Sacred Vow: A Dark Mafia Romance, page 1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Thank you!
About the Author
Also by Measha Stone
Copyright © 2024 by Stormy Night Publications and Measha Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.
www.StormyNightPublications.com
Stone, Measha
Sacred Vow
Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson
Images by Emma Jane Photography
Model: Jay Lam
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.
I park my little Ford Tempo a block from the bar, between two black Escalades. It looks even more beat-up between the two luxury cars, but I don’t care. It’s mine.
And it’s the last gift my brother, Craig, gave me.
I draw in a slow breath as I step onto the sidewalk and spot the sign just outside the bar.
Windy City Tavern
The wooden sign swings from a pole just above the entrance. It’s warped and faded from years of sunshine beating down on it.
I stop short of the door and look around. One way and then the other. Three flat houses in a neat row across the street. The local pharmacy on the corner hasn’t changed since I was a kid; Mr. Mackey must still own it. A cheer goes up in the distance from the park only a few streets away. It’s baseball season.
An ache hits me. I played shortstop for a season when I was in sixth grade at that park.
Craig would come to my games on the weekends. Mom worked most Saturdays, so when she worked, he’d bring me here to Windy City Tavern. He’d get me a burger.
“Hey, you going in, or you just gonna stare at the door the whole day?” A man steps around me, pulling the door open.
“Going in,” I say when he keeps holding it for me. I thank him and head inside. It’s exactly how I remember, even the cigar stench, though Chicago has outlawed smoking in public buildings.
The man who opened the door for me brushes past and walks straight to the back of the bar, down a short hallway past the restrooms and into one of the offices.
Craig would go back there sometimes. I’d be sitting with my burger and pop, and he’d be back there for almost an hour.
“Can I get you something?” the woman behind the bar asks.
“Uh, sure. Can I get a whiskey sour?” I step up to the bar and settle on the stool.
“Sure thing.” She goes to work on making the drink, while I turn slightly to take in the bar. There’s a pool table in the corner, dartboards on the walls, and a mixture of high-top tables and booths spread throughout. But most people are at the bar, murmured conversations between men on the stools, sipping on beers while watching the Cubs game on the TV screens.
Everything around me is familiar. I’ve been here. I remember being here. I played pool on that table. Craig taught me how to throw darts on those boards. But the memories I want to come back are still light years away.
“Here you go.” The bartender slides my drink to me on a napkin. I hand her a few bills and tell her to keep the change.
The front door opens, and the afternoon light pours in. A few men walk past me, talking amongst themselves and head back through the same hallway.
“Hey, Jacek.” One man at the corner of the bar sticks his hand out to shake one of the newcomers’ hands. He stops, they chat quickly, a hushed conversation that ends with an eruption of laughter.
I reach for my glass while keeping an eye on them. I can’t hear them, but there’s something familiar about the man at the bar.
Instead of grabbing my drink, I end up knocking it over.
“Shit!” I jump off my stool as the liquid quickly rolls toward me. I grab all the napkins I can find and try to clean it up.
“It’s all right. No problem.” The bartender’s back with a towel helping me mop it all up. “You want another?” she asks.
I hand her the wet napkins I have balled in my hands.
“Yeah, sure.” I pick up the stool I knocked over when I leapt off and sink back on it. When I look up again, I realize I have an audience. The men at the corner of the bar are watching me and leaning toward each other talking.
I try to ignore their stares, and when the bartender brings me my new drink, I turn away a little. I’m here to search for memories locked away in my head somewhere, not get the attention of the locals.
Sipping my drink, I try again to make connections between old memories and those that I’ve lost. Nothing is happening other than me missing my brother even more. And this neighborhood. I grew up here.
I haven’t been back in seven years, since Craig passed away and Mom took me down to Lincoln, Nebraska. She said it was safer for us there, and being all of fifteen, I didn’t have a choice.
Things are different now. And I want my life back.
I want the blank spot in my memory filled in.
“Isolde.” A familiar voice sends a trickle of apprehension down my back.
I gently put my glass back on the bar, turn on my stool, and come face to chest with a man I haven’t seen in seven years.
A man I swore I never wanted to see again.
“Andrei.” I lean my elbow on the bar, trying to take a casual pose. “What are you doing here?” Looking beyond him, I see one of the men that walked in only minutes ago.
“That’s my question.” He slides his hands into the front pockets of his trousers, pushing his suit jacket back. He’s just as big as I remember, maybe even bigger now. I definitely appreciate his muscular figure more now than I did as a teenager.
I don’t appreciate the dark glare he’s setting on me, though.
“I’m having a drink.” I bring the glass to my lips, keeping my eyes locked on his as I drink my whiskey sour.
