Page 5 of Bound Vows (Empire City Syndicate #3)

Maya

The thread count suggests royalty, but a prison’s still a prison when the door locks from the outside.

I stand in the center of Andrei’s guest bedroom, finally free from the restraints that kept me bound to the headboard for hours.

The zip ties lie cut and discarded on the silk sheets, and I can hear the whir of electronics that suggest surveillance equipment.

Still, being able to move feels like a victory, even a small one.

I start my exploration with the obvious, testing the windows that span from floor to ceiling along the far wall.

The glass is thick enough to stop bullets, which means it’ll stop me, too.

There’s no convenient fire escape or balcony access; just a spectacular view of Central Park that might as well be a painting for all the good it does me.

The bedroom is decorated in whites and grays that scream expensive minimalism. The surroundings look like they belong in an architectural magazine, which means everything is probably custom and ridiculously overpriced.

A girl could get used to the luxury… if she ignored the kidnapping part.

I examine every inch of the room, running my fingers along the baseboards and crown molding as I search for hidden panels or emergency exits. Andrei mentioned that this penthouse was designed for security, so whoever built it thought about things like escape routes and safe rooms.

The bathroom yields more interesting results.

Behind the mirror that hangs over the vanity, I find the outline of what looks like a hidden panel.

When I press along the edges, it clicks open to reveal a small compartment containing medical supplies—bandages, sutures, antiseptic, and enough painkillers to stock a pharmacy.

Someone in this penthouse gets hurt regularly enough to need a private medical kit. I pocket a scalpel and a vial of morphine before closing the panel. It’s not much, but I’ve killed with less.

The bedroom door unlocks with an electronic beep just then, and I step into a hallway that feels more like a museum than a home. Original artwork covers the walls, many of them paintings that I recognize from art history classes. These pieces belong in galleries rather than private residences.

Either Andrei has impeccable taste and unlimited funds, or he’s very good at acquiring things that don’t belong to him.

The penthouse layout unfolds like a maze. Multiple hallways branch off in different directions, and I count at least six doors that could lead to bedrooms, offices, or God knows what else. Motion sensors track my movement, tiny red dots that follow me from room to room like electronic eyes.

I find his office behind a door marked with subtle biometric scanners. The lock clicks open when I approach, which means Andrei programmed it to recognize me. Whether that represents trust or arrogance remains to be seen.

The office takes my breath away, though I try not to let it show.

Top-to-bottom bookshelves line three walls and are filled with volumes in multiple languages.

A massive desk dominates the center of the room.

Its surface is clear except for a laptop and a single photograph in an ornate silver frame.

I pick up the photograph and immediately understand why Andrei keeps it so close.

Six people smile back at me from a family dinner: two adults and four teenagers who share the same ice-blue eyes and platinum hair.

The man in the center has Andrei’s strong jaw and confident bearing, while the woman beside him radiates an elegance that comes from generations of good breeding and wealth.

The four children look happy and carefree in a way that catches me off-guard. Andrei stands between his twin brothers with his arm around a beautiful girl who can only be Anastasia. None of them has any idea that this moment represents the calm before a storm that will destroy everything they know.

I set the photograph down carefully and continue my exploration.

The desk drawers are locked, but the filing cabinets along the far wall reveal more interesting discoveries.

Medical journals and anatomy textbooks fill one drawer, along with detailed notes.

Either he has a secret passion for medicine, or he’s learned to treat his injuries out of necessity.

The notes reveal someone with extensive knowledge of trauma surgery, pain management, and psychological therapy.

Andrei Volkov apparently knows how to stitch wounds, set bones, and treat the injuries that come from a violent life.

One notebook contains detailed sketches of gunshot wounds and their treatment; another focuses on knife injuries and their long-term effects.

At the bottom of the drawer, I find something that stops me cold.

A sleep study report dated six months ago with Andrei’s name at the top.

According to the summary, he averages fewer than three hours of sleep per night, suffers from chronic nightmares, and shows symptoms of severe post-traumatic stress disorder.

The massacre didn’t just kill his family. It broke something inside him that sixteen years of revenge planning couldn’t fix.

I’m still working through this information when I hear footsteps in the hallway. I quickly return everything to its proper place, move away from the desk, and settle into one of the leather chairs positioned near the window.

Andrei enters his office like he owns the world, which I suppose he does in his mind. He’s changed from the tailored suit he wore this morning into dark jeans and a black sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. The casual clothes make him look younger, though no less dangerous.

“Enjoying your tour?” he asks before settling behind his desk with the easy confidence of someone who knows every inch of his territory.

“Your decorator has interesting taste. Very ‘wealthy sociopath meets art collector.’” I gesture toward the paintings on the walls. “Though I have to ask, did you buy these, or are they part of your expanding collection of stolen property?”

“Purchased legitimately, though I understand your confusion. People in our business rarely acquire things through conventional means.” Andrei opens his laptop and begins typing, though his attention remains focused on me. “What did you think of the medical supplies?”

So much for subtlety. “You mean the pharmacy hidden behind your bathroom mirror? Either you’re very accident-prone, or you have trust issues with hospitals.”

