Sinister Promise (Ivanov Crime Family #6)

Chapter 1

ALINA

I flattened my back against the wall, shrinking into the shadows.

He was here.

Pavel Ivanov.

His very name a threat.

He was the kind of man whispered about in the back rooms of bars but never spoken about above a hush. As if saying his name too loudly would summon the devil himself.

Dangerous. Unhinged. Mafia.

The kind of man women craved for a forbidden one-night stand, an encounter that would haunt their fantasies forever…assuming they survived…but would run screaming from when it came to boyfriend material.

When he first arrived from Russia, he was all my coworkers would gossip about.

They would relate stories about passing him in a hallway, or being trapped in an elevator with him, as if they had survived a brush with death .

I'd kept my mouth shut about my own run-in with him.

It'd happened the first week he arrived.

I was supposed to be alone on that office floor. Just me, my vacuum, the fake lemon scent of furniture polish, and the rhythmic hum of music through my headphones to keep me company through another night of cleaning the lower offices and meeting spaces in the boutique hotel.

After I'd accidentally knocked over a trash can with the cord of my vacuum cleaner, I’d been on my hands and knees picking up the thin strips of shredded paper that had tumbled out, sneezing from all the kicked-up paper dust, when a low male rumble said, " Bud' zdorova ."

I froze.

It was him . I knew it without even looking.

I held my breath, keeping my head down, hoping—praying—he would just walk away.

He didn’t.

The excruciating silence warred with the panicked screeches in my mind.

When I couldn’t take the tension a moment longer, I dared to look.

Slowly, my gaze traveled from the tips of his black combat boots up over his dark denim jeans to his fitted black T-shirt, which showcased his full sleeve-tattooed arms.

The man was nothing but raw brutality wrapped in sinister ink.

The tattoos crept up his neck in intricate patterns and were even etched across his face. Everyone knew that anyone with face tattoos was someone to be feared and avoided at all costs. It was the ultimate zero-fucks-given power move.

Pavel Ivanov stood over me, his intense, gunmetal stare holding the cold calculation of a man who had earned his reputation for seizing what he wanted without hesitation or remorse.

When I’d heard my coworkers’ stories about him, I’d honestly thought it was just Russian. Nope. His intimidating presence alone was a warning, without him even having to speak.

Of course, the terrifying-Russian-thing didn’t hurt.

I knew too well what men like him were capable of.

Learning the harsh lesson from the time I was a child: that money and power didn't make a man civilized.

The only trace of warmth about Pavel was his amused grin as he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. There was no way to tell how long he had been there.

I’d known better than to look. To see. To know.

When I was hired, my boss had been very clear about the rules.

See nothing.

Say nothing.

Hear nothing.

The man had actually pointed to one of those silly monkey sculptures on his desk to reinforce what he was saying.

Judging by the criminal clientele in the building, what my boss had really meant to convey was…

See no evil .

Say no evil.

Hear no evil.

Literally…

It was why this job paid twice as much as similar positions everywhere else.

Crime paid.

They paid for discretion. For blind silence.

My job, as part of the overnight crew, wasn't just to clean.

It was to keep my head down and my mouth shut.

Usually that wasn't a problem.

Until that moment.

Not knowing what to do, I'd squeaked out a weak “thank you” before turning on my knees to shove the fistfuls of paper I was still clutching into my trash bag so I could get the hell out of there.

I’d realized my mistake when the silence in the room was pierced by the sharp intake of breath through his teeth.

There wasn't a doubt in my mind he was enjoying the view of my bent-over ass in yoga pants.

I closed my eyes as embarrassed agony warmed my cheeks.

Scrambling to my feet, I latched onto my cleaning cart and lowered my head, determined to slip past him.

No such luck.

He’d stretched his arm across the door, barring my escape. Then his free hand had caught my chin, forcing my face up to meet his. "What is your name, little one?"

The thick Russian accent had made his question sound more like the growl of a black bear despite the highly inappropriate endearment. His touch had burned against my skin, unwanted heat spreading through me even as fear tightened within me.

I’d swallowed hard as my hands grew slick against the plastic handle of my cart. Clearing my throat, I told him, "Mary."

A lie.

Before he could respond, I'd shoved the cart forward and ducked under his arm, breaking the spell of his touch. The cleaning cart clattered as I’d sprinted down the hall, praying with every fiber of my being that he wouldn't follow.

That had happened weeks ago and just the memory of it still rattled me to my core.

Ever since then I'd been excruciatingly careful to make sure our paths did not cross again.

And it had worked…until now.

I rubbed my knuckles against my sternum to fight the panic threatening to take hold.

Although it was a risk, I leaned my head forward and hazarded a peek down the marble corridor.

Several men surrounded a man tied to a chair.

The man was blubbering. "He'll kill me if I tell you."

I strained to hear Pavel's response over the rush of blood in my ears.

"Why do I keep hearing those words? Every time I bring in some asshole working for Solovyov, I always hear 'oh, but he'll kill me if I tell you.' Motherfucker, I'm going to kill you anyway. The only thing you get to decide is how much I'm going to make you suffer first."

Kill him anyway ?

Oh God. This was so fucking bad.

The men weren't even trying to speak in lowered voices.

They assumed they weren't being watched—or worse, they didn't care.

Either way, I was in serious danger just by standing here.

I was a witness.

Anyone who watched crime shows knew the only good witness was a dead witness.

My vision blurred and I teetered against the door frame, lightheaded from my rapid breathing.

I needed to get the hell out of here.

I was far down the hallway in the shadows, but that didn't mean I was safe from detection.

Just then, Pavel's head swung sharply in my direction.

My blood froze in my veins.

His expression was unreadable, his face cut from ice as his stare penetrated the darkness between us, seeming to claim me even from this distance.

Oh shit. Could he see me?

Only after he turned his attention back to the man in the chair did I dare to breathe again.

Pavel shoved his boot between the man’s legs, then leaned over his bent knee as he flicked open a switchblade. "Tell us where Solovyov is, and I will give you a clean death. Don't, and I call the man who haunts your fucking nightmares, and I tell him about the new toy just waiting to play."

"I don't know," the man cried out in desperation.

In response, Pavel flipped the knife to grip the handle before driving the sharp point into the man's hand. A bloodcurdling scream tore from the man as he writhed in agony, twisting his wrists against his binds.

My eyes widened as Pavel took a step back and pulled a gun from inside his jacket.

Oh no. No. No. No.

He aimed it at the man's head.

Holy hell. He isn't going to ? —

A gunshot.

Loud.

Deafening.

The sharp crack echoed off the walls, reverberating through my bones.

The victim's head snapped back, a bloom of red exploding across the pristine white floor and the wall behind him. The heavy copper stench filled the air instantly, reaching me even from where I stood.

Horrified shock overrode all sense of self-preservation.

A scream ripped from my lungs.

I stared at the body slumping sideways in the chair, the man's sightless eyes seeming to stare straight at me as a pool of blood formed around him.

In that moment only one thought crossed my mind…fucking RUN!