Tainted Vow: An Age Gap Dark Russian Mafia Romance Read online

  Tainted Vow

  A Dark Russian Mafia Romance

  Cara Bianchi

  Copyright © 2022 - Cara Bianchi

  Cover © 2022 - @covers_by_wonderland (Instagram)

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Mailing List

  1. Harper

  2. Maxim

  3. Harper

  4. Maxim

  5. Harper

  6. Maxim

  7. Harper

  8. Maxim

  9. Harper

  10. Harper

  11. Maxim

  12. Maxim

  13. Harper

  14. Maxim

  15. Harper

  16. Maxim

  17. Harper

  18. Maxim

  19. Harper

  20. Maxim

  21. Harper

  22. Maxim

  23. Harper

  24. Maxim

  25. Harper

  26. Maxim

  27. Harper

  28. Maxim

  29. Maxim

  30. Harper

  31. Maxim

  32. Harper

  Epilogue

  Mailing List

  Also by Cara Bianchi

  Mailing List

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  1

  Harper

  I walk into the room to find my father throwing things into a suitcase. He’s making a real mess of it, socks and shirts flying as he tries to decide what to take.

  Mom is crying, a high-pitched keening wail.

  Something tells me this isn’t an impromptu vacation.

  “Did you do something to her?” I ask. “What’s going on? Why are you packing?”

  He looks up. “Harper, thank God you’re here. Just calm down, okay?”

  “I am calm.” I pick up his passport from the floor. “It’s you that’s losing your shit. What are you doing?”

  Dad snatches the passport from my hand and tosses it into a holdall. “I fucked up, kid. I fucked up real bad. Do you forgive me? You gotta forgive your old dad, right?”

  “I can’t forgive you until you tell me what you’ve done!”

  Dad stops running around and slumps to the ground. He grabs a small bottle of whiskey from the holdall and takes a slug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “You know how I took Mom to Vegas in the summer? Got the boat, all that?”

  “Yeah, with your bonus money. What about it?”

  Dad looks at me, his eyes wild. “It wasn’t a bonus, sweetie. I stole it.”

  I close my eyes. Fucking typical. I wish I was more surprised.

  “I paid your mom’s hospital bills with it, too,” he’s saying, “so it was a good thing. A victimless crime.” He breaks into sobs. “Except the victim is gonna be me.”

  I’m furious with him, but he’s so pathetic right now that I can’t bring myself to say anything. I feel a familiar rolling weight deep in my stomach.

  “Tell her, Derek,” Mom wails, clutching at me. “Tell her what you fucking did!”

  My father glares at her. “You knew, Rita, don’t pretend you didn’t, just so Harper won’t think badly of you. You didn’t seem to mind when we were piling chips onto the fucking roulette!”

  I can’t take any more of this.

  “What the hell are you two talking about? Tell me right now!”

  My mother storms out, and I hear her pouring a drink. She must have a bottle stashed in every room in the house.

  Dad takes another swig of whiskey and closes his eyes.

  “I owe five million dollars to the Russian mafia.”

  There are so many things I want to ask, but only one word comes out.

  “How?”

  “Accountancy is well enough paid, but not once you factor in your mom’s inpatient fees and rehab visits. That’s how it started.”

  He sits on the end of the bed, gesturing for me to sit beside him, but I stay where I am.

  He sighs and continues. “Someone approached me. A man who needed someone to make a lot of dirty money look legitimate. It was low risk and very well-paid, so I took it on, and I’ve been doing it for years. Developed a system. I thought only I understood it, so I’d be okay, you know…to skim some off the top, as they say.”

  He pauses, hoping I’ll say something, but I give him nothing.

  “He found out what I did. So I have to give back every dollar, meaning mom’s medical bills won’t get paid.” He looks at me, trying to find something in my face that tells him I don’t hate him. “And maybe I’ll get murdered, anyway.”

  He doesn’t elaborate further. Instead, he rummages in his pocket, producing a crumpled piece of paper.

  “So look,” he says, “I’m going to be away for a little while. Remember Max, the guy who runs Atikin Legal? ”

  Yeah, I remember Max. He didn’t speak to me once during my internship, but I remember him all right. Hot fucking damn. My gawky twenty-one-year-old self didn’t know what hit her…

  “He needs a temp,” Dad says. “Book-keeping, invoicing, and general office stuff, nothing heavy. He called and asked about you, and I told him you were looking for a decent contract. I said you’d go along to see him this afternoon, but I’m sure he won’t mind if you go right now.”

  He thrusts the paper towards me.

  “Why doesn’t he go through the agency?”

  “Harper, for fuck’s sake,” Dad says, spitting as he speaks. “Max will pay you over the odds because he’s my friend. Just see him before he gets someone else. I gotta get out of here.”

  I take the paper from him and scrunch it into a ball, dropping it into my purse.

