Page 2 of Ruthless Vow
She didn’t.
Rumors have been moving for months about a marriage alliance between Malenkov and Grinkov as a way to consolidate Brighton. A way to strengthen their hold against outside pressure. I didn’t pay much attention. Marriage deals are currency in our circles.
Watching this now, I don’t see a willing bride.
One of the men punches her in the ribs. She bends but doesn’t fold. Instead, she snaps her head backward and connects with his nose hard enough that I see blood spray even from this distance.
Still, she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t beg for someone to help her. She knows that only she can help herself. The sight of her undoes something deep inside of me.
The Grinkov reputation is one of fear and intimidation, but they don’t just threaten. They make examples. They carve fear into neighborhoods so deep that people stop resisting before they’re even asked to. Businesses that hesitate get burned. Families that complain lose sons. That’s how they operate.
If this is how they’re handling Malenkov’s daughter, it means something has shifted.
Or something has broken.
The sedan’s driver moves toward his door and climbs inside. The engine turns over. The car inches forward as if momentum alone will solve their problem.
She braces her foot against the doorframe and refuses to be folded into the backseat. There’s pride in it. Stupid pride, maybe. But pride all the same. If she goes into that car, she disappears into Grinkov property. Into a negotiation that won’t include her voice. If she resurfaces, it will be as someone else’s wife. If she fights like this on the street, I can only imagine what she’d do inside a locked room.
Maybe the smaller Brighton families were right to be nervous. If Grinkov can try to force Malenkov’s daughter into submission out in the open like this, no one is safe from being swallowed.
I check the street again. Two pedestrians across the way deliberately avoid looking at the scene. A delivery van sits half a block up. No visible cameras are pointed directly into the alley. There are no police cruisers in sight. It solidifies a decision I’m not ready to voice just yet.
The first man she kicked is back on his feet now. He grabs her by the upper arm again, harder this time. The other two try to lift her body and force her down into the seat. She twists between them and almost breaks free. Almost.
For a second, she’s balanced and ready to run. Then one of them lands another punch and the balance tips. That’s enough. The sedan’s engine revs as the driver tries to ease forward. I don’t wait for them to gain speed.
A voice in my head tells me this is a huge mistake. I don’t want to be involved in this. I don’t need an enemy in the Malenkov camp,and I certainly don’t want to piss off Mikhail Grinkov. Still, I can’t watch this girl struggle anymore. She’s clearly being forced into something she doesn’t want.
If Sergei were here, he’d tell me to keep driving and to mind my business. He’d remind me that getting involved in personal business is a good way to start a war. A war I probably wouldn’t be able to win. My organization is strong, but it’s just as vulnerable to attack as anyone else’s. No one is safe while the Grinkovs are trying to devour Brooklyn.
But I’ve seen enough. I turn the car around and reach for my gun.
2
ANYA
Ialmost make it away from Mikhail’s useless thugs.
My heel connects cleanly with one man’s shin and he folds just enough for me to twist free. For half a second, I’m clear of their grip. I pivot toward the mouth of the alley and take two hard steps before another body slams into me from the side.
The impact drives me into the brick wall. My shoulder takes most of it. I swing blindly and catch someone across the jaw, but there are too many of them and they’re prepared for resistance. One hooks an arm around my waist and lifts. The other grabs my wrists before I can rake his eyes.
“Enough,” one of them says. “We don’t have time for this.”
The back door of a black sedan is already open and the engine is running. They’re done with the fight. They’re taking me, come hell or highwater. They shove me toward the car with coordinated force that surprises me. I genuinely didn’t think they were smart enough. I brace my foot against the frame and refuse to bend. One of them punches me in the ribs to break my stance. Air leaves my lungs in a sharp burst, but I don’t cry out.
It wouldn’t matter if I did anyway. They’re not worried about hurting me. Their instructions are probably just to take me back to Mikhail alive. He very likely doesn’t care what state I’m in when I arrive.
The realization settles coldly in my stomach as they lift me and force me into the back seat. My shoulder hits the opposite door hard enough to rattle my teeth. The door slams shut before I can crawl my way back out.
The car pulls into traffic immediately.
I lunge forward toward the driver’s collar, but the man beside me drives his forearm across my chest and slams me back into the seat. Another fist lands against my side. I absorb it without sound and try to pivot again.
Rope appears from under the seat.
They work quickly. My wrists are yanked behind me and tied high enough that any leverage will strain the joints. Then they tie my ankles so I can’t run when the car eventually stops.
