Ruthless Vow (Sinful Mafia Daddies #11)

Chapter 1

VIKTOR

Ileave the restaurant before dessert because I’m tired of listening to these assholes lie to my face.

They think they’re clever, but I see through their ass-kissing.

They want a piece of my territory, but the answer will always be no.

They think I’m going to forget how quickly men like them switch sides when a bigger threat walks into the room.

Sergei stays behind to finish the meeting with them.

He’s better at pretending to negotiate, at reeling them in to the point that we earn their trust. I’m the one who ultimately drops the hammer.

My word is law. It doesn’t hurt to have allies though, and just because I’m not giving them my property doesn’t mean we can’t be useful to one another in the future.

That’s where Sergei shines. He somehow makes people see a “no” as a positive.

He establishes these bullshit relationships that help us and hurt our enemies.

They don’t even realize what they’re agreeing to when all is said and done, and we still end up on top.

It’s why Sergei is the second-in-command of my family’s operation. He knows how to get results.

The smaller Brighton outfits are getting nervous.

That’s what tonight was about, even if they wouldn’t say it directly.

They kept circling back to the same subject without ever landing on it.

They’re all terrified of Grinkov. They’re all experiencing new dock disputes, increased security shifts, and shipments that used to move quietly are now being rerouted.

They all want to know if I’m going to step in and do something about it.

They want protection without openly declaring allegiance.

I’m not in the habit of fighting other men’s wars.

My family carved out our stretch of Brooklyn decades ago.

My grandfather did it with brute force. My father cleaned it up, turned it into something structured and profitable.

I inherited something stable, something disciplined.

We don’t expand our operations purely for ego.

We expand when it makes sense for our organization.

We survive by minding our own business and staying out of petty disputes.

Grinkov doesn’t operate that way. He doesn’t build, he consumes. That’s why everyone is running scared. They don’t want their own operations to be bulldozed by Grinkov, but it’s not my place to intervene.

I collect my keys from the valet and wait for him to bring the car around. By the time he pulls around, I barely give him a chance to get out before I’m behind the wheel.

I told my driver to take the night off because I knew this meeting would leave a bad taste in my mouth. I need a drive to clear my head and consider everything that’s happened.

Neptune Avenue is alive tonight. Music spills out of open doors.

Women laugh too loudly, stumbling over shoes that look like weapons.

A few young idiots rev engines like they’re the biggest, baddest punks on the block.

I don’t see any of it the way civilians do.

I’m counting security rotations. I’m noting new faces outside clubs that used to answer to me.

I’m clocking which runners are too young to be local.

There are too many new bodies in Brighton Beach. Too much movement near my borders.

Brighton Beach has always been shared territory in practice, even if no one says it out loud.

Half answers to Kovalev influence. Half leans toward Malenkov.

Grinkov has been trying to tilt that balance for years, buying up failing businesses, sliding their people into management positions, offering loans with interest rates that bleed families dry.

They don’t just want Brighton. They want all of Brooklyn.

If they get enough footholds, they’ll start pressing toward Bay Ridge and Red Hook next. Toward my docks.

And I don’t lose ground.

Volna’s side entrance comes up on my right.

That club is Grinkov money through and through.

Flashy, loud, attracting exactly the kind of chaos that brings police attention.

I’ve let them keep it because it’s contained.

Because it’s easier to let them burn out Brighton than to fight over it, but I don’t like how popular it’s becoming.

It’s attracting an unwelcome element to my territory.

I’m halfway past the alley when the movement pulls my attention.

There are three men crowding around a woman near a black sedan that’s angled toward the street, engine already running.

At first glance, it looks like the kind of messy argument that happens outside nightclubs every weekend.

A drunk couple fighting. A girl refusing to go home.

Something loud but ultimately unimportant.

Then I look closer.

One of the men is gripping her upper arm too high and too tightly for it to be casual. The second has his hand braced at her waist, not guiding her but forcing her. The third keeps glancing up the street instead of looking at her, which tells me this is organized.

