Dark Promise (Vegas Vicious #3)

1. Nikolai

1

Nikolai

I’m not really a Halloween kind of guy. My childhood didn’t lend itself to fond memories of costumes and candy. More like nightmares, bruises, broken bones, and blood. But appearances matter, so tonight I’m here, ready to play the game.

The mansion in Las Vegas’s Summerlin community is dressed to kill—the towering wrought iron gates adorned with cobwebs, artificial fog curling along the stone drive, jack-o’-lanterns grinning with eerie malice, and women in costumes as tight as their smiles.

I blend in with my custom-made Batman costume. The matte-black armor gleams. The cape is heavy and dramatic. And the cowl hides everything but my mouth and eyes. A mask within a mask.

I’m not here for the party. I’m here to keep an eye on a lowlife whose loyalty sells to the lowest bidder. My father, Mikhail Ivanov, met with him recently—alone, without his usual entourage. That’s not like him. And anything outside my father’s usual pattern piques my interest.

Something about it doesn’t sit right, and tonight, I intend to satisfy my curiosity. Batman may have idolized his father, but mine? I learned early that some men don’t deserve to be admired, let alone emulated.

Once inside, I cross the crowded foyer, then make my way through the connecting rooms of partygoers, the music thumping its bass beat while the overhead chandeliers drip crystals like icicles over a sea of masks and glittering costumes. Uniformed waitstaff weave through the bodies, carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks.

A short, wide marble staircase leads up to an area with lavishly spread tables piled with food that offers a nod to the macabre. Charred octopus tentacles served on black platters, drizzled with dark red pomegranate reduction. Black truffle tarts garnished with edible gold flakes. Pumpkin and sage risotto served in hollowed out miniature pumpkins. Macaron towers of black and gray and crimson decorated with tiny sugar pumpkins or bats. All set artfully atop glittering silver tablecloths with black velvet spiderweb overlays.

I head to the far wall and lean against it.

And then a woman catches my eye, standing at the top of the stairs.

Sabina Russo.

Mafia princess. Sister of Leo Russo, head of the Russo crime syndicate.

Even in a sea of elaborate costumes and beautiful women, she stands out like a spark against the gloom. She turns her head, sending the sleek curtain of her dark brown hair fanning across her shoulders.

She’s chosen not to wear a mask tonight, instead wearing exaggerated makeup and dusting her face with gold. Her chin is delicate and a little pointed. Stubborn. She has full lips, glossy red. Her eyes are a pale, cool blue. Her costume—a Roman goddess with a crown of laurel leaves and a flowing gold gown that’s slit all the way up one thigh—is opulent and deliberate, baring tantalizing glimpses of the gold-dusted skin of her collarbones, her waist, her legs, clinging to her perfect tits and ass.

Her laugh cuts through the music, low and melodic, reaching deep into my chest, tightening something I hadn’t realized was loose.

She’s not just beautiful—she’s fucking exquisite.

She’s a distraction. One I don’t need tonight. Still, I find myself unable to look away as she descends the stairs.

At the halfway point, a drunk man stumbles into her, his bulk sending her off balance. Sabina teeters on her skyscraper heels. She reaches for the banister but finds nothing but air.

I’m there before she falls, catching her midair.

If I hadn’t been fast enough, she’d be bleeding on the floor right now. Rage surges. I want to grab the guy by the throat and beat the shit out of him.

I hitch her a little higher in my arms, breathing in the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin.

“Be careful, goddess,” I murmur, my voice pitched lower than normal to match my costume.

Her eyes meet mine, icy blue rimmed in dark lashes, some sort of gold and bronze sparkly eyeshadow making them look smoky and sexy.

“I wasn’t exactly planning to fall,” she says, her voice cool and even. Then, after a long moment, “You can put me down now, Batman.”

I do as she says, letting her body slide along mine as I set her on her feet. Her curves brush against me, and my body reacts instantly. It’s a fucking miracle I manage to set her down without pinning her against the nearest wall.

She winces, reaching down toward her ankle.

“You’re hurt,” I say, more a statement than a question. Without waiting for her protest, I scoop her back up into my arms.

She gasps, the sound stirring something primal in me, making me want to elicit her gasps in far more creative and personal ways.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she asks, her tone hovering between curiosity and suspicion.

“Taking you somewhere you can rest that ankle,” I say, steering us through the crowd.

I find a quiet side terrace away from the people and the noise. It’s empty, the chaos of the party a muffled hum. I set her gently on a cushioned bench, my hands lingering.

She shifts, then reaches down to rub her ankle, her long nails painted gold. The side of her dress falls away at the slit, revealing her naked, gold-dusted leg.

She notices me looking and raises her gaze to mine. “Do you always rescue strangers at parties like a real-life superhero?”

“Only when they fall from the heavens,” I tell her without missing a beat.

I don’t mention that we aren’t strangers and I’m no superhero. Most of the time, I’m the bad guy—someone out of a girl like Sabina Russo’s worst nightmares.

Sabina’s laugh, soft and genuine, tugs at something inside me I’ve long since buried.

“Do lines like that usually work for you?” she asks with an arched brow, her lips curling into a smile that’s both teasing and dangerous.

“I wouldn’t know,” I say, my tone darkening. “I don’t usually need to try.”

“That’s cocky.” Her smile falters, her gaze flicking over my face—or what she can see of it beneath the cowl.

I wonder what she’s searching for. A weakness? A truth? Something she can use against me?

I shrug. “It’s the truth.”

“Maybe you should try harder,” she counters, her voice calm. Cool. But I catch the faint tremor there. It’s not fear. It’s awareness. She feels it too, this pull between us. Like gravity. Inescapable.

