Forbidden Vows: Chapter 1

‘Smile, Peach Bottom.’

My sister’s voice is poison wrapped in silk, the kind of sweet that kills you slow. ‘You’ll make a passable Kuznetsov bride.’ Her lips curve—that razor-edged smile she’s perfected since we were kids. ‘And me?’ A diamond-crusted finger taps her champagne flute. ‘Well, we always knew I’d marry a Karpov.’

The nickname Peach Bottom—first hissed at me when I outgrew my Catholic school skirt at fourteen—still hits like a sucker punch. Back then, it was just cruel girls laughing as my hips split the seams. Now? It’s a blade to the ribs, a reminder of everything our world says I’ll never be:

Graceful. Obedient. Enough.

The Irish mob has a type—delicate dolls with collarbones sharp enough to draw blood. Girls who float through rooms like ghosts, their laughter a whisper, their bodies barely leaving an imprint on the world.

Meanwhile, my body is a rebellion in flesh.

Hips that don’t quit, thighs that stretch designer silk into surrender, the kind of chest that makes old women clutch their pearls. ‘A real woman’s body,’ my grandmother used to say, like it was a compliment instead of a life sentence.

The Infinity Lounge thrums with danger, a symphony of smoked glass and black marble, where fortunes are made and bodies disappear. Tonight, the champagne bubbles taste like swallowed screams.

‘What if I want more than to pop out heirs for some Bratva captain?’ I ask.

‘Then you’d better learn to love the game more than your own spine, darling. That’s the only currency that buys survival here. Women like us don’t get to want. We get to choose which chains suit us best. Ciara adjusts my emerald pendant—the last heirloom from our Dublin estate—with fingers that dig like talons. ‘The Donovans used to trade in Irish whiskey and warships,’ she murmurs. ‘Now we deal in daughters.’

My sister leans in closer, her perfume—something venomous and obscenely expensive—clashing with the whiskey-soaked greed in the air. ‘And let’s be honest, with your… distinct silhouette, you should thank your lucky stars that any Bratva captain spared you a second glance.’

I don’t blink. ‘Just say it. I’m too much woman for the Bratva.”

Her gaze drags over me, slow and surgical. ‘We’re Donovans, Eileen. In our world, crowns are reserved for the slender and silent. But maybe Sergei likes a challenge. Maybe he’ll even fund that little café dream of yours—the one Dad laughed out of the room.’ She shrugs, swirling her drink. ‘Take the win. The Kuznetsovs aren’t Karpov-level rich, but they’re close enough.’

The condescension burns, but I’m done swallowing it. ‘Or maybe I’ll build it myself—without a man’s money or permission.’

Before she can strike back, a shadow falls over us—Tommy Benedetto, all shark’s teeth and snake’s charm. ‘Ladies.’ His gaze lingers on me like a stain. ‘You two look… festive.’

Ciara’s laugh is polished arsenic. ‘Engagements, Tommy. Both of us.’

His smirk twists. ‘Both?’ The disbelief is a slap.

For a fleeting heartbeat, I envision the sharp crack of my champagne flute against his smug grin. Instead, I bare my teeth with a smile. ‘Surprised? Sometimes the dark horses leave you choking on their dust.’

Ciara interjects, too eager. ‘Join us for a drink?’

‘Tempting.’ He adjusts his cufflinks, eyes never leaving mine. ‘But I’ve got a Siberian hellcat waiting. Promised me the authentic Russian experience.’

Ciara’s giggle is brittle as spun sugar. ‘Always sampling the merchandise, aren’t you?’

Tommy’s grin stretches, grotesque. ‘Enjoy the night, ladies. Some brides get twitchy once they feel the collar click shut.’

Fucking predator.

I rise, slow and deliberate, the silk of my dress whispering secrets against my thighs. ‘Funny, Tommy. In your world, men think they can leash us like dogs.’ I step closer, close enough to taste the cigars and rot on his breath. ‘But even a leashed bitch has teeth. And if you yank too hard?’ My smile vanishes. ‘She just might tear out your fucking throat.’

Silence.

Then—Tommy laughs, cruel and mocking. ‘I’m eager to see how you’ll dress up as a bride — what a spectacle that will be.’

His words slice through the air like a blade, an unmistakable declaration of war.

Ciara’s fingers dig painfully into my arm. ‘Eileen, he’s just teasing.’

I wrench away from her grip, my momentum carrying me into the solid mass of Paddy’s chest. His brow, lined with old scars, furrows deeply in concern.

‘Miss Donovan—’

‘Bathroom, Paddy,’ I cut in sharply, already striding away.

The hallway envelops me, the club’s vibrant pulse now a distant murmur. A sudden flicker in the smoked glass catches my gaze—my reflection, a striking vision in emerald silk.

