Page 1 of Scarlet Vows (Yegorov Bratva #3)

Chapter One

ALINA

It’s been two years since Max, the love of my life, was shot down at our wedding.

Two years.

It still hurts.

But I’ve learned to mostly hide it, sometimes almost forget it. I can have fun, laugh, enjoy life, and then it slams into me again, bringing guilt and pain and drowning me back down.

I sigh as I sip my drink at the hottest bar in Old Town, waiting for Isla to return from the bathroom. The ring on my finger catches the light once more.

The ring that crashed my mood. I love the ring.

Three weeks after meeting Max, he gifted it to me.

The intricate white-gold band dotted with diamond chips is femininely pretty, and I knew I’d marry that man.

Knew it even before he told me he loved me.

Knew it before he slipped the ring on my finger.

I never take it off now.

I catch Isla’s blonde curls and find my smile, putting it back in place as she moves in time to SZA that plays over the speakers. She weaves through the patrons back to me.

“You okay?” She squeezes my hand.

That’s the thing with Isla. She can read me like a book, so I just hold up my hand.

“Hon,” she whispers and kisses my cheek, “Max would want you to live a life that’s full of love and happiness and laughter.”

“I am. Just the light caught the ring.”

She looks around and points out a hot man. “You need to get some, my friend. Get some hard.”

I gasp, widening my eyes, feigning shock. “On a full stomach? After MJ Sloane? Are you mad? Each layer is dedicated to digestion just so. I couldn’t possibly…”

She giggles. “Are you making fun of our hideously expensive dinner?”

“No, MJ Sloane is the place in Chicago to eat,” I say, clinking glasses with her.

I drink my vodka passion—vodka and a passionfruit-mango juice—as does she.

I lean in. “Demyan’s name opens doors.”

“Your brother…” She shakes her head.

Isla knows that a lot of what my brother does is shady. How could she not after my wedding? But we decided long ago not to discuss any of it. I don’t know most of the things he does. Or Ilya, his best friend and right-hand man, his next-in-command, for that matter.

They’re bratva. My family’s a powerful bratva organization. Whether or not I participate in it, that’s what I am. Bratva by birth.

“He has contacts.”

“And thank goodness he does because now I can boast I’ve been there.” She claps her hands. “Did I tell you about the LiveNLove app date I went on? ”

“Should I be scared?”

I know I should be, because pre-Max, that app was where everyone went. And it was horrible. Guys trying to get you in bed, and then when you didn’t, they black-starred you.

Isla reads my face and nods. “Big fat black star. But thank goodness the decent guys don’t take note of that.

” Her smile breaks out as she laughs. “This guy was awful. He had all the hallmarks on the screen of a great guy. His photos were on point, loves kids, reads, is smart, likes films. Hikes and volunteers.”

She shakes her head.

“Why does this sound like it’s going to turn into a horror movie?”

“Remember when Trev and I broke up because he turned out to be a serial cheater and a men’s rights activist in the making?”

“Your ex makes Demyan look woke and like a feminist.”

Her eyes goggle at that.

I wave a hand in the air and take a sip of my drink. “He’s my brother, so being honest about him’s practically my job.” I drop my voice. “But he is the best brother a girl could want, and he has two of my three favorite children.”

Isla puts her hand to her heart. “You mean my Maize?”

“Of course I mean your daughter. Plus, my brother’s kids. Sasha, Maize, and Nadya, aka Poppy. The best. And best-looking children, obviously.” I smile. “And Erin’s helped Demyan grow, too.”

Isla looks at the bartender, who approaches, and she orders two more drinks.

“Sure thing,” he says with a wink.

“You’re in there,” I say. “Go for it.”

“Really? In the middle of this story?” But she blushes when he returns .

He’s written his number on an extra napkin. I grab it and put it in her bag. She shoots daggers at me.

But I don’t mind. This is a nice moment, and even though the sadness encroaches, the moment is nice enough to keep it in the background.

“Go on.”