“Well, you had it.” He takes the empty glass and hands it to the bartender, who comes running to collect it from him. “She’s done.”
“Still a bossy bastard.” I fold my arms over my chest. I’m not a teenager anymore. Andrei can’t boss me around here. I’m an adult now.
“Are you visiting a friend or something?”
“No.”
“I heard you might be back in town, but I thought that had to be wrong. Because you know it’s not a good idea for you to be in Chicago.” He pushes a fake smile on his lips.
“I don’t know that.” I lift a shoulder. “I know you told my mother that. I know she believed it. But it’s not something I know.” It’s semantics, but still the truth. I have no idea why he pushed my mother to take me to Nebraska.
He looks behind him, checks our surroundings, and gets closer to me. His pants brush against my knees. He smells like spiced leather.
“Why are you in this particular bar, Isolde?” he asks in a low voice, making sure we aren’t overheard.
“I hate when you call me that.” I thought he did it when I was younger because he was trying to tease me, but he’s not teasing now. Nothing about his firmly set jaw or his stiff posture suggests he’s looking for a laugh.
“Why this bar?” he repeats.
“Just walking down memory lane is all.” I don’t dare tell him my real purpose. One of the few things I remember after Craig’s passing was how relieved Andrei was about the hole in my memory. If he realizes I’m trying to fill that gap, he might start getting in my way.
“Some memories are dangerous.” He flattens one hand on the bar, the other on the back of my stool and leans in closer.
“Why is it dangerous, Andrei?” I’ve been in limbo with this for too long. “What are you afraid I’ll find if I start remembering things?” Maybe it’s dangerous for him.
“You should go back to Nebraska.”
I jump off the stool, landing on his foot. He barely winces but it gives me just enough room to move away from him.
“You should mind your own business.” I toss another couple of bills onto the bar for the bartender, then turn for the door.
“Isolde,” he calls after me, his voice heavy with authority.
I pause at the door, my hands already on the bar.
“No more memory walks.”
I flip him the middle finger and shove the door open.
My heart bangs against my ribs as I hurry to my car. I’m not an idiot. Andrei Petrov wasn’t someone to mess with seven years ago.
Before I get into my car, I look back at the bar.
There’s no one outside, but that doesn’t mean no one’s watching.
The bar was a bust, but worse, it put me on Andrei’s radar.
He said he’d heard I was back in town. I’ve been careful. I haven’t asked questions or reached out to any of Craig’s old friends. How did he know I was back?
And how long do I have before he tries to kick me out?
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up as soon as I enter the club.
I look up, sweeping my gaze over my surroundings to find the reason for my sudden anxiety.
“What are you looking for?” Marlena nudges me from my search of the upper balcony at Kraze. She presses herself closer to me.
“I don’t know,” I say, shuffling through the crowd another few feet toward the bar. Kraze opened a year ago, but it’s been impossible to get into without knowing someone. Marlena worked some magic to get us in, but I’m not sure we’re as lucky as I thought when she told me about it.
I’m still on edge after bumping into Andrei three days ago. The club scene was never really his thing, there’s no reason to believe he’s here. But something is putting me on alert.
“This place is insane.” Marlena shoves away someone from behind her and wiggles herself next to me when we finally get up to the bar.
“Hey. You okay?” She eyes the three men huddled beside me doing a round of shots and links her arm through mine.
“Yeah. I just got a funny feeling is all. How about you?” I look down to where our arms are linked.
“Don’t want to lose you in the crowd.” She smiles.
“Yeah, it’s way more crowded than I thought it would be.” I turn to the bartender who’s waiting impatiently. “Two bottles of Prosecco.” Why spend the night fighting off the crowd at the bar when we can pour our own drinks?
He checks our wrists and shakes his head.
“You need bottle service for that,” he informs us.
“Okay, fine. We’ll have that,” I say.
He laughs. “You need a table in the back section. Do you have a table back there?”
I’m tempted to lie, but I’m sure a club like this has a system in place.
“No.”
“Want something else then?” he prods.
“Fine. Two glasses of Prosecco.” I pull out my card and hand it to him. Marlena untangles her arm with mine and pulls out her phone.
“I’ll get the next round,” Marlena says while swiping through messages on her phone. I see one fly by with a familiar name.
“Something going on?” I ask, tapping her phone with my fingertip.
“No. No.” She swipes away another message that comes in, this one all in caps, then shoves the phone in her back pocket.
We grab our drinks and slither our way along the bar to a less crowded spot with an empty high-top.
“You sure everything’s okay? Your phone’s going off like crazy tonight.” I sip the drink. Not the most sophisticated drink, but it tingles my nose and dulls my nerves.
