His Savage Vow (London Bratva #2)

Chapter 1

Damien

Pain.

It’s the only thing that matters. Not justice. Not duty. The pleasure of it. The certainty of it when you cross my family.

My fist tightens, the titanium knuckleduster biting into my palm as I crouch in front of the traitor and wrench him up by his shirt. The punch lands. Hard. Cartilage pops. Bone gives.

He gags. Swallows it. Tries to hold onto pride like it’s a life raft.

It isn’t.

I let him drop.

“Now,” I say, conversational, “you’re going to tell me who paid you.”

He shakes his head.

I smile like he’s made a joke.

Some men think silence is strength. They think that if they can just outlast the moment, they’ll be forgiven. Bargained for. Saved.

I don’t save people.

His eyes fixate on my fist.

He’s right to be afraid of it.

I grab his jaw and tilt his face up. He tries to pull away and learns he can’t.

“Look at me,” I say softly. “Don’t make me chase the truth. I will. And you won’t like what I do when I’m bored.”

His throat works. A whine escapes him, humiliating and thin.

“You didn’t just steal,” I continue. “You sold something that wasn’t yours. That’s not greed. That’s ambition.”

His eyes flick to the door.

There is no door that matters.

I lean closer. “Ambition is expensive.”

Then I hit him again. Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to remind him I’m choosing restraint.

He stares at me, stunned.

“Again,” I say, voice still mild, “who paid you?”

His lips tremble. He breathes in through his nose like he can control the shaking.

“No one,” he whispers.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This is bordering on ridiculous and is getting boring. I have places to be.

I take a blade from my pocket—small, clean, meant for quiet work—and slide it out just enough for the light to catch. I don’t threaten him with it. I don’t wave it around. I simply let him understand it exists.

His eyes widen.

“That’s better,” I murmur. “Now you’re paying attention.”

He swallows. “I… I don’t know his name.”

“You do. You just don’t want to say it. You are afraid of what he will do to you, but look around, arsehole…” I wait for his predicament to sink in. It always comes. Men are simple in the end. Pain strips them down to one honest thing: survival.

“I was told,” he says quickly, words tumbling over each other, “I was told it wouldn’t reach you. That you wouldn’t care. That you’re not—”

He stops.

Not what?

Not the heir? Not the decision-maker? Not the one who matters?

I laugh, quiet and genuine. “Oh, dear. Did you just fuck up?” I straighten, roll my shoulders once, and feel the ache in my knuckles settle into something pleasant. Familiar. “Here’s how this works. You don’t get mercy from men like me. You get time. And you spend it wisely.”

I tap him on the forehead with the knucks.

“Names,” I say.

He gives them. Not all at once. In pieces. In the pauses between breaths, he realises he’s still alive.

I let him finish.

I tighten my fist again, and he understands what the truth costs.

“No—”

The punch lands. Hard. It’s not anger. It’s punctuation.

When his head lolls forward, and his body goes slack, I stand there for a moment, listening to the silence return. My pulse is steady. My hands are warm.

Satisfied.

Turning to the ghost in the corner, I nod. “Clean this up, Anton. Get the names to Baron.”

He nods, and I know he will deliver. What my father does with the names is his business. I have better things to do now.

Before pocketing the knucks, I wash them and my hands in a grimy sink that smells like rust and old soap, scrubbing blood from my knuckles. The sting is a reward.

There is a party in a club somewhere in the city with my name on it, and I feel like spending an obscene amount of cash.

The metal door slams behind me, sealing the stench of copper and fear inside the warehouse.

The night air on the outskirts of London greets me, damp and heavy with the scent of upcoming rain.

It feels good against my heated skin. I roll down the sleeves of my black Tom Ford shirt, the thrill is buzzing under my skin like a live wire.

My Aston Martin waits at the kerb. I unlock it, the lights flashing a welcome.

The engine roars to life, a deep, aggressive growl that matches the mood settling in my chest. I tear onto the street, the tyres screeching a complaint against the wet tarmac. Speed distorts the streetlamps into streaks of gold and white as I weave through traffic to the first club.

The Gilded Cage. Stupid name, excellent vodka.

Pulling up in the car park, I pick up my phone when it buzzes.

A text from my assistant, Kirill: Auction. Tomorrow night. One not to miss.

I scowl at it. An auction. Sounds dull. But something prickles my skin, and I reply: Why is it not one to miss?

A beat and another message pops up: Trust me.

The inventory pops onto the screen, and I enlarge it. My right eyebrow goes up as I scan it. “Well, now,” I murmur, putting the phone down. “One not to miss indeed.”

Suddenly, my appetite for tonight has vanished. I slam the car into gear and scream out of the car park with enough force to scatter the smokers hovering outside. My Belgravia townhouse beckons.

I take the drive fast, tyres whispering over wet cobblestone, cutting through a maze of Georgian townhouses where old money sleeps behind blackout curtains and CCTV cameras track my every move with hungry electronic eyes.

The wrought-iron gates to my mews slide open on silent hydraulics, recognising the car’s signature.

I park the Aston, its engine ticking as it cools.

House lights rise in a perfect choreographed sequence, like a theatre preparing for its star.

Inside, the silence has been meticulously curated.

Basquiat originals scream from pristine walls, crystal decanters of vodka sit on the mahogany cart, Italian leather furniture in brutal blacks sits on stark marble floors that reflect the moonlight.

Entering the bedroom, I strip off, heading for the shower.

Steam fogs the glass as I step under the spray.

Heat bites first, then settles into the ache in my hands until the pulse in my knuckles evens out.

Blood spirals from my skin in thin pink threads before the water turns clear.

I brace one palm on the tile, tip my head back, and let the noise of the day strip away until only the silence remains.