I’ve felt it since I saw her— truly saw her—after her father’s murder, the grief in her eyes raw and unguarded, but her core of steel unbroken. A goddess standing in the ruins.

"Maybe I will.”

I brush my fingers against her bare, golden leg. She inhales sharply and her lips part. I stare at those lips, wanting to taste them, taste her. Wanting to see them wrapped around my cock.

Fuck.

“What about you?” I ask. “Do lines like that ever work on you?”

She hasn’t moved away from my touch as my fingers linger on her bare skin. “Only on Halloween,” she says, her voice breathy now. “And only when spoken by a man wearing a mask…or should I say a cowl?”

She’s playing with me, testing boundaries. She has no idea what she’s inviting, what I’m holding back.

“Careful,” I murmur, as I stroke the length of her calf. “You might not like what’s behind this one.”

Her breath catches, and for an instant, vulnerability flickers in her cool blue eyes. “Maybe I would.”

It’s not a taunt—it’s an admission, one she doesn’t mean to make. But it lands like a spark on dry kindling, and I have to lock my jaw to keep from pulling her against me and proving her right.

Instead, I pull back, putting space between us. Her gaze lingers on me, watching, waiting. She doesn’t trust me but she’s curious. I could use that curiosity, turn it into something sharper, something dangerous.

“I’m thirsty,” she says suddenly, breaking the tension between us.

I nod once, retreating to fetch us drinks, vodka on the rocks for me, a French 75 for her.

“Ah,” she says with a nod at my glass when I return. “A classic and powerful choice. Bold. Uncomplicated. Quietly confident.”

I laugh. “And yours is a refined and glamorous choice. Effervescent champagne with the surprising depth of gin.”

Her mouth rounds and she presses a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “Did you just call my depth surprising?” She takes the glass from me, her fingers brushing mine again—deliberate this time.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice softer now. “For more than just the drink.”

I hold her gaze, letting her words linger. She doesn’t owe me gratitude, but the fact that she’s offering it feels like a small victory. I’ve seen her fire, her defiance. I wonder what it would take to make her surrender—to see her kneel for me—not out of fear but out of choice.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, my tone steady, betraying none of my thoughts.

This isn’t why I’m here tonight. I know that. But my target tonight is no longer a priority for me. Sabina Russo has my full attention.

As we talk, she tells me about her childhood, the weight of family expectations, the way she’s tried to carve out pieces of herself in a world that demands everything. Oh, she doesn’t offer specifics, doesn’t reveal that the family expectations are solidly grounded in a criminal empire parallel to my own.

Still, she doesn’t realize how much she’s giving me, how much of herself she’s revealing. Every word, every glance, every vulnerable smile—it’s a map and I’m tracing the lines, learning the routes that will lead me to her unravelling.

“Do you ever wish you could be someone else?” she asks suddenly, her gaze distant.

“No,” I say, my answer immediate.

Her lips part, her brow creasing. “Really?”

“Really.” I lean closer, the distance between us shrinking until her scent—jasmine and something uniquely her—fills my senses. “What about you?”

Sabina hesitates, her lashes lowering as if to shield her thoughts. Then she exhales softly. “Sometimes. I try not to dwell on it, but… sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in a life that isn’t really mine. Like I’m playing a role someone else wrote for me. ”

Her words strike a chord I didn’t expect. I’ve spent my life trapped in a role I never wanted—Mikhail Ivanov’s son, the heir to a kingdom of blood and fear. My father is brutal, soulless, the kind of man who takes and takes until there is nothing left. My uncle, Vlasta, was the only person who showed me that true strength is tempered by compassion, that loyalty cannot be bought or forced, that honor matters.

And then my father killed him to steal his power.

“You’re honest,” I say, echoing her earlier words.

She looks up, her expression unreadable. “Sometimes.”

I reach out, my fingers brushing her cheek. She doesn’t pull away. The tension between us tightens, the air charged and electric.

“Goddess,” I murmur, a quiet command.

Her lips part, her breathing shallow.

And then, slowly, deliberately, I lean in and kiss her.

The world fades. Her lips are soft, warm, yielding for a brief moment before she responds, her hands gripping my arms as if to anchor herself. She tastes like champagne and something sweeter, something forbidden.

My arms cage her as I lean over her on the cushioned bench.

The kiss turns fierce, fire and ice, a clash of need and hesitation, control and surrender. Her hands grip my biceps, her fingers curling into me like she can’t stop herself. And maybe she can’t. God knows I can’t.

Everything about her—the way she leans into me, the soft, breathless sounds she makes—are fanning a flame I can’t put out.

This isn’t just a kiss. It’s wildfire, consuming and undeniable.

I want to pick her up and carry her out of here, take her to my bed, fuck her until she screams, make her come again and again.

“Wait,” she manages, her breath warm against my mouth. Then she pulls back, her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed. “I…I have a fiancé.”

Her words reveal nothing I don’t already know. As if I don’t want to slit his throat and bury him deep in the ground for daring to touch her.

My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice calm, even. “Then why did you kiss me back?”

Sabina doesn’t answer, but her silence says everything. She doesn’t love the worthless boy she is engaged to. She is marrying him for any number of wrong reasons.

My gaze holds hers for a moment longer, then I rise and step back.

“Goodnight, goddess,” I say, my voice low, intimate.

As I walk away, I know she’ll remember this moment.

I know I will.

But when I see her again, she won’t recognize me. I won’t be the masked stranger who kissed her.

I will be her enemy.