“The man must have hired a PR team to write his profile and then had his pictures doctored. He was balding, fatter than those photos, and he dressed like a slob, had an ego the size of Rushmore, and he talked about himself nonstop.”

He sounds horrific, and it makes me feel better about not being ready to date again.

“Maybe he had a lot of interesting things to say.”

“No. No, he did not. He was awful, overbearing, and thought he was god’s gift.

On top of that, he told me point blank that I’d be a fool not to ride his massive cock—his words—and blow him.

And when I said, very nicely, that I was into taking things slow, he suggested I needed a good balls-deep bang to rev my frozen motors.

I told him I thought we weren’t a good match, and he told me I was a frigid lesbian.

He then got up, hit on the waitress, and left me with the bill. ”

I take her hand. “You should have married him.”

“I know.” She laughs. “But I’m way too much of a frigid lesbian.”

“Of course you are. Turn down a catch like that…”

“So true.” She reaches into her bag to get her phone, probably to check the time. “Shit, I need to call the babysitter, Jenny, back. I told her I might need her a little longer and…”

“She called? Are you past our curfew?”

“You know it. Give me five…”

I nod as she hurries off. Jenny is a sweet girl, but she stresses if Isla is a minute late calling when she wants more time. She’s been Isla’s go-to sitter for a few years, and she’s always been this way. So it’ll take more than five.

The vulnerability that creeps up and wraps around me when I’m alone, now that Max is gone, does just that. And it brings with it the worn sadness.

This isn’t the sudden crushing kind that comes during those times I’m enjoying myself and forget—not Max, never Max; I always, always remember him, and he lives inside me, as much as I can call that living. The worn sadness is something of a constant, and it always laps at my heart.

I shiver and sip my drink, toying with calling my ride so it’s at the ready.

I’d never abandon Isla, but I don’t want a moment here where I’m truly alone. It just doesn’t feel right.

Not that I’d tell Demyan or Ilya that. They’re both overbearing enough as it is. My brother’s away though, and Ilya can’t stop me from doing what I want.

I pull out my phone and pretend I’m scrolling through messages. Anything to look engrossed in something other than the world around me.

If I’m utterly honest, I didn’t want to go out tonight. It’s why I let both Demyan and Ilya think they set perimeters for me. There’s something I find comforting in that. The excuse, probably, of staying in over going out without so-called privacy.

Because Demyan, if he were here, would have a shadow in the room.

I’m shocked Ilya didn’t force one on me. But I promised I’d call him twenty minutes before I planned to go so a driver would be there for me.

I flip to another screen and scroll through all the gossip threads. I don’t read any, but a juicy story makes for a good excuse to ignore any interrupters.

Isla needs tonight, and that’s why I came. She’s had a hard couple of years with her breakup with Trev. It’s been a hard couple of years for us both. Isla said we deserved to have fun. I don’t know about me, but she does. Definitely.

A big shape moves toward me. I see the man from the corner of my eye, and his muscles have muscles that have muscles.

A blond Adonis on steroids, and he turns more than a few heads.

My heart starts to sink as I realize he’s moving toward me. I’m his target.

“Let me buy you a drink. You’re too gorgeous to sit by yourself.”

“I have a drink,” I say in a cool tone. “And I’m waiting for my friend.”

The man snorts. “A real drink.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I turn back to my phone.

This is one reason I hate going out. I must give off something in the air—the sadness maybe, the lonely hole left by Max, the place where Max should be—because men always hit on me.

And I’m so freaking sick and tired of telling them no. I honestly don’t know how Isla can actively seek out men on dating apps. I shudder at the thought.

The man still stands there. I don’t need to look to know.

Usually, the guys do respect my decision, but even if they don’t, they mutter something nasty and leave.

They leave .

The bars are always full of other targets.

Not Mr. Muscles. He leans on the bar next to me, moving Isla’s drink out of the way so he’s crowded in, and he clicks his fingers at the bartender, who comes over.

The bartender’s eyes go to me. “Your friend leave?”

I shake my head, and he pours another drink for Isla, not for me since mine’s still mostly full. He sets it down next to me.

“You all good?” he asks.

