Page 92 of Devil's Vows

The guard averts his gaze, not daring to look at my fiancée, knowing what’s good for him.

We descend the stairs in silence, Gabriella probably digesting my ill-disguised threat of keeping her just as locked up as Milana, reprimanded for wearing something I only want to tear off her body. I want her to feel feminine and desired, but I know how men’s heads work. Nobody on my team would dare, but I don’t even want them tothinkof her.

I clear my throat as we reach the first floor.

“My dad is being looked after, but I don’t want you to be shocked when you see him,” I say, trying to divert my thoughts to something that kills all desire. “He suffered two strokes, and well… It is what it is. He might be sleeping. He might be awake. We’ll see.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, still so quiet even though we can talk normally now.

I get it; the Pakhan is a touchy, difficult subject. Even Milana and I avoid talking about him because what is there to say?

I take her hand, guiding her through the maze of passages in the house. She’s probably figured some of it out by now, but she won’t have gone down this particular wing. At the end of the corridor, I knock before I punch in the security code to open the panel.

A reading lamp throws a soft yellow glow from one corner of the room, and I lead Gabriella in, allowing our eyes to adjust to the dim light, the low hum of machines, the quiet of the sickroom.

Papa’s bed is turned to face the windows, and we have to round the bed.

The nurse stands from where she’s been sitting in the corner, reading a paperback.

“Pakhan,” she murmurs in greeting, then stares at Gabriella with interest.

A grunt comes from the bed, and I step closer. “Is he awake?”

“He’s been restless,” the nurse answers in Russian as I walk up to the head of the bed.

“Ivan,” Papa mumbles as he struggles to open his eyes, but I bet only I can decipher that.

“I’m here, Papa.” I let go of Gabriella’s hand to reach for his.

His fingers have become bony, the skin cold and almost translucent with age that’s descended on him like a fog, becoming ever denser. The tattoos on his hands stand out even more now, haunting marks of his youth in Russia, where he was just a cog in the Bratva.

He gives my hand a weak squeeze as I turn to Gabriella, reaching for her.

“Gabriella is here, too, Pakhan,” I say, as the nurse turns the light brighter. “I wanted you to meet her before the wedding.”

A grunt, and then I guide his hands to hers.

“Here,” I say in English. “He doesn’t speak much, but he can hold your hand to communicate.”

Gabriella edges closer to the bed, a lone tear sliding down her cheek as she swallows, clearly moved by my father’s circumstances. Her gaze wanders over his face, taking in his drooping features and the lines that seem to cut deeper on the side with the weakened muscles, the way half of him has given up. She gasps as her gaze drops to his hand where his weak fingers have circled two of her fingers.

The old Pakhan mumbles something even I can’t decipher, and Gabriella seems to be frozen in place, her white-knuckled fist to her mouth, her other hand trapped by the Pakhan’s grip. She tugs away, but his hold can be unconsciously strong sometimes.

His mumbling becomes even more disturbing, not words, just incoherent sounds spilling with drool from his mouth.

“Papa,” I say in Russian, placing my hand over theirs. “Let go of Gabriella’s hand.” To her, I murmur, under my breath, “It’s okay, he’s harmless. Most probably just excited to see you this close up. He’s been watching you with the girls. The windows have a view over the playground.”

She swallows and bites her bottom lip, clearly trying to contain her emotions as she finally manages to tug her hand from his. “I felt eyes on me all the time.”

She’s quivering, rattled.

“He’s delirious. This was a bad idea. Sorry,moya ptichka.” What an idiot to bring my innocent fiancée to meet my half-dead father in the early morning hours. Now she’s freaked out. “I’ll come again later, alone,” I say to the nurse, placing a hand on Gabriella’s shoulder to guide her out of the room.

Once outside in the corridor, she wipes at her cheeks with trembling fingers.

Blyad’. She’s visibly distraught.

I pull her into my arms, but she resists and pushes me away.