I slow the car without thinking about it. A horn blares behind me and I flip on my hazards. The driver lays on his horn again. I don’t look back. If he wants to pick a fight, he’s going to get more than he’s bargaining for.

The men close in tighter around her. One grabs her waist. Another tries to force her toward the open back door of the sedan. She resists, but not in any way I’ve seen other women try.

She doesn’t scream for help. She doesn’t look around wildly. She plants her heel and drives it hard into one man’s shin. It hits with a clean impact, like she’s clearly been trained for this. He stumbles sideways, more shocked than hurt.

That wasn’t a lucky shot, she knew where to hit to make it hurt.

The other two move in around her like she’s a feral animal, like she might attack them next. One reaches for her shoulders. The other grabs her wrist. She twists and nearly slips free before the first man recovers and shoves her toward the car again.

I lean forward slightly, eyes narrowing as the streetlight shifts across her face. There’s blood at the corner of her mouth. Her hair falls wildly around her face, like it’s come undone from a well-coiffed style.

And then I recognize her: Anya Malenkova.

I’ve seen her twice in formal settings, always at her father’s side.

She never simpered, nor ever played the obedient daughter.

She stood straight, watched everything, and spoke only when necessary with some additional spice.

I remember noticing that about her. Most daughters raised in this world learn to smile and keep quiet.

She didn’t.

Rumors have been moving for months about a marriage alliance between Malenkov and Grinkov as a way to consolidate Brighton. A way to strengthen their hold against outside pressure. I didn’t pay much attention. Marriage deals are currency in our circles.

Watching this now, I don’t see a willing bride.

One of the men punches her in the ribs. She bends but doesn’t fold. Instead, she snaps her head backward and connects with his nose hard enough that I see blood spray even from this distance.

Still, she doesn’t scream. She doesn’t beg for someone to help her. She knows that only she can help herself. The sight of her undoes something deep inside of me.

The Grinkov reputation is one of fear and intimidation, but they don’t just threaten.

They make examples. They carve fear into neighborhoods so deep that people stop resisting before they’re even asked to.

Businesses that hesitate get burned. Families that complain lose sons. That’s how they operate.

If this is how they’re handling Malenkov’s daughter, it means something has shifted.

Or something has broken.

The sedan’s driver moves toward his door and climbs inside. The engine turns over. The car inches forward as if momentum alone will solve their problem.

She braces her foot against the doorframe and refuses to be folded into the backseat.

There’s pride in it. Stupid pride, maybe.

But pride all the same. If she goes into that car, she disappears into Grinkov property.

Into a negotiation that won’t include her voice.

If she resurfaces, it will be as someone else’s wife.

If she fights like this on the street, I can only imagine what she’d do inside a locked room.

Maybe the smaller Brighton families were right to be nervous. If Grinkov can try to force Malenkov’s daughter into submission out in the open like this, no one is safe from being swallowed.

I check the street again. Two pedestrians across the way deliberately avoid looking at the scene. A delivery van sits half a block up. No visible cameras are pointed directly into the alley. There are no police cruisers in sight. It solidifies a decision I’m not ready to voice just yet.

The first man she kicked is back on his feet now. He grabs her by the upper arm again, harder this time. The other two try to lift her body and force her down into the seat. She twists between them and almost breaks free. Almost.

For a second, she’s balanced and ready to run. Then one of them lands another punch and the balance tips. That’s enough. The sedan’s engine revs as the driver tries to ease forward. I don’t wait for them to gain speed.

A voice in my head tells me this is a huge mistake. I don’t want to be involved in this. I don’t need an enemy in the Malenkov camp, and I certainly don’t want to piss off Mikhail Grinkov. Still, I can’t watch this girl struggle anymore. She’s clearly being forced into something she doesn’t want.

If Sergei were here, he’d tell me to keep driving and to mind my business.

He’d remind me that getting involved in personal business is a good way to start a war.

A war I probably wouldn’t be able to win.

My organization is strong, but it’s just as vulnerable to attack as anyone else’s.

No one is safe while the Grinkovs are trying to devour Brooklyn.

But I’ve seen enough. I turn the car around and reach for my gun.