Savage Vow: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Ivanov Crime Family Book 1)

by Zoe Blake

  Shifting slightly, I placed my right arm securely around her waist. My left hand slipped under her dress to move up the side of her right thigh. Her skin felt warm and soft. From the determined set of her jaw, I knew she could feel the press of my hardening cock beneath her ass.

  “If you promise to be a good girl, I will tell you where we are going,” I offered, breaking the silence.

  She didn’t respond.

  I squeezed her thigh. Samara’s mouth opened on another gasp as alarmed eyes rose to clash with my own.

  “Will you tell me if your brother has Yelena?”

  “No.”

  “Will you at least promise me your brother won’t hurt her?”

  “I am not my brother’s keeper, so no. Now are you going to promise to be a good girl?”

  “Fine! I promise,” she sputtered angrily.

  “Temper, little one,” I warned. I could tell she was chafing at having my bit between her teeth.

  Samara tilted her head and gave me a false smile. “Fine. I promise,” she said in a high falsetto voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Minx.

  “We are headed to the Art Institute. There is a gala celebrating the early female artists of the impressionist movement. I thought you would enjoy it.”

  It would also be the perfect time to parade my bride in front of some influential business associates. My plans had been delayed. It was time to get them back on track. I might as well stay in Chicago for a few meetings and events to solidify my claim on Samara before returning to D.C. to face her father. I didn’t trust the man to have not tried to make other arrangements for her hand over these last few years, despite taking and spending my money. With luck, the news that I had found—and claimed—Samara would reach her father before our return to the East Coast, squashing any plans he may have made otherwise.

  Plus, I had to admit, I was looking forward to walking the galleries with someone who appreciated art as much as I did. I didn’t exactly associate with the type of people who liked to discuss the use of light and shadow in an artist’s work. Most assumed I collected art because it was an easy way to launder huge sums of money. It suited my purposes to let them think that.

  The truth was, I enjoyed looking at paintings. I was in awe of anyone who had the talent to put paint to canvas. Tonight, we’d be viewing an Impressionist exhibit, a particular favorite time period of mine. Judging by her work, I suspected the Impressionists were also influential on Samara’s style as well.

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I hoped it would soften her towards me and my intentions. I may have been a monster in forcing her hand in marriage but that didn’t mean I planned to make her miserable for the rest of her life. Quite the contrary.

  Her cute brow furrowed. I knew I was confusing her. In order for her to be the doting bride, I needed to be the perfect fiancé. This was all just a game, and we all had our parts to play.

  “You are to stay by my side at all times. It’s time you started fulfilling your responsibilities as the fiancé of an Ivanov. If you try to leave, there will be consequences.” I grabbed her chin and turned her face to mine. “Do I need to explain to you what those consequences will be?”

  She shook her head vehemently no, breaking my grasp.

  “Is that all you want from me?”

  “Oh malyshka, I haven't even begun to take all that I want from you.”

  After entering the museum, we made our way up the grand staircase and across the Alsdorf Gallery, which was filled with Himalayan and Asian art. Placing my hand on her lower back, I guided Samara to the right, into the Sculpture Court where the invitation said they would serve cocktails.

  I took two glasses of champagne from a passing server and handed her one. “This is your only glass for the night, so sip it.” I pretended not to see the face she pulled at my heavy-handed command.

  We casually strolled among the Greek and Roman marble statues as I nodded to the occasional passing acquaintance.

  “Aren’t you worried someone may recognize me as Gwen Stevens?” she asked. There was a slight cheeky quality to her smile. The crowd had emboldened her, made her think she was safe from my advances, my discipline. The little one thought she had caught me in a miscalculation. How cute.

  Looking to my left and right, to make sure the rest of the guests were more concerned with their own conversations, I turned my attention to Samara. Taking one step, then another, I forced her to back away. I kept stalking her till I cornered her in one of the smaller, unoccupied rooms off the main hallway displaying early American art.

  Deliberately dominating her with my superior height, I leaned down.

  “Failing to recognize the skill of your opponent. Rookie mistake,” I teased, knowing it would get a rise out of her.

  Her green eyes flashed. “Why you—”

  I raised an eyebrow, practically daring her to make a scene.

  Her knuckles turned white from her fierce grip on her champagne flute as I watched her master her emotions.

  “I know for a fact, you do not use the same false identity twice, so no one here would have dealt with a Gwen Stevens since you haven’t been in Chicago that long. I also know that you deliberately change your appearance with make-up, wigs for each new identity. So, the chances of one of these self-involved pompous asses recognizing you as the person who sold them a painting a few weeks ago is slight.”

  With each statement of fact, I pressed in closer till I could feel the brush of her breasts against my chest.

  “How could you possibly know all that?” she asked, not even trying to hide her alarm.

  I refused to answer.

  Tilting my head down, I breathed in her air.

  I raised my hand and brushed the back of my knuckles over the soft rise of her breast, wanting to feel her heartbeat, knowing it would be fast and erratic. My malyshka could try to hide her emotions from me, but she couldn’t control her body’s reaction to my presence.

  Samara licked her lips as her mouth opened just slightly in invitation.