The big guy waves an Amex in the bartender’s face. “Eyes front, bro. On me. Your most expensive champagne. Two glasses.”

“I’ve got a drink,” I say. “And I don’t want to drink with you.”

“Sure you do, sugar.” He turns and offers me a sleazy smile, one that has malice behind it. “We’re gonna drink and get to know each other.”

He sits down, puts his hand on my thigh, and runs it up under my skirt to mid-thigh. I grab at him and pull his hand free, my heart thumping hard.

No one, ever, touches me like that.

Not anymore.

But he puts his hand back.

“Stop touching me. Right now. I’m not interested. I don’t want you touching me. I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want to drink with you. My friend’s on her way back, so go away, or I’ll call the cops.”

He laughs and squeezes my thigh so hard I whimper.

It seems to please him, and he stops.

“You might not want to do that. See, Alina, I know who you are.”

“I don’t know you.”

His gaze hits mine. Hard. Flinty, even as he continues to smile. “I’m surprised you don’t recognize me. After all, I went to school with your brother.”

I frown at him. “We’re a number of years apart. And I don’t know you.”

But he isn’t listening.

“By the way, is Demyan still an A-grade asshole? ”

I narrow my eyes.

Any friend of Demyan’s wouldn’t be like this. And even someone who knew him at school would have to have a death wish to harass his sister.

Who the hell is this douche?

“If anyone’s an asshole, it’s you,” I say.

He laughs. “Oh, you’re feisty. I love that. I’m shocked Demyan ever let you develop anything approaching a personality beyond a doormat.”

“I’m shocked you’re too stupid to get the message that I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, “but the thing is I love a chase, and you’re just making yourself more and more irresistible the harder you play.”

“Disinterested. Not playing.”

He chuckles. “See? You might be perfect.” Then he holds out a hand. “I’m Santo Barone.”

For a moment, I don’t move.

Santo Barone.

I know the name, who he is.

Santo’s the don of the Barone mafia, one of the most ruthless crime families in the city. But more than that, I remember Demyan and his friends laughing about him as teens.

A sickening realization hits.

Demyan used to fight with him, put him in his place. Some factions called it bullying; Demyan called it justified.

From the stories I remember, Santo was a bully himself, a big kid on campus who liked to treat the girls like his own personal playthings, and he cheated on all his girlfriends.

Even at college, Demyan said Santo was a womanizing asshole, a piece of shit who’d sell his own mother on the streets if he could make a dime off of her .

Santo’s smile turns real. It’s still nasty, still sleazy, but now there’s actual delight.

“Now you recognize me. That’s good because I like my dates to be prepared. In every way.”

He deliberately licks his lips, and my stomach turns.

“I’m not dating you,” I say.

“Friday night. I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something pretty, nice, and short. Accessible. Heels.”

I suddenly can’t breathe. “I can’t.”

His presence flusters me.

I can barely think, and I blurt out the first words that come to mind. “I’m engaged.”

His eyebrows rise, skepticism all over his face.

Shit. He probably knows I lost Max two years ago at our wedding. An engagement this fast is…insulting.

But he nods. “Very well. I’ll see you and your fiancé at eight on Friday.”

“Why would we both go on a date with you?”

“I’m a nice guy,” he says. “I accept the…defeat. I’ll take you both somewhere exclusive. Consider it an engagement gift.”

“Thank you but?—”

“I know where you live. The car will be outside the gates at eight. Be waiting.” He winks. “With your fiancé.”

And with that, he leaves.

I can feel the eyes of the bartender on me, and I offer an unconvincing smile.

Clenching my hands, I wait for Isla to return. Clearly, this Santo thinks my fiancé is fake. And he expects me to be waiting, with an excuse about why my man isn’t there, at eight on Friday.

Or maybe he’s thinking I won’t show at all.

And I don’t want to .

But I also don’t know why he’d do this, go to the trouble of sending a car. And if I’m not waiting, is that an act of war?

I’ve got no idea.

As Isla comes back, there’s one big, burning question in my head.

What the heck am I going to do about this?