“It’s nothing. Just work.” She waves away my concern and takes a gulp of her drink. “You are gonna kill in that dress.” She gestures to the dress she squeezed me into before we left her apartment.
I traded in my uniform for the slinkiest, shortest, sexiest black mini dress I’ve ever seen. There’s a slit on the side that goes clear up to my hip; panties were not an option with this thing. Or a bra since the back is all crisscrossing straps that dip down to nearly the crack of my ass. I was a little surprised I fit into it.
“It’s too tight and too short,” I complain again, pulling on the hem of the dress.
She laughs. “It is not. It’s perfect.” She checks her phone again. “Sorry.” She shoves it into her purse. “No more. Promise.”
“You’re the one that wanted to come here,” I remind her as I sip my drink.
“We are twenty-two and single. Staying home on a Friday night is basically a crime.” She winks and looks around the club.
“I thought you liked being single.”
“Oh, I love it.” She nods. “I have no intention of changing it, but a few dates with a nice guy wouldn’t hurt.” She goes back to her search.
She turns around toward another part of the dance floor and nudges me.
“Shit. I didn’t think he’d be here.” Concern laces Marlena’s voice.
I follow her line of sight to a figure stepping out of one of the rooms upstairs. It’s too dark to see his features, but the build is right. His hand swipes over his suit jacket, finding the button and buttoning it with one hand.
My stomach clenches. I have to be wrong. Please let me be wrong.
“Who is that?” I ask, my throat drying.
“That is Andrei Petrov,” Marlena says. “He owns the club.”
Electric fear shoots up my spine. Andrei is here. This is his club.
He hated night clubs. Why the hell does he own one?
I should be running, but I can’t seem to get my eyes off of him. Now that he isn’t right on top of me with his arrogant anger, I can appreciate him better. His hair is a little longer than years ago. I hadn’t noticed it the other day.
Andrei gets to the elevator, hits the button, then turns around to look down at the crowd. At his kingdom.
“Andrei Petrov owns this club.” I say the words, forcing them to register in my brain. Maybe that will get my feet to move and get me the hell out of here. I’d been able to get away from him the other day. I’m not confident he’s going to let me just walk away a second time.
“Yeah.” Marlena looks to me. “Izzy, what’s wrong?”
I bring my glass to my lips but find it empty.
“I think we should go,” I say, still keeping my gaze glued to his form.
The elevator doors open behind him, but he doesn’t move. He’s still surveying the crowd.
A lightning bolt of energy strikes through me as his eyes find me. He’s still a good distance away, but I can feel his stare. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up and dance along with the music. His hands tighten on the railing until his knuckles go white.
Even from here, in the dim lighting, I can see the tic in his jaw.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Marlena wraps her arm around my waist, pulling me toward her.
Andrei turns around, hitting the elevator call button again and the doors open for him. Does the whole world just do what the man commands the moment he commands it?
“Do you know him?” More alarm sounds in her voice.
“No.” I swallow. “Not anymore.”
Once he disappears into the elevator, I lose track of him. The crowd blocks the elevator doors on this floor; for all I know, he could be walking out the front door.
My stomach flutters. A single glass of Prosecco isn’t going to cut it. I should have gotten something stronger, something that would ignite some bravado in me.
“I think we should go,” I repeat the best idea I’ve had tonight.
“All right. Yeah, let’s leave,” she says, putting her empty glass on the high-top table.
I spin around, ready to battle the crowd to get out of the club as quickly as we can and come eyes to chest with three security guards. Marlena maneuvers away from them to stand beside me. Other patrons have backed away but are hanging close by to watch what happens.
“Isolde Madson?” The one in the middle, with a Marine haircut, stares down at me. He didn’t even raise his voice and I can hear him over the thump of the music.
It occurs to me I can lie, but he’ll just ask for my ID, if he’s any good at his job, and I doubt Andrei hires anyone inept at their job.
“Who wants to know?” At least my voice doesn’t shake.
“She hasn’t done anything wrong.” Marlena loops her arm through mine again. “We’ll leave.” She tugs on me.
“Come with us.” Marine man crooks his finger.
“Both of you,” the guy to the right says, same fierce expression, longer hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck.
“What for?” I hold my ground.
“Maybe we should just leave, Izzy. Let’s just go.” She tugs again. “Seriously, you don’t want to fuck with the Petrovs. Let’s go.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Marine man confirms. “Either come with us willingly, or we’ll have to bring you.”
I’m not sure what the hell that means, but by the look of these gladiators, I’m sure I don’t want to find out.
“Fine. We’ll follow you.” I gesture for him to get moving.