“Both, actually. Emergency rooms ask uncomfortable questions when you arrive with specific injuries.” He closes the laptop and leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin with his knuckles. “I learned field medicine out of necessity.”

“Self-taught surgery seems like a dangerous hobby.”

The corner of his mouth lifts into the softest of smiles, and he replies, “Most of my hobbies are dangerous. It keeps life interesting.”

We stare at each other across the desk, and I realize this conversation feels like a chess game where neither player wants to reveal their strategy. Andrei knows I’ve been exploring his personal space, and I know he’s been watching my every move through his surveillance system.

“Are you going to feed me, or is starvation part of your negotiation tactics?” I ask, deciding to change the subject to something more immediate.

“Dinner is being prepared. I thought we could eat together and discuss the terms of our arrangement.”

“How romantic. Nothing says, ‘Let’s get married’ like discussing terms over a meal.”

“Romance is overrated,” he responds, waving me off. “Honest negotiation serves us both better.”

Under normal circumstances, this would be the perfect moment to deploy the kind of seductive manipulation that’s served me well in the past—lean forward, hike up my breasts, let my voice drop to a sultry whisper and make him think he’s charming information out of me while I extract everything I need to know about his operations.

Something tells me that won’t work with a man like Andrei.

He’d see through any performance. Worse, he’d probably be entertained by the attempt.

So, I follow as he leads me through another maze of hallways to a dining room that could host a small army.

The table is set for two, with crystal glasses and silver flatware.

Candles provide the only source of light, creating an intimate atmosphere that feels completely at odds with our circumstances.

“Wine?” Andrei asks, but he’s already pouring from a bottle I don’t recognize.

“Depends. Are you planning to drug me again?”

“Not tonight. I prefer my dinner companions to be conscious and capable of conversation.”

I accept the glass and sip cautiously, but only after he has taken a drink. The wine is excellent, which somehow makes everything worse. It’s easier to hate someone when they have terrible taste.

Dinner arrives in courses that could grace the menu of any five-star restaurant. I eat slowly, partly because the food is incredible but also because I’m trying to gauge Andrei’s mood and intentions. He seems relaxed, almost pleasant, which makes me more nervous than if he were openly threatening.

“Tell me about your family,” Andrei prompts during the main course.

“Which part? The part where they’re probably burning down half of New York looking for me, or the part where they’ll kill you very slowly when they find you?”

“The part where you learned to fight like you do. That level of skill doesn’t develop overnight.”

I carve into my steak, hold up the knife to inspect the blade, and answer, “My father believed his children should be able to protect themselves. I started training when I was eight.”

“With knives specifically?”

“With everything. Guns, knives, hand-to-hand combat, tactical driving, surveillance detection.” I put down the knife and take another sip of wine. “The works.”

“Your father was thorough.”

“My father was paranoid. He knew that wealth and power make you a target, so he made sure we could defend ourselves.”

“Smart man,” Andrei muses. “Though not smart enough to avoid making enemies.”

The comment hits where Andrei intended, and I slam my fork onto the table. “Is that what this is about? Proving that you’re smarter than he was?”

“This is about justice. Your father destroyed my family to expand his territory. I’m just returning the favor.”

“By forcing his daughter to marry you. That’s not justice, that’s revenge.”

He offers a cavalier shrug. “Sometimes, they’re the same thing.”

We finish the meal in tense silence, each lost in our thoughts. When Andrei speaks again, his voice carries a different tone—softer, almost contemplative.

“You handled yourself well during your exploration today, Piccola.”

I pause with my wine glass halfway to my lips. “What did you just call me?”

“Piccola. It suits you. Piccola assassina . Little assassin. That’s what you are, isn’t it? Beautiful and deadly in equal measure.”

The nickname should offend me, but instead, I am oddly flattered. Most people see me as Max Mastroni’s little sister or a decorative accessory at family functions. Andrei sees me as what I am—a weapon in designer clothing.

“You speak Italian,” I note.

“I speak many languages,” he confirms with a nod. “Italian seemed appropriate for addressing my future wife.”

“How thoughtful. Though I should point out that little assassins tend to kill their targets eventually.”

That smile returns, and this time, something hot behind it makes my heart rate kick up. “I’m counting on it. The attempt should prove… stimulating.”

The way he says it makes heat pool in my stomach, which only proves that my taste in men is fundamentally broken. Normal women don’t get turned on by threats from their kidnappers, but I am not a normal woman.

“You’re insane,” I tell him.

“Probably. But you’re going to marry me anyway.”

“Because you threatened my family.”

“Because you recognize the inevitability of it. We’re both predators, Maya. The only question is whether we hunt together or destroy each other.”

I drain the rest of my wine and set down the glass. “What makes you think I won’t just destroy you?”

“Because you’re smart enough to realize that would be wasteful. Together, we could rule everything your father built and more. Apart, we’ll just tear each other to pieces while weaker men claim the spoils.”

The scary thing is, he might be right.

“This conversation is getting too philosophical for my taste,” I comment as I stand from the table. “I think I’ll retire to my luxurious prison cell.”

“Of course. Sweet dreams, Piccola.”

The nickname follows me back to the guest bedroom, along with the unsettling realization that Andrei Volkov might be the only person who’s ever truly seen me for what I am.

God help me, I think I like it.