  I leaned in closer but was interrupted.

  “Gregor Romanovich, you bastard. I thought that was you. I heard you and your brother were in town.”

  A large hand clapped me on the shoulder as I turned. “Dimitri Antonovich!” I greeted him with both his first and middle name as well as was the custom in Russia.

  I embraced my old friend, and we kissed on the cheeks.

  “But what are you doing in Chicago, my friend? The meeting over the deal with Syria is not until next month. There is nothing I should know about, is there?”

  Dimitri Kosgov and his business partner Vaska Rostov were two of the most powerful and feared arms dealers in the Western Hemisphere. They based their operations out of Chicago, so naturally he would be curious why I was here unannounced. Men of my caliber did not just show up. It rattled the other powers that be.

  “Everything is going as planned for next month. I’m here on a brief trip with my fiancé. Dimitri, may I introduce, Samara Federova.”

  I placed a controlling hand on Samara’s lower back and shot her a warning glare.

  Her bottom pink lip stuck out in a pout, making me want to lean over and bite it.

  Dimitri raised an eyebrow. Being the man he was, he would have heard of her abrupt disappearance and my search for her and her friend over the years. It was an embarrassment for both the Ivanovs and Federovs. All the more reason to showcase that Samara was now back at my side, where she belonged.

  Dimitri extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Samara.”

  Samara glanced down at Dimitri’s heavily tattooed hand and hesitated. She shifted her stance to sidle a little closer to my side. The small, probably unconscious, move pleased me more than I would care to admit.

  Dimitri was as tall and powerfully built as me, which made him equally intimidating.

  Before I could reassure her, a small brunette dressed in a floral dress and Doc Martens walked up and wrapped an arm around Dimitri’s f
orearm. “Dimitri, can’t you see you’re frightening her? I keep trying to tell you… you are a very scary-looking man!”

  She leaned over and gave Samara a reassuring smile. “Hi! I’m Emma. Sorry if my husband came off like Caliban from The Tempest.”

  Dimitri grabbed her around the waist. Leaning down, he nipped at her ear as she giggled. “I’ll show you a beast later, moya kroshka!”

  Looking down, it surprised me to see Samara’s cheeks flush as she stared at them with rapt attention.

  My brow furrowed, and I returned my gaze to my friend and his new pretty wife.

  I had heard he had made an unusual choice in bride, picking a woman who had no money or influence, who wasn’t even a daughter of an important Russian family. If I remembered correctly, she was a librarian. His choice seemed foolish and short-sighted. Why not simply fuck the girl and marry someone who would better further his business interests?

  One had only to look at him to know the answer.

  He looked happy.

  “Pozdravlyayu so svad'boy,” I said as I shook Emma’s hand.

  Samara finally found her tongue. Taking her cue from me, she congratulated the couple on their recent marriage as well.

  His new bride turned back to us. “I love your outfit, Samara. I can’t wait for you to meet my friend Mary! You both have the same fabulous style.”

  “Thank you,” answered Samara through tight, thinned lips.

  It killed her to receive a compliment on the dress I had purchased for her and insisted she wear.

  We both knew I had chosen perfectly.

  I couldn’t resist an arrogant smirk as I looked down at her. She willfully kept her head straight ahead, denying me the satisfaction of gloating. Slipping my hand more securely around her waist, I gave her a little squeeze. In response, she stamped her ballet-slippered foot down on mine.

  I couldn’t contain a bark of laughter. Dimitri gave me a quizzical look, but I waved his concern away. It was thrilling to know that spark of spirit I had seen in her three years ago had been flamed into a fire during her years away from me.

  Looking down into her dark emerald eyes, I gave her wink, hoping it would piss her off.

  It did.

  Her eyes narrowed as she tried—and failed—to once more twist out of my embrace.

  She really was an entertaining little spitfire.

  Just then a server announced the Impressionist gallery was now open.

  We followed Dimitri, Emma, and the other guests to the second floor.

  Over the entrance to the Regenstein Hall was a massive banner announcing the new special exhibit, First Ladies of the Impressionists, and beneath that were portraits of Morisot, Cassatt, Gonzales, and Bracquemond. Tonight, was the gala honoring the new exhibit, while tomorrow it would open to the public. I didn’t want to read into my motivation for coming, knowing deep down I chose this specific event not just because of who would be in attendance, but because I thought it would please her.

  From the corner of my eye, I watched Samara swipe another glass of champagne, hoping I wouldn’t notice. Soon she would realize nothing escaped my notice.

  Using my hand on her lower back, I guided her to the Marie Bracquemond section of the exhibit, particularly a small self-portrait of the artist. As we stood before the painting, I asked Samara what she knew of it as I studied the burnt umber and ivory tones. The artist stared serenely back through dark, resigned eyes.

  “It’s a self-portrait of Marie Bracquemond. This is the only self-portrait in her collection.” Samara tried to step away from me, but my hand on her waist prevented it. “I think she looks sad and beaten down by the life choices forced on her.”

  Surrounded by the glow of the dim gallery lighting, Samara looked luminous and beautiful as her gaze studied the painting before us, not missing a detail.

