evening progresses exactly as Andrei predicted, with Frankie revealing operational details between courses while other family representatives discuss territorial boundaries and mutual defense agreements. I smile and nod and store every piece of information for later.

“Max Mastroni came to see me last week,” Frankie mentions during the main course. “Poor boy is beside himself with worry about his sister. Keeps demanding we mobilize everything to find her. He was supposed to be here, but I suppose he’s out there, trying to find her.”

“Has anyone heard anything about Maya’s situation?” asks a voice from across the table.

“Nothing confirmed. Max claims she was taken by Russians, but he’s made increasingly desperate demands for assistance.” Another patriarch shakes his head sadly. “The boy’s always been volatile, but this situation has pushed him past rationality.”

My heart clenches at hearing my brother described this way, though I pretend to remain aloof. Max’s aggressive approach to my rescue might endanger the very people he’s trying to enlist for help.

“Family makes us all a little crazy,” I observe while Frankie pats my hand in grandfatherly comfort.

“Wise words from such a young woman,” he agrees before launching into another story about shipping schedules that provides the kind of operational intelligence Andrei requires.

By evening’s end, I’ve gathered enough information to dismantle three family operations while maintaining my cover as a charming dinner companion.

I nail the performance, even though it means screwing over men who knew my father.

As I leave, Frankie kisses my hand and invites me to visit his family’s vineyard in Tuscany. The kindness in his eyes turns my stomach with guilt, knowing that my intelligence will probably result in his destruction within weeks.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” I tell him.

The ride back to Andrei’s penthouse gives me time to process everything I’ve learned—about the families I’ve just betrayed, about my brother’s deteriorating mental state, and about the broken man who’s orchestrating all of it from his tower overlooking Central Park.

When I finally return to face him with stolen intelligence and borrowed guilt, I realize the most dangerous part of tonight wasn’t infiltrating enemy territory; it was discovering that I’m starting to understand the monster who’s made me his willing accomplice.