Vendetta Vows (Dragunov Bratva #1)

1. Aurora

1

AURORA

I shouldn't be reading this.

The script sits heavy in my hands, its pages dog-eared from multiple revisions over the past week.

I'm supposed to be inside the private launch party, making nice with producers and helping keep an eye on the prop department's weapons. Instead, I'm hiding on the back stoop and dissecting this ridiculous screenplay I swiped earlier tonight.

"And then Isabella throws herself into Marco's arms, trusting him completely," I read. "Am I the only one who still remembers that he's the mob boss who killed her father?"

I flip another page and groan. I'm not even halfway through this disaster of a script.

Seven years working in movie props has taught me that Hollywood romanticizes organized crime. But this one takes the cake.

These writers have never seen what real violence looks like.

Not like me.

"No woman is this stupid," I mutter to no-one in particular. "Scratch that. No person is this?—"

An unexpected gust of Santa Ana winds tears through the alley, and flips my skirt up. I quickly reach down to hide my modesty.

And in the process, let go of the script.

Pages flap like startled birds and go scattering in every direction.

"No, no, no!"

I scramble to my feet, lunging desperately after the airborne pages.

If anyone catches me with this—especially before official distribution—I'll be fired. The title page flutters just beyond my fingertips. I lunge, making a desperate grab?—

And slam face-first into something solid.

Not something. Someone.

Strong hands grip my shoulders, steadying me. I look up and freeze when I find myself staring up into a pair of striking gold eyes.

"I—" My voice fails me and my cheeks burn as my brain catches up to the fact that I've just face-planted into what might be the most well-defined chest in all of Southern California.

The man gives me a steadying smile that has my heart skipping a beat. "You seem to be in a rush."

His voice is like warm honey with just the slightest accent I can't place, and an unexpected shiver runs down my spine.

Stop it, Aurora. This is exactly what you were just mocking.

"I shouldn't even have this," I blurt out, gesturing wildly at the pages still escaping down the alley. "And if anyone finds out..."

"You'll get in trouble?"

"That's putting it mildly."

Without hesitation, he releases me and crouches to snag a page trying to hide under a nearby dumpster. "So what is this? Industrial espionage? Corporate theft? Unlawful business practice?"

A surprised laugh escapes me. "Just a script I'm not supposed to have."

"So all of the above." His eyes sparkle as he hands me the rescued page. "In this town at least."

"And what about the man lurking in dark alleys?" I retort, then immediately regret it. "Not exactly above-board behavior either, even for this town."

What am I doing? I shouldn't banter with strangers. Especially not the impossibly handsome ones who make my stomach do little flips.

You're acting like Isabella from the script, throwing yourself at danger because he has nice shoulders.

But instead of taking offense, he laughs. A rich, deep sound that makes me want to hear it again.

"I stepped out for a moment." He captures another wayward page. "Not a fan of the photographers floating around."

"Same." I can't help join him in laughter as I retrieve another page. "I thought that the script would offer a nice distraction to help pass the time before I go back inside, but I'm starting to have second thoughts."

And, I think, he is a much better distraction.

His laugh fills the alley again, and I find myself smiling. We work in silence for a moment, gathering the last few pages.

"So," he says, handing me his collected stack, "it's that bad?"

I snort before I can stop myself. "It's ridiculous. Girl falls for dangerous mob boss who killed her father. Apparently patricide isn't a deal-breaker if the killer has good cheekbones." I wave the pages. "Throw in a well-tailored suit, some brooding stares, and a few passionate kisses, and suddenly murder is forgivable."

Something flickers across his face, so briefly I almost miss it, before another heart-skipping smile returns.

"Totally unrealistic," he agrees, but there's something in his tone I can't quite read.

"Absolute Hollywood fantasy," I continue, suddenly unable to stop myself. "These writers just string together a bunch of sexy clichés without a care for how real criminals operate. The real Bratvas don't wear tailored suits and recite Pushkin while holding guns."

His eyes stay locked on mine, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips as he leans against the brick wall.

"Is that right?" he encourages, and the genuine interest in his baritone voice sends a little thrill through me. "Would you prefer they wear Adidas track suits and quote The Sopranos instead?"

"Well, it'd certainly be more believable."

I shouldn't be saying any of this, especially to a stranger. But something about the seclusion of this alley, and the way he's looking at me like I'm the most fascinating person he's met tonight pulls the words from me before I can stop myself.

It's freeing. Almost intoxicating.

And a reminder of something that I haven't dared to feel for seven years.

He tilts his head. "What else would you change? If you were writing it?"

My heart skips again. No one ever asks my opinion like this. Like what I say matters.

"For starters, trauma doesn't just vanish because someone's attractive." The words tumble out faster now. "Isabella should be suspicious and guarded. The weight of her father's death needs to haunt every interaction she has. Especially with Ivan. How could she even look at the guy without seeing what he did?"

