Page 2 of Bound Vows (Empire City Syndicate #3)

Andrei

Blood never lies, and watching Maya Mastroni paint a restaurant floor crimson tells me everything I need to know about the woman who just became my obsession.

I lean back in my leather chair, steepling my fingers as the security footage plays across multiple monitors in the study of my penthouse.

The restaurant’s cameras captured every angle of tonight’s massacre, courtesy of my IT team’s impressive hacking skills.

What started as routine surveillance of Italian family movements has evolved into something far more interesting.

Lorenzo Colombo’s cooperation came easier than expected once I showed him the photographs of his grandson leaving prep school every Tuesday for violin lessons.

Amazing how quickly family patriarchs discover flexibility when their bloodline faces consequences.

The old man thought he could play both sides, taking my money while maintaining his alliance with the Mastronis.

His greed made him the perfect puppet for tonight’s performance.

Lorenzo wasn’t supposed to die in the crossfire. His death complicates things, but dead men can’t contradict whatever story emerges from tonight’s chaos. In some ways, his accidental martyrdom serves my purposes better than his planned survival would have.

Maya Mastroni moves like death itself, fluid, economical, and absolutely lethal.

The way she transitions from smiling like a lady to slicing throats demonstrates a level of training that surpasses my intelligence reports.

Those idiots I sent to eliminate Vincent Russo never stood a chance against her.

“Rewind it,” I command the empty room, and my voice recognition software instantly complies.

The footage begins again, and I study every frame with rapt attention. Maya’s blade work is poetry written in steel and bone. She doesn’t waste motion or energy, and each strike lands exactly where it needs to cause maximum damage. Professional killers spend years developing that kind of skill.

My men died quickly, which almost feels merciful considering the alternative Maya could have chosen. She’s capable of making death last hours instead of seconds; I can see it in the way she controls the blade, and in the surgical knowledge behind each cut.

The woman is magnificent.

“Freeze frame,” I say when the footage reaches the moment Maya retrieves her thrown knife.

Her face fills the central monitor, and I take inventory of features that I suspect will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Midnight-dark hair falls in wild curls around olive skin, and those emerald eyes hold intelligence and cruelty in equal measure, while her full lips curve into the kind of smile that promises both pleasure and pain.

Judging by how she measures up against my men, Maya stands nearly six feet tall in her stilettos.

Her body is a perfect combination of curves and lean muscle.

The black dress she’s wearing reveals just enough to tantalize—the swell of her breasts, the length of her legs, and an ass that I’d love to feast off.

She’s built like a weapon disguised as a work of art.

The beauty mark below her left eye catches my attention, and I zoom in until it fills the screen. Such a small detail, but it makes her face unforgettable. I’ve seen pictures and other videos of her in my reports, but seeing her like this…

I watch her clean her blade with the care most women reserve for jewelry, and heat builds low in my stomach. The way she handles steel should disgust me—those hands just ended three lives—but instead, I find myself imagining how they might feel against my skin.

My cock twitches when she licks blood from her thumb like it’s honey. Casual. Unbothered. Lethal.

She tastes death like wine, savoring it before moving on to more practical concerns. Most people would be horrified by such casual violence, but Maya treats killing like any other skill that requires maintenance and attention to detail.

Perfect.

I minimize the restaurant footage and pull up older surveillance files—months of tracking Maya Mastroni through the city’s underworld.

She frequents high-end clubs where she dances alone, rejecting any man brave enough to approach.

She shops at exclusive boutiques where sales associates treat her with a deference reserved for royalty.

She visits museums and art galleries, studying paintings with the same focus she brings to studying her victims.

My favorite video shows Maya leaving her family’s compound after what intelligence suggests was a heated argument with her brother Max.

She storms down the front steps wearing jeans and a leather jacket with her hair loose around her shoulders and fury radiating from every line of her body.

When one of Max’s soldiers tries to follow her, she spins around and delivers a warning in rapid Italian that sends the man scurrying back inside.

Even angry, she’s breathtaking. No. Especially angry.

I replay that footage while unbuttoning my shirt. The memory of tonight’s restaurant massacre is still fresh in my mind. Maya’s violence was beautiful in its efficiency, and the contrast between her elegant appearance and deadly skills creates a hunger I’ve never experienced.

Years of conquest have taught me that anticipation enhances pleasure, but Maya Mastroni threatens to shatter my self-control. Watching her work tonight has awakened something primal that I’ve kept buried beneath layers of strategy and patience.

My hand moves to my belt as I imagine what might have happened if I’d been in that restaurant tonight instead of my expendable men.

Would Maya have tried to kill me immediately, or would she have been curious enough to hear what I had to say?

If I had known Vincent was bringing her along, I might have made an appearance.

The fantasy builds as I free my cock from the confines of my pants. Maya wouldn’t submit easily—that much is obvious from everything I’ve observed. She would want to take control, and that resistance would make claiming her even sweeter.

I stroke myself slowly while imagining Maya bound in this very room, her emerald eyes blazing with defiance even as her body responds to my touch. She would never beg, but I could make her want to. I could strip away every layer of control until nothing remained except pure, animalistic need.

The monitors send streaks of light across the walls while I work my hand along my length as Maya’s image inspires increasingly detailed fantasies. I picture her kneeling in front of me with her hands bound behind her and that defiant chin tilted upward as she glares through dark lashes.

“Look at me,” I would command, and she would have no choice but to obey.

In my fantasy, Maya wears nothing but that beauty mark and a collar inscribed with my name. Her dark hair spills over bare shoulders, and every breath makes her breasts rise and fall in a rhythm that matches my stroking hand.