  “Beautiful,” I murmured softly against her sweet-smelling hair.

  I could tell by her deepening blush she heard me, but she refused to look up.

  Nodding to the painting, she continued, “She’s not as well-known as say Cassatt or Morisot because her husband forbade her to pursue a career in painting despite being an artist himself. He was probably threatened by her talent. A real man would have encouraged her.”

  The little minx was baiting me.

  I wondered if this was one of the reasons why she ran from me.

  Had someone given her the impression I wouldn’t support her art career?

  She probably thinks I’m a neanderthal who wants a woman chained to a stove.

  Well, I’m not.

  Chained to my bed… that was different.

  Making sure she could feel every inch of my body as I stood close behind her, I whispered in her ear, “When you are my wife, I don’t care how you spend your days as long as you are in my bed with those beautiful legs spread waiting for me at night.”

  I could tell my honest response startled her.

  “I need to use the lady’s room,” she announced as she quickly turned. In her haste to get away from me, she bumped into another guest, spilling the rest of her champagne.

  I watched for a minute as she practically ran through the gallery. Then I followed her.

  Chapter 12

  Samara

  “Excuse me. So sorry, all my fault,” I said as I brushed my hand over the drops of champagne down the man’s left arm before hurrying away.

  In my right hand was his cell phone. A little trick Yelena and I picked up while on the run. Knowing how to get your hands on a quick cell phone that couldn’t be traced back to you was an invaluable skill.

  Tuscan Red.

  Georgia Clay.

  True Ochre.

  Burnt Sienna.

  Cadmium Red.

  To calm myself down as I made my way through the empty galleries, I recited the names of the colors I had seen in the painting.

  Burnt Orange.

  Mustard Seed.

  Crimson Red.

  Blood Red.

  Ignoring the signs for the restrooms, I hurried down the stone stairs to the first level. Motioning to the guard, I said, “Just need to use the ladies’ room. The ones close to the event have lines.” After his nod of approval, I made a right and went down the small stone staircase to the deserted lower level.

  After hurrying inside the bathroom, I locked the door behind me.

  Taking out the phone, I prayed it wasn’t password protected as I hit the small, circular button. The phone lit up. It wasn’t. Even as I dialed, I knew trying to call Yelena or even Nadia was hopeless. They would never answer a call on their phones from a number they didn’t recognize. Especially Yelena, and most especially if she was fleeing from Damien. I prayed she got away. There was no point in both of us being dragged back to D.C. to face our fate.

  Glancing back at the phone, I stared at the keypad and focused on the nine and one. The police were not an option, even I knew that. With a frustrated sigh, I wiped my prints off the phone and threw it in the garbage.

  I never doubted for a moment that Gregor was a criminal. There had been whispers about Nadia’s family connections since I was a child. I also knew he was dangerous. Very dangerous. Only a confident man, secure in his own power and connections, would have been bold enough to drag an unwilling woman to an event with some of the most influential people in Chicago on the guest list.

  He knew I wouldn’t cry out or ask for help.

  He fucking knew it.

  Damn him.

  And damn him for my body’s reaction to him. I was acting no better than the schoolgirl I was three years ago.

  My cheeks heated at the memory of what he’d just whispered in my ear.

  He was lying to me. He must be. He couldn’t honestly think I’d believe for one moment that he would be okay with his wife having an art career? It was a lie, a manipulation, and I knew why. It was yet another tactic of his. Drawing on images of control and discipline, even safety and protection, to bend me to his will. Letting me think that while
married to him, I could still have the life I wanted, that I could still have my dreams.

  Damn him for doing it.

  And damn me for falling for it.

  As much as I hated to admit it, every time he issued a stern, heavy-handed command, my stomach flipped.

  I needed to focus. I had captured the interest of a fierce opponent who already had the drop on me.

  Unlocking the door, I stepped into the hall.

  I instinctively ducked into the closest exhibit room when I heard voices.

  It was the Thorne Miniatures Gallery.

  Stepping deeper into the darkened gallery, I looked around at the light wood paneling with its neat rows of little windows. Each window looked into a tiny room, a mini diorama, and was a perfect recreation of the home furnishings and architecture from France, England, and America over the last several hundred years. Each one displayed a perfect little family in their perfect little world. If only.

  “I thought I told you not to leave my side?”

  I turned to see Gregor in the entranceway to the gallery. His presence immediately filled the small darkened room. The energy he exuded felt like a hand squeezing inside my chest.

  “Gregor, please you need to listen to me. No good will ever come of this… of us. You need to just let me go.”

  Taking a few steps into the darkened room, he shrugged out of his suit jacket.

  “Dammit, Gregor. Did you hear me? We have to end this… this game, you’re playing. Just let me fucking leave!” I shouted as I stamped my foot. I knew I looked like an impudent child. Doing so didn’t help my cause considering he already treated me like a child. My hand went back to rub my still sore ass as my cheeks heated from the memory of the humiliating spanking he gave me earlier.

  “I heard you the first time,” he said as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, exposing powerful forearms.

  Running a hand through my hair, I paced.