  My mother is crashing around and cursing. Seems like a good time to get out of here.

  “I have a job to go to already, and I’m going to be late again, thanks to you.”

  I turn to leave.

  “Harper,” my father says. I turn and look at him. “Forgive me.”

  I don’t respond.

  I grab my bag, and I’m out the door.

  “Will you step in here, Harper? I’d like to have a chat with you.”

  Sandra’s smile looks painted on. She extends a perfectly manicured finger in my direction, beckoning me.

  My desk phone is ringing. Again.

  This is the fourth time this morning, and we both know it won’t be a business call.

  I look at Sandra, begging with my eyes.

  “Oh, fine,” she snaps, “but hurry it up.” She heads back into her office and slams the door.

  I pick up the phone.

  “Honey, I’m feeling so sick…”

  “Mom,” I say, lowering my voice, “you have to stop doing this. I’m at work. Call Dad.”

  “He’s gone. How could you leave me too, on this of all days?”

  I catch the eye of one of my co-workers. I haven’t been here long enough to learn people’s names, but whoever the hell she is, she’s glaring at me, and now she’s muttering to the beehive-and-pearls next to her.

  “I can’t just stay home whenever you need me,” I say into the phone.

  Sandra reappears in the office doorway. She looks at me like she wants to claw my eyes out.

  “Mom. Just take a tablet and lie down. I’ll be home later
, okay?”

  I hang up and follow Sandra into her office.

  “Take a seat,” she says as she sits down. “Why do you think I want to have this meeting?”

  I sit opposite her and tuck my hands under my thighs to stop myself from fidgeting. “I don’t know,” I lie.

  “You sure? Because I think you do,” Sandra says. She’s looking at her computer monitor. “I have the call logs here from this week. You started on Monday, correct?”

  I nod.

  “Well, Harper, since then, you have made forty-five outbound calls, totaling fifteen hours. That’s fine. Most of those are numbers on the client directory. But these,” she points to the screen, “are not. They’re personal. And those calls, all inbound, add up to twenty-two hours. Of my time, not yours.”

  I know I should say something, but I can’t. My voice is stuck in my throat, trying to get out, but something is holding it back, just like always.

  Mom calls me constantly, even on a normal day. She can’t be alone, she gets too paranoid and insecure. If she took her medication and stayed off the drink, it wouldn’t be a problem, but that would mean taking responsibility for herself, and she’d rather dump on me. For once, she has a genuine reason to panic today, but it doesn’t seem wise to get into that with Sandra.

  “I had some personal issues,” I say.

  “You didn’t discuss them with me. And even if you had, how can I overlook this?”

  She’s right, of course. But something about her over-wide mouth, smeared with coral lipstick, makes me want to slap it right off her face.

  “Why can’t you take these calls in your own time?”

  “My what?” I ask without thinking.

  “Your own time!” Sandra says, her voice rising. “Time in which you are not being paid to do something else!”

  I know I’m staring at her. I can’t help it.

  Is she crazy? My own time? I go to whatever work I have this week, and try to keep it together for as long as possible before my mother loses her shit that I’m not at home, looking after her.

  Sandra doesn’t know that, and it isn’t her fault, but she’s sitting there in her ill-fitting pantsuit with her long coffin-shaped nails, judging me. Not giving me a chance to do better.

  “Sorry,” I say. “My mom isn’t well. She needs me a lot, and she’s not adjusting to my new working hours. But I will address this with her, I promise. She’s just been especially difficult today.”

  Sandra leans back in her chair and glares at me.

  “I think,” she says, looking away and busying herself with her computer, “that it would be better for you to be there for your mother, don’t you think?”

  She moves the computer mouse and clicks a button. The printer behind her whirrs into life, squealing as it marks the paper line by line.

  I know what’s coming. It’s not the first time. But I resent this woman’s efforts to frame it as beneficial to me.

  “Will you please just have the balls to tell me I’m fired?”

  Woah. That was sudden. I meant to just think it, not say it aloud.

  Sandra says nothing. She stands up and pulls the paper out of the printer, handing the document to me.

  Harper Jefferson, it reads. As per the terms of your agency contract, you are hereby terminated without notice or compensation.

  Sandra’s signature is printed below the text.

  “Get your stuff and go,” Sandra says. She’s already moved on from me and is typing a reply to an email. “Leave your pass at the front desk. Don’t take any stationery, or I’ll make sure that you’re docked for it.”

  I leave the office and collect my things. I don’t have much. Just my weather bird and some breath mints in the drawer. I don’t know why Sandra thinks a wedge of sticky notes with ‘Lightoller Haulage’ written on them is a valuable commodity, but I throw three into my bag, along with several pens and a coffee mug.

  I catch the beehive hairdo smirking as I pass her desk. I pause and stoop, so I’m looking right at her.