"You don't think she'd ever forgive him?"

"If she does, it won't be because he broods prettily. He needs to go through real atonement, and have a real understanding of what he took from her."

He leans closer, voice dropping to a murmur that seems meant only for me. "So forgiveness isn't the pivotal moment, but realizing the gravity of what he's done?"

The unexpected depth in his response makes me pause. He's not dismissing my critique or defending the script.

He's extending it.

And as he speaks, my chest tightens with emotion.

"Exactly. Because some things can't be undone." My voice catches on the last word.

And just like that, a familiar dark memory claws to the surface.

Look what you made me do.

I suppress an involuntary shudder and try to force those awful words into the vault where I keep them locked away.

It isn't until he steps closer, his expression thoughtful, that I finally manage to push them down again.

"How would you have him take that first step towards reaching that understanding?" he asks. "Show her that he can protect her from the others in his world, especially from himself?"

"That's a start," I admit. "But she'd need agency too. She can't just be a damsel in distress. She'd have to be the one to confront her past, and he has to be the one who empowers her to do so."

I've never talked this much to anyone at work, let alone a stranger. But he keeps nodding, keeps asking questions, and keeps drawing me out until I'm gesturing wildly, completely absorbed in our conversation as he picks up one page after another.

Finally, he gathers the last errant page and steps toward me, extending the now-neatly stacked script.

Our fingers brush as I accept it, and electricity shoots up my arm. His eyes catch mine in the dim light, and for a moment I can't breathe.

"You seem to understand trauma better than these writers do," he says, his fingers lingering against mine.

His face is inches from mine, those golden eyes reflecting the dim glow of the alley lights.

For one wild, reckless moment, I imagine what it would be like if he were to close that distance. I dare to imagine his lips capturing mine in a hungry kiss that leaves me breathless. I dare to fantasize about his large hands sliding around my waist and lifting me up until my back is pushed up against the brick wall.

My breath quickens as the fantasy unfurls.

In my mind, his powerful body envelopes mine, the script long since forgotten as the pages go scattering in the wind again, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth.

It's been so long since I've felt any kind of connection like that, and I crave it as much as a dying man in a desert craves a single drop of cool water.

But as soon as desire enters my head, my brain forces that dark memory back to the surface.

The smell of blood in the air. The taste of coppery fear on my tongue. And that message scrawled on the walls in dripping crimson.

Look what you made me do.

I jerk back so suddenly I almost trip over my own feet.

I can't.

I'm turning into Isabella from the script: a na?ve girl throwing herself at danger because it comes wrapped in an attractive package.

No, not like Isabella in this ridiculous script.

I'm worse.

She didn't know better.

But I do.

The man's hands drop immediately to his sides, giving me space without a hint of offense or confusion. The gesture catches me off guard almost as much as my own reaction.

Most men would press forward, ask questions, and demand explanations.

But not him.

He just waits, those golden eyes watching with something that looks remarkably like understanding.

"Sorry," I manage, pulling the script tighter against my chest like armor. "I just?—"

"No apologies needed, and thank you for the insight."

His voice is gentle but not pitying. Something loosens slightly in my chest. The fact that he doesn't demand answers makes me almost wish I could give them.

"Glad to be of assistance. And if you bump into any of the writers, could you do me a favor and pass along my thoughts about this?" I give the script one final shake. "Without saying my name, of course."

"That would require me knowing your name first." He extends his hand and I manage a wobbly smile as I take his hand in mine.

A burst of electricity passes between us again when his hand envelops mine in a warm, firm grip.

I can't help but notice the intricate tattoos that trace across his knuckles. One catches my eye. A small bird with broken wings, surprisingly delicate against the otherwise bold designs.

"Aurora," I say. "Aurora Castellanos."

"A pleasure to meet you, Aurora Castellanos." He says my name like he's tasting it.

The breeze picks up again, and I detect the light scent of mahogany and cedarwood tumbling from him to chase away the ghostly memory of blood haunting my nostrils.

My heart thrums at my throat as I maintain my grip on his hand, acutely aware that our touch is starting to cross from polite to dangerously lingering.

I'm both relieved and disappointed when he gives me one final smile, releases me, and turns towards the door.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out one final time. "Will I see you again?"

I immediately want to snatch them back.

What am I doing? Aurora Castellanos doesn't reach out to strangers. Aurora Castellanos doesn't flirt in back alleys. Aurora Castellanos doesn't invite trouble.

But instead of being surprised by my forwardness, the corner of his mouth lifts again. For the second dizzying time of the night, I fantasize about him closing the distance to kiss me.

"You will," he says with such certainty that I believe him. "I'll find you inside, Aurora Castellanos."

Heat floods my cheeks and my heart speeds up despite my better judgment. He turns and walks away, leaving behind the hints of mahogany and cedarwood trailing in his wake.

And only when the door closes behind him do I realize that he never told me his name.