Page 4 of Bound Vows (Empire City Syndicate #3)
Andrei
Consciousness returns to Maya Mastroni like a reluctant tide, and I study her face with the same fascination I normally reserve for a rare painting.
She lies on the white silk sheets of my guest bedroom, still wearing the beaded Valentino gown from last night’s gala.
The black fabric latches to her curves in all the right places, and thousands of tiny crystals catch the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, creating patterns of fractured light across her skin.
Even unconscious and restrained, Maya Mastroni is a work of art—deadly, beautiful, and out of place on my pristine white bedding.
This close, I catch sight of the faintest scar on her collarbone. It’s old, but I bet there’s one hell of a story behind it.
I left her fully clothed out of courtesy. This negotiation requires her attention, and sexual intimidation would only muddy the waters. Besides, I prefer my conquests to be willing, even when willingness requires careful persuasion.
Maya’s dark curls spread across the pillow like spilled ink, and her breathing remains deep and even despite the restraints that secure her wrists to the headboard. The zip ties are strong enough to hold her, but padded to prevent damage. I need her hands intact for what comes next.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” I coo when her eyelids begin to flutter.
Her emerald eyes snap open immediately, searching the unfamiliar room with a tactical awareness that impresses me despite the circumstances. Maya tests the restraints with subtlety, gauging their strength while maintaining the pretense of just waking up.
“Where am I?” Her voice carries none of the grogginess I’d expect from someone recovering from sedation. Professional training runs deep in this family.
“My penthouse. Specifically, the guest bedroom designed for visitors who might not initially appreciate the accommodations. Though I think you’ll find the amenities acceptable.”
Maya pulls against the restraints, harder this time, and when they hold firm, she fixes me with a glare that could melt steel. “Let me go.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. We have business to discuss, and you strike me as someone who might leave before hearing my proposal.”
“What proposal?” She adjusts her position, testing whether the headboard has any give. It doesn’t; I’ve learned from experience that cheap furniture doesn’t survive determined prisoners.
“Marriage.” I settle into the leather chair positioned beside the bed, close enough to read every micro-expression that crosses her face. “Specifically, marriage to me.”
Maya blinks twice before barking out a laugh. “You drugged and kidnapped me to propose? That’s either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, or you’re completely insane.”
“Possibly both,” I concede, “though I prefer to think of it as ensuring we have privacy for sensitive negotiations.”
“Negotiations usually involve willing participants.”
“Willingness is relative. You’re here, I’m here, and we’re talking. The restraints are purely precautionary until we reach an understanding.”
Maya tests the bonds again, but the headboard still doesn’t budge, and she screws up her face in frustration before she regains control.
“You said your name was Andre. Was that much true, at least?”
“Andrei Volkov. Andre seemed more appropriate for a charity gala.” I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, watching her reaction to my family name. “Perhaps you recognize it.”
Recognition dawns slowly, and I watch her face cycle from confusion to understanding to something approaching horror.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
“A common misconception. The Volkov massacre left one survivor, though your family probably didn’t think to verify that detail.” I stand and walk to the window, giving her time to process while I enjoy the view. “Sloppy work, really. In our business, loose ends have a way of becoming problems.”
“That was sixteen years ago. I was nine years old.”
“Old enough to remember, I’d imagine. Tell me, Maya, what did your father tell you about that night?”
She grinds those perfect teeth, and for a moment, she doesn’t answer. When she finally speaks, her voice carries the weight of old memories.
“He said the Volkovs were expanding too aggressively. Moving into territories that belonged to established families. There was a meeting to discuss boundaries, and violence erupted.”
“Violence erupted.” I turn back to face her with a sneer. “Such a passive way to describe systematic execution. Would you like to know what actually happened that night?”
She lets out a long breath and deflates on the bed. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me regardless of what I want.”
“Your father, along with representatives from three other families, arranged a peace summit at our estate in the Hamptons. My parents brought my younger sister Anastasia and my twin brothers because the meeting was supposed to establish Anastasia’s engagement to the Torrino heir. A celebration, not an execution.”
Maya’s face remains impassive, but I catch the slight tension around her eyes. She’s listening with the focus of someone who suspects they won’t like what they’re about to hear.
“The Italians came armed. They waited until dinner was served, until my family was relaxed and celebrating, and then they opened fire.” I pace to the other side of the room with memories of that night playing behind my eyes like a horror film I can never escape.
“My parents died at the dinner table. My younger sister was shot while trying to reach the panic room. My brothers made it to the hallway before they were cut down.”
“Where were you?”
“Hiding in the wine cellar like a coward,” I grind out. “I was supposed to be at dinner, but I snuck away to steal champagne for a girl I was trying to impress.” The irony of that detail still tastes bitter after all these years. “My family died while I was playing Romeo in the basement.”
“What makes you think my father was involved?” she demands. “Lots of families had problems with the Volkovs.”
I walk to the dresser and retrieve a manila folder filled with photographs and documents.
“Because I spent sixteen years gathering evidence. Bank records showing payments from Mastroni accounts to the shooters. Surveillance footage from that night showing your father’s car leaving our estate an hour after the massacre.