I imagine threading my fingers through her wild curls, guiding her mouth to where I need it most. Her lips part, and once she tastes me, something changes. The fight doesn’t leave her eyes, but it transforms into something darker and more dangerous.

Maya takes me deep, working her tongue against my sensitive head while her bound hands clench into fists behind her. She’s aggressive even in submission, biting gently before soothing the sting with velvet strokes. When I try to pull away, she follows, determined to finish what she started.

My breathing grows ragged as the fantasy evolves. Maya’s mouth is hot and perfect, and the contrast between her reluctant submission and eager participation drives me toward the edge. She watches me through impossibly divine eyelashes, cataloging every reaction like the predator she is.

And then, the image transforms, and now, Maya straddles my lap in the very chair where I’m currently sitting. Her wrists are free, and she uses that freedom to rake her nails down my chest while she positions herself above my cock. The marks she leaves burn in the best possible way.

She sinks slowly, taking me inch by inch as her head falls back in pleasure. The sight of Maya impaled on my cock, her body stretched to accommodate my size, nearly undoes me. She’s tight and hot and absolutely perfect.

In the fantasy, Maya sets the pace. She rides me with the same controlled violence she brought to tonight’s killing, using my body for her pleasure while I hold her hips and try not to come too soon. Every movement is intentional and devastating.

I imagine burying my face against the curve of her neck, tasting salt and perfume while she moves above me. Her breath becomes shorter and more desperate, small gasps that gradually transform into moans she can’t suppress.

When Maya throws her head back, her curls frame her face like a dark halo. She’s beautiful and deadly and all mine in this moment, her body clenching around me as she approaches her release.

The fantasy reaches its peak as Maya’s movements become erratic. She’s close; I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble against mine, see it in the flush that spreads across her chest. When she finally breaks apart, my name tears from her throat as she admits she belongs to me and only me.

Reality crashes back as my orgasm hits with devastating force. I come with Maya’s name on my lips and her image burned into my retinas, and my seed spills across my fingers while pleasure wracks through my body.

For a moment, the study fades away, and nothing exists except the phantom sensation of Maya’s skin against mine. The fantasy felt so real that I almost expect to find her collapsed against my chest, panting in the aftermath.

Instead, I’m alone with cooling cum on my hand and the knowledge that fantasy will never be enough. I need the real thing, and I need it soon.

I clean myself with the handkerchief from my jacket pocket and then button my pants while studying Maya’s face on the central monitor. Soon, that defiant smile will be directed at me instead of security cameras.

“Alexei,” I call, knowing my lieutenant monitors all communications from his station down the hall.

The door opens within seconds, and Alexei Petrov enters silently.

My second-in-command stands just under six feet tall, with the kind of lean build that comes from surviving Moscow’s streets before joining my organization.

Scars cross his knuckles and disappear beneath his sleeves—souvenirs from the same massacre that orphaned us both.

Alexei is the only person alive who remembers the Volkov family before they became corpses, which makes him invaluable and dangerous.

His loyalty has never wavered, but I sometimes catch him watching me with the same concerned expression he wore when we were teenagers planning our escape from captivity.

The years have hardened us both, but Alexei retained more of his humanity than I managed to preserve. He questions my more extreme decisions, though he’s never directly challenged my authority. Tonight might test that dynamic.

“You’ve been busy tonight, Andrei,” Alexei observes. His accent is still thick despite years in America. “The restaurant footage was illuminating.”

“Maya Mastroni just became our primary target,” I tell him while pulling up her surveillance files. “I want everything: family connections, personal habits, psychological profiles, and security weaknesses. Leave nothing to chance.”

Alexei approaches the monitors and studies Maya’s image. His face reveals nothing, but I know him well enough to recognize the subtle signs of concern. The way his forehead wrinkles and how his hands clasp behind his back in a defensive posture.

“She’s dangerous,” he finally declares. “Perhaps more dangerous than initially assessed.”

“Which makes her perfect for what I have in mind.”

“And what do you have in mind?”

I smile while minimizing the footage and pulling up architectural plans for various Manhattan locations. “Marriage.”

Alexei’s face remains impassive, though I catch a slight tightening around his eyes that betrays his true feelings. In our world, marriage serves strategic purposes, but I suspect he understands this situation involves more than politics.

“Marriage requires the bride’s consent,” he points out. “Something tells me Maya Mastroni won’t be enthusiastic about the proposal.”

“Marriage only requires proximity and opportunity. Consent is negotiable.”

“She just killed three trained operatives without blinking. Capturing her alive won’t be simple.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is.” I stand and walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of Central Park.

Somewhere in this city, Maya Mastroni is cleaning blood from under her fingernails and planning her next move.

“Begin with her daily routines. Where does she shop, exercise, socialize? I want to know her schedule better than she does.”

“Understood,” he replies with a scowl and a curt nod. He’ll do what I ask, even if he doesn’t like it. “What about the Mastroni family’s response? They will expect retaliation after tonight.”

“Let them expect it. Fear makes people careless, and careless people make mistakes.” I turn back to face Alexei, who continues eyeing Maya’s photograph with the expression of a man calculating impossible odds. “Focus on the woman, not the family. Everything else is secondary.”

Alexei nods once, though his reluctance is obvious. “How much collateral damage are you willing to accept?”

“Whatever it takes to claim my prize.”

Maya Mastroni has no idea what’s coming for her, but she will soon. And when she does, she’ll discover that some hunters are patient enough to stalk their prey for months before making the killing strike.

The difference is, I don’t plan to kill Maya.

I plan to keep her.