Promised to the Killer: A Dark Mafia Romance

“Don’t ever talk to me that way again,” he says very slowly and very deliberately. “I know you’re hurting. I’ll let you have this one. But you will never disrespect me that way again. Do you understand?”

I grunt in pain as he tightens his grip on my hair. “I understand.”

He lets me go. I sit back and hug myself tighter. He stares at me and his face softens again, and I manage to wipe my eyes. Some of my sadness is replaced by fear, and at least I’m not crying anymore.

“I’ll handle Zita.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “What can you do?”

“Let me worry about that. I’ll make it stop.” He starts the engine.

I watch him, mind racing. Is he joking right now? He seems deadly serious, but I can’t tell if he’s only trying to project strength after I just eviscerated him or if he really thinks he can stop what’s happening in there. That’s my father’s place and while the Novalov family is strong, Maxim doesn’t have the authority to make changes.

Guilt wracks me and I hate myself for talking to him like that. I’m such a selfish asshole and he let me lash out on him purely so I could make myself feel better, and he’s right. I shouldn’t disrespect him that way. Even after that, he’s willing to help me.

He pulls out and I lapse into silence. I don’t know how he’ll fix this, but I have to believe he’ll try. Otherwise, I don’t know if I can live with myself.

Chapter 15

Siena

Maxim drops me off at the Kremlin. “Stay in the room,” he says from the doorway. “I have to go back out.”

I shrug and wrap a blanket around my shoulders as I curl up in a chair next to the windows. He keeps looking at me with this stare halfway between desire and hate, and I can’t blame him. I said some ugly thigs to him back in the car, and I’d hate me too if I were him.

He closes the door. I bite back my tears. Enough crying for one day. Sobbing isn’t going to change a damn thing.

I keep replaying that conversation with Mira. I keep seeing her bruises, over and over again. I did that to her. I caused them to hit her. All because of Maxim. Zita’s the kind of person that thrives on control and power, and I challenged her. She needs to reassert herself somehow, and so she’ll turn to hurting Mira instead of me. She’s sick, and I hate her, but I should’ve seen this coming.

She all but warned me.

I get up and pace. I can’t sit still. I feel nauseous and I hate myself. I tug at my hair and finally get too fed up with being stuck in this room. I head into the hallway and hurry toward the library. It’s the only other safe space I know in this hellish house. This whole home is rich and lavish, but there’s no warmth anywhere. It’s cold, like the real Kremlin.

My heart’s racing, and all I want to do is curl up next to the fireplace with a book. Maybe that’ll keep my mind from Mira and Zita and Maxim and all my problems for a few minutes. Maybe I can escape into a world where I’m not a failure and totally worthless.

I hurry into the library and I’m so single-minded that I don’t notice the man sitting in the high-backed chair in the corner. I stop midway to the shelves when he clears his throat and my heart nearly stops in my chest. I turn to him and sticky sweat drips down my underarms as fear slices along my skin.

It’s Damir Novalov. Maxim’s father. He holds a thick volume in his lap and looks at me over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. In this context, he looks like a kindly grandfather or an academic, except his eyes carry a cold, hard promise to them, and I feel a chill. I smell decaying paper and a pungent cleaning solution, like someone recently scrubbed the carpet. His father holds me with his eyes, the same look Maxim gave me, but there’s no softening this man.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out and turn to the door. “I thought it was empty.” I hurry to go.

“Wait,” he says, and his voice is a sharp command.

I stop in my tracks. I don’t want to look back at him. I’m terrified of that monster. He’s like my father, but so much worse.

“Come here for a moment, Siena.”

I turn and take a deep breath. I force myself to smile. Can he tell that I’ve been crying? I’m sure he can—anyone would notice my red, puffy eyes and slightly smeared makeup. I’m a mess right now, and it’s the worst time imaginable to talk to the one person I’m supposed to avoid at all costs.