Page 8 of His Ruthless Vow

She studies my face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, let’s go home. I'm getting hungry."

She shrugs, accepting that I'm not going to tell her a single thing, and turns toward the car left parked across the street. But as I slide Dimitri's card in my pocket, my mind starts to play out how this could go. If my family won't give me justice, then I have to fight for it on my own. And if I can't do it alone, I need someone who has the power to make it happen.

I won't sit back and do nothing, that's for sure. But I don't know if I can even fathom working together with the brother of the man who attacked me. It feels evil, like I've turned and become the very thing I hate.

But it might be my only option.

6

DIMITRI

Islide into a booth near the back of the ramen shop and choose the bench that faces the door. The vinyl seat exhales a sigh of trapped air as I sit. From here I can watch the entrance and the kitchen at the same time, so no one can approach without my seeing them first.

When Alana—I'm assuming it was Alana—sent the message with the time and place, it said to come alone. Bringing Sokolov muscle to a meeting with a Volskaya would've guaranteed failure. She'd spot the trap from the street and vanish into the night and never trust me again. Besides, she's harmless, unless she brings her own muscle, and if she did that and some shit went down, it would only prove to our fathers why this wedding shouldn’t go on.

I know she doesn't want that.

I check my watch and see that it reads a few minutes to eight, and I'm hoping she's punctual. I'd bet money that she'll make me wait, forcing me to sweat through the minutes to establish dominance. If she doesn't and she shows up on time, it'll prove she's serious about this and wants it as much as I do.

My fingers drum on the laminate table, then still. I can't afford to look nervous and blow this up. I'm not nervous, per se, just anxious in an anticipatory way. I want this so badly, I could sink my teeth into it. My whole life has been one order after another, and once I stepped out of the line of succession, I could see it clearly. My father isn't just a criminal. He's corrupt in the worst way, covering for the sins of men who shouldn't be allowed to breathe the same air as the righteous.

The waitress approaches, a young woman with pink hair and a dragonfly tattooed on her wrist. She carries a ceramic cup of green tea that has steam rising from it. She sets it on the table and slides it in my direction, but she hovers instead of just walking away.

"Waiting for someone?" she asks as she smacks her gum. She has to be all of nineteen years old, and she's checking me out. Endearing, but she's way too young. I have zero tolerance for bullshit and she has a lot of growing up to do before I'd even entertain the idea of that.

"Yeah." I take the mug and use it to warm my hands. Nice of her to bring me something to drink, but I'm not a tea sort of guy. This is Moscow. I don't know why they even have Japanese ramen shops here, anyway.

She nods at the tea. "Do you want to order something from the kitchen? I could get you a bowl." When her finger rises to a wild pink strand and she twirls it, I'm out. Even her short, flouncy skirt screams immature.

"No, thank you, I'll wait for my date." Alana is the farthest thing from a date I could imagine, but it makes the waitress deflate like a popped balloon when I say it. She shrugs and drifts toward the kitchen, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.

The restaurant is pretty dead, though it's a touch late for dinner. And it makes it easy to keep a watchful eye. Sometimes, I'm followed by men inside and outside my own organization for reasons I'll never understand. Tonight, however, I feel like I can breathe easily. The few folks who are here aren't threats and I'm out of view from the outdoors, so passersby won't register my face without working for it.

The door opens at exactly 8:05, and a burst of chilly air escorts Alana Volskaya inside wearing a charcoal wool coat that swallows her slender frame. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe knot that exposes the pale column of her throat, and she scans the whole restaurant before her eyes narrow on me.

She's hauntingly beautiful, though she wears no makeup or jewelry. It's like she's come out with the intention of purposefully hiding herself in that massive coat so no one will notice her. If she wants to be incognito, she's doing it wrong, but my gut tells me she's not trying to hide her presence here. She's trying to protect herself. It makes a knot of anger form behind my sternum which I rub with two fingers as she walks toward me.

My own fucking brother did that to her. The bastard.

She's terrified and hiding it behind anger. It's honestly a good look on her, but I pity her for the simple fact that she feels she has to do it. It's a shame I know I'll never live down, one Ivan wouldn't ever have felt to begin with. He was too much like my father.

She stops at the booth and maintains a foot of space between us like a demilitarized zone. "Look, I had to think long and hard about this and even after texting you, I almost didn’t come. So let's get this over with fast."

I wouldn't have blamed her if she hadn't come. What happened was horrific. I've fought my own demons of rage. They plagued me for a few years after learning Nikolai Volskaya killed Ivan. I wanted his head on a platter, but more than that, I wanted the truth to be out there. Now that I know it, I can't un-know it.

"Please, sit," I say, peeling my cold hands away from the warm mug to gesture at the empty seat.

Alana slides onto the bench across from me looking like a scared little mouse. She shrugs out of her coat and leaves it draped around her shoulders, but her purse stays tucked on her lap. I'd put money on the idea that she has a weapon in that bag. Smart girl.

She wears a black turtleneck that makes her look too thin and very pale, and the fluorescent lights overhead don't do her any favors in that department, either. But somehow, I find myself staring at how perfect her complexion is, how symmetrical her face is. Alana is the spitting image of her mother, and if Irina's stunning beauty even in her sixties is any indication of how Alana will age, she has a lot going for her.

"Tell me exactly what you're doing." She speaks quietly, as if the walls themselves have ears on them and might report back to someone who would punish us for what we're about to tackle. "Tell me why I shouldn't walk out of here right now and do this myself."

Her tongue flicks out over her bottom lip, but I can't respond right away. The waitress returns, her tattooed wrist flashing as she sets down a menu. Alana orders sake without looking at the other options, and I smirk at how jumpy she is. We wait in silence until the waitress retreats toward the kitchen, and then I reach into my jacket.

Alana flinches. The movement is slight, just a tightening of her jaw and a shift of her shoulders back, but I see it. She expects violence from Sokolov men because of what Ivan did, and she might always feel that way.