  “Is that your real hair?” I ask. “I mean, is it deliberate? Because you look like a fucking lightbulb, except you’re not gonna dazzle anyone.”

  She opens her mouth to say something, but I’m already gone, slapping open the door and running into the elevator. I skim my pass across the desk without a word. I’m across the lobby and out in the street in a few quick steps.

  My cell phone is ringing. I only know because I can feel it vibrating - the ringer was off while I was at work. This is why my mom rang the switchboard so many times.

  I look at the screen. Mom’s caller ID. Of course. I hang up on her as I try to put on my coat.

  As I put my phone back in my purse, I see the crumpled piece of paper. I smooth it out and read the address. Same place I worked before.

  Well, no time like the present.

  I flag down a cab.

  2

  Maxim

  Only a few seconds have passed since he said it, but it feels like forever. It’s like how I felt when I saw my parents’ car go up in flames.

  My only family is sitting before me, the man who took me under his wing and brought me up to be who I am today. He’s still talking, but I’m not taking it in.

  “There’s nothing they can do about it, Maxim. It’s not just in my lungs. It’s everywhere.”

  Grigor looks pale. The cold winter sunshine slices through the slats of the vertical blind at the window, and the shadows make my uncle look as though he’s behind bars.

  I allow myself a moment of comfort. At least he won’t die in prison, diminished and abused. He will go out at the height of his power, with his empire intact, at least for now.

  “Did they tell you how long you’ve got?” I ask.

  “Up to two months, but probably closer to one,” he says, tapping ash onto the carpet. “You know how doctors are. They never give a straight fucking answer. But it’s not enough time to get my affairs in order.”

  I reach into my desk drawer and take two cigars out of the box.

  “You should have cut down on these sooner,” I say, handing one to him, “but it doesn’t matter now.”

  I lean forward with my lighter, and the cigar glows as Grigor draws deeply. He sits back in his chair and exhales an enormous cloud of smoke.

  “Ahhh, that’s good,” he says. “No, my boy, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to eat all the desserts from now on. If your aunt Libbi was still with us, she’d have me on herbal teas and fuck knows what else. You remember what she was like when she was sick?”

  I smile and light my cigar. Yeah, I remember. Aunt Libbi refused to believe she wouldn’t make it, and she sent off for all the snake oil she could find, wasting thousands of dollars. It brought her some comfort, but her denial was torture for Grigor. He wanted to talk about their lives together and do things with her for the last time, but no. She swore she would keep living.

  She died two years after my parents, when my cousin Ivan was four years old. He swears he has no memory of her, which hurts Grigor, too.

  I’m sure I know what’s on Grigor’s mind, but it’s sensible to play dumb here. I need him to say it, not me.

  I frown. “You need to nominate Ivan to succeed you? I don’t see why that’s a problem. The komissiya will meet with you and accept the nomination, as expected. There won’t be any bullshit power plays for at least a year while we bed in our new leadership.”

  “The problem is that I don’t want to nominate Ivan,” Grigor says. “He’s not ready. I know it’s my fault for not being hard enough on him, but I guess I expected his mother to be around to balance me out.” He shrugs. “It seems to be an inescapable truth. The grass is green, the sea is blue, and Ivan lets everybody down.”

  I thrust my hands into my pockets, so Grigor doesn’t see them shaking.

  Ivan is not a force of nature. He’s a product of nurture. Grigor gave him every concession, made allowances for him, and excused his selfish actions and bullshit attitude at every turn.
Just because he lost his Mama young.

  My parents were fucking murdered. I was expected to just shrug it off.

  “You let Ivan become a lazy, disrespectful asshole, Grigor. What’s that if not dangerous? You won’t be able to protect him forever.”

  I let the question hang in the air, but just as I’m about to speak again, Grigor answers.

  “What would you have me do?” he asks. “Ivan is my son. He’s expected to lead. I wanted to get him in line, make sure he’s ready when the time comes, but…”

  He stubs out his cigar and steeples his fingers, resting his chin on them. “He’s away at the moment, representing me at some meetings. I had to send five of our best men with him because I don’t trust him to stay out of trouble, and that’s the fucking problem.”

  He’s not wrong.

  The komissiya, or commission, may be an organization of leaders who enforce the few rules that the Bratva care to have, but they are still Bratva. Ivan is not a man who can see danger coming because he’s never had to look for it, so as a newly anointed Pakhan, he’d be highly vulnerable. He neither shows nor commands any respect, and that’s what will really fuck him up.

  He’d get murdered before Grigor is even cold. And our rivals would take everything we’ve built and pick it apart like carrion.

  I’ve been thinking about this already. I just didn’t expect an opportunity to present itself so soon…

  “So listen, Boss,” I begin, standing up and closing the blind. “I took some time to look through some of our archive stuff, and I never knew…your grandfather was Pakhan, but he wasn’t the son of the previous one. He was his cousin, right?”