Testimony from one of the gunmen before I killed him. ”
I spread the contents across the bed where Maya can see them and watch her face as she examines the evidence. Each photograph shows a piece of the puzzle. Her father meeting with known assassins, financial transactions dated days before the massacre, and even security footage from that night.
“This doesn’t prove anything,” Maya claims, but her voice lacks conviction.
“It proves your father orchestrated the murder of my entire family to claim our territory and assets. The question is what you plan to do about it.”
“What I plan to do about it?” Maya laughs, though the sound carries no humor. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m tied to a bed in your penthouse. My options are somewhat limited.”
“On the contrary, you have a very important choice to make.” I gather the evidence and return it to the folder. “You can marry me willingly and help legitimize my claim to the territories your father stole, or you can refuse and watch me systematically destroy everyone you care about.”
“Ah, there’s the threat I was waiting for. You almost seemed reasonable for a minute. Understandably jilted, but reasonable.”
“I am reasonable. Marriage benefits us both. You gain protection from the chaos that’s coming, and I gain the legitimacy that comes with Mastroni blood.
” I sit on the edge of the bed close enough to see the gold flecks in her green eyes.
“Your alternative is watching your family burn while I reclaim what was stolen from mine.”
Maya stares at me for a long moment, and I see her weighing options and calculating odds. When she speaks again, her voice is steady.
“If I agree to this marriage, what guarantee do I have that you won’t kill me or my family once you have what you want?”
“None. But you’re more valuable to me alive than dead. A living Mastroni wife legitimizes my operations. A dead one just makes me a widower with a revenge complex.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I’ll kill Max first, then Vincent, then their wives, then anyone else who carries Mastroni blood until nothing remains but corpses and memories.
” I lean close enough to smell the lingering jasmine of her perfume.
“Including you, eventually. Though your death would come last, so you could watch everything you love burn first.”
Maya meets my eyes without flinching, and a begrudging respect stirs in my chest. Most people would be begging by now, but she’s calculating angles and planning her next move.
“You’re assuming I care enough about my family to sacrifice myself for them.”
“You killed three of my men to protect Vincent. You attended a charity gala you despised because Max asked you to. Everything about your behavior screams family loyalty.”
“Maybe I just enjoy violence.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think you’re quite as cold as you pretend to be.” I stand and walk back to the window, giving her space to think. “Take your time deciding. We have all day.”
“I’ll marry you,” Maya says after several minutes of silence.
The quick acceptance surprises me, though I keep my face neutral. “Just like that?”
“You’re going to destroy my family either way.
The fact that you got me out of that event without anyone raising an eyebrow tells me you have the resources to do just that.
At least this way, I’ll be close enough to kill you when the opportunity presents itself.
” Maya’s smile is pointed enough to cut glass.
“And trust me, Andrei Volkov, that opportunity will come.”
I find myself genuinely impressed by her honesty. Most people would lie, promising cooperation while secretly planning betrayal. Maya dispenses entirely with pretense.
“I appreciate your directness. It will make our working relationship much smoother.”
“Working relationship?”
“Marriage is a partnership, even when it begins with kidnapping and coercion. You’ll be my enforcer. Your name opens doors, and your blade keeps them open.”
She sputters and says, “You want me to betray my people.”
“I want you to help me build something better than the fractured territories and constant warfare your father’s generation created. Unity through strength rather than division through weakness.”
Maya laughs, and this time the sound carries genuine amusement. “You’re insane if you think I’ll help you conquer the families.”
“You’ll help me because the alternative is watching everyone you care about die slowly and painfully. I can be patient when motivated, Maya. I spent sixteen years planning this moment.”
Before Maya can respond, the bedroom door opens, and Alexei enters with a stride so quick I know right away that it means bad news.
“We have a problem,” he announces without preamble.
“What kind of problem?”
“Max Mastroni has mobilized every soldier in his organization. Three of our street dealers are dead, and our Brighton Beach operations are under siege.” Alexei glances at Maya, then back at me. “Someone told him his sister was taken, not just feeling ill. They must’ve seen us.”
The timeline I planned for careful manipulation has just collapsed into an immediate crisis. Maya’s disappearance was supposed to remain secret for days, giving me time to establish terms and present our marriage as a diplomatic solution. Instead, Max is treating this as an act of war.
“How long before he traces the kidnapping back to us?” I ask.
“A few days, maybe less. Our men at the gala were careful, but if there was a witness, it’s only a matter of time before someone identifies our people.”
“Then we accelerate the timeline,” I decide. “Prepare the safe house in case it’s needed. If Max wants a war, he can have one, but we’ll be fighting from a position of strength.”
“And the bride?” Alexei nods toward Maya.
“Comes with us. We’ll finalize the marriage arrangements as soon as possible.” I turn back to Maya, who’s still secured to the headboard. “I hope you’re not attached to long engagements, because this wedding is going to happen much sooner than planned.”
“Can’t wait,” Maya replies with savage sweetness. “Though I should warn you that Mastroni weddings tend to be explosive affairs.”
“I’m counting on it.”