Page 6 of His Ruthless Vow

If Alana was with Ivan, then either she was his victim—which is shocking to think her father would then align his family to ours—or she saw something that could help me figure out what my father is hiding. I have to get to her and find out.

If her anger during the council meeting over this wedding is any evidence that she knows something, I have to find out what it is. And I have to do it fast. I only have a few months to expose this bullshit for what it is and stop that wedding.

5

ALANA

Isit in the chair at the nail salon while Natalia gets her hands worked on. The technician files and shapes, and my sister watches every movement like it's fascinating. She insisted I come along on this little outing, though I’m not one to fuss over my hair and nails as much. But I did enjoy the manicure despite the plain, clear polish I chose.

Natalia turns her head toward me and lifts an eyebrow. She's been talking about wedding plans for the past twenty minutes and I keep trying to give her the brush off, but she's not getting the point. “I was thinking white roses mixed with something softer for the bouquets. Maybe peonies if we can get them this time of year. What do you think?”

I keep my eyes on the floor and bite back my scoff. Peonies in December are impossible, and if she can find them, they'll be expensive. “I think you should not be planning any of it.”

She sighs and shifts in the chair. “Alana, we've gone over this. The wedding's happening. You know as much as I do how Batya wants this to happen. I'm not going to disappoint him."

“You should." I grumble quietly so the technician doesn’t get too many of our family secrets. “I can't believe you'd actually marry into that family after what happened." I pick at the dust on the counter left from when they filed her nails down.

Natalia’s jaw clenches as she huffs a sigh out of her nose. “After everything is exactly why I'm doing it. The fighting has to stop. People are dying, Lana." She says it so patronizingly, I almost believe she really wants the fighting to stop and not the millions she stands to receive. "If this ends it, then I'll do what needs to be done.”

I look at her. “You sound like Batya. 'Money and territory and peace.' None of that fixes what already happened.” The pit of rot sits in my stomach churning. For years, I fully believed my family had my back, but I'm starting to realize I'm alone in this. Maybe my mother would stand up for me if she hadn't been taught to keep her mouth shut years ago. But even still, if I want to see any real justice, it won't be through Batya or Natalia.

She doesn't answer right away, and the technician switches to the other hand and starts on the cuticles. Natalia watches the work for a moment, then goes right back to the damn wedding details, as if I actually give a fuck. “I want the guest list kept small—immediate family only on both sides. And the flowers should be simple, white and soft pink."

“Can't you see this is just a transaction and you're the item being sold for twenty-five million dollars?" The technician sits straighter at that, but she wisely keeps her head down and keeps working as Natalia's eyes flash with anger.

“Stop. I know how you feel. You've made it clear every day since the council meeting. But I'm not changing my mind. Alexei isn't Ivan. He's never done anything to me or you.”

“He is still a Sokolov," I hiss, hugging my arms under my chest. Maybe the bitter rage I feel toward all Sokolovs is misplaced, but show me one of them—just one—who understands what Ivan did and wants to make it right, and I might change my mind. In my opinion, they all covered it up. His death was fed to the press to highlight the gang war on the streets, and he was hailed a martyr for trying to stop it.

So fucking wrong.

“And I'm still a Volskaya. That's the point." She huffs. "This will end the fighting, Alana, and that's all that's important. Okay?"

I lean back in the chair and scowl at her, wishing I were anywhere but here. Every time she talks about dates or flowers or guest lists, I want to stand up and walk out. I know everyone wants the fighting to end, but why a marriage? Why couldn’t we just sit down like rational humans and draw out new territory lines, pay whoever whatever amount they want, and then be done with it? Why does she have to sell her fucking soul to the devil?

Natalia keeps pressing now, changing the subject back to the stupid wedding while I start to tune her out. “We should decide on the seating. Keep the two families on opposite sides of the room so no one has to look at each other too long. And the music should be quiet. Nothing that makes people want to dance.”

“Well, you can do what you want. I'm not going."

She looks at me with hurt laced across her face. “You have to be there. You're my sister.”

“I won't watch you marry him.” I'm picking my fingernails now, ignoring the pleading expression on her face because I have morals, and I refuse to lower my standards and be a part of this.

Before she can answer, the salon door opens and a boy steps inside under the clang of the bell overhead. He's maybe twelve years old, with wire-rimmed glasses and short, choppy hair. He walks straight to our station and holds a slip of paper out to me, folded in half a few times and trembling between his pinched fingers.

“For you,” he says, nodding at me, but his hand shakes. I look up at the door and then down at his face, wondering who might've sent me a note on a scrap of paper instead of calling me or sending a text. But I take the paper and fold it open, letting my eyes drift over the scrawled words.

If you want to stop that wedding, meet me across the street.

A shudder runs down my backbone as I look up at the boy. "Who sent this?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him, and he points through the front window toward the café on the other side of the road.

A man sits at a table near the street, but the angle and the distance make it hard to see his face clearly. He's wearing dark clothing and has dark hair, and that's about as much as I can make out.

Natalia leans over to look at the note. “Who's that?” She asks it with a smirk and wags her eyebrows, but I hide the note's contents from her. No sense in her getting up in arms about this. She still has a few minutes to go on that manicure.

“I don't know.” My hand neatly conceals the note and I slide it into my pocket, swallowing hard. I want this wedding to stop, yes. But do I want it enough to go out there alone and meet some stranger who might not be able to do anything, anyway?

She glances toward the café again. “Well, he's waiting. You should go see what he wants.” Her shoulder bobs and she adds, "Maybe if you're dating someone, you can climb off my back about this wedding stuff."