The dress embraces each defiant curve, accentuating a body sculpted by passionate dances through tumultuous nights, not timidity. My glossy red curls tumble provocatively around my shoulders, setting off my creamy skin and fierce green eyes that smolder with unyielding spirit.

I shove through the back door, gulping the alley’s frozen air like a lifeline.

Think, Eileen. There must be a way out.

Above me, the sky is a hollow black sheet, Chicago’s neon greed devouring every last star—a perfect echo of how my family aims to devour my dreams, leaving nothing but emptiness.

I press a hand to my chest, as if I could claw back the ambitions they’ve stolen. I belong on sunlit streets, scouting the perfect storefront, breathing in the fresh aroma of espresso beans. I should be scribbling menu ideas on napkins, collaborating with contractors, creating something truly mine.

Instead, I’m caged in a gilded cage, mindlessly selecting bone-white china patterns like a docile doll.

But dolls don’t bleed.

And I haven’t finished fighting.

I stand in silence, savoring a fleeting eternity. Minutes had barely slipped by when the scene before me drastically changed.

The alley erupts in metallic screams.

I whirl around to see Tommy Benedetto—this time, he’s being hauled between two Bratva enforcers, his body flung about like a defeated boxer clinging to the ropes. Blood paints his designer stubble, that pretty-boy face now a swollen mess. His left eye pulses shut, the color of rotting plums.

‘Wait—you’ve got this wrong!’ Tommy’s voice cracks as they throw him face-first into a rancid puddle. The pale blue Tom Ford suit drinks up alley filth like a sponge. ‘I got money! Fuck, I got—’

The bigger enforcer silences him with a steel-toe kick to the ribs. I hear something crack. The other screws a silencer onto his Makarov with terrifying precision.

‘Andrei said quick,’ he grunts, Chechen accent thick as Siberian frost.

Fuck. Bratva enforcers.

My lungs turn to ice. Three stumbling steps back—clang—my heel meets the trash can. The gunman’s head jerks up. Moonlight slithers along the barrel as it swings toward me.

Run bitch!!

But my legs refuse to obey.

“Wait! You don’t know who—’

‘Don’t care.’ His trigger finger pales.

Suddenly, a scent hits me—bergamot and gun oil—an instant before an iron-clad arm snakes around my waist.

I’m airborne, stilettos kicking empty air as some mountain of a man hauls me backward. My silk dress rips against brickwork.

The lead enforcer’s eyes widen.

I’m tossed into a Porsche 911’s butter-soft leather.

The car door slams shut behind me. In the confined space, my kidnapper’s presence overwhelms—all broad shoulders and restrained power.

His tailored suit strains across biceps earned through more than just gym sessions.

When he shifts gears, tendons flex in his tanned hands, the two-headed eagle signet ring glinting with each movement.

He’s Bratva royalty.

‘Who the FUCK—’

A single look shuts me up.

Just like that. No words. No warning. Just those sharp eyes locking onto mine, cold and commanding, and suddenly my voice dies in my throat.

For the first time in my life—me, Eileen Donovan, who never knows when to shut up—I’m left completely, utterly speechless.

Those deep, wolfish hazel eyes, more green than gold under the dashboard lights, flash with a menacing intelligence. He appears to be in his mid to late forties, the epitome of a silver fox, with every crease around those piercing eyes adding to his lethal allure.

Moonlight caresses the silver threads in his beard, highlighting the stark contrast against his umber skin, making it captivating rather than weathered. As he turns, light dances across the defined angles of his face.

This man isn’t merely distinguished; he’s a predator cloaked in the guise of sophistication.

The engine snarls to life. My kidnapper throws us into reverse, tires screaming. Through the windshield, I see the enforcer lowering his gun slowly—not from mercy, but recognition.

Who the hell is this guy?

‘Talk,’ I demand, voice shaking. ‘Or I’ll dive at the next light.’

Hazel eyes flick to mine, wolf-yellow in the dashboard glow. ‘You’d break that pretty neck before rolling three feet.’ Moscow velvet over Siberian steel. ‘Sit still, devochka. Tonight, I’m your guardian devil.’

The speedometer kisses 90 as we vanish into Chicago’s neon arteries. And I’m trapped with a man who smells like danger and $300-an-ounce cologne.

‘Bullshit.’ My fingers dig into the Porsche’s butter-soft leather. ‘You just kidnapped a Donovan.’

His knuckles bleach white on the steering wheel, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath tanned skin. ‘Andrei’s men would’ve put two bullets in your pretty skull and dumped you in Lake Michigan before you could blink.’

That voice—smoke and honey with a Russian edge—vibrates through me like the Porsche’s purring engine.

A traitorous shiver runs down my spine. ‘Who the hell are you?’ I demand, louder this time.

‘On a need-to-know basis.’ His thumb taps the wheel, a signet ring flashing—ruby-eyed eagle eating its own tail.

‘Christ, did they train you at the Bratva Charm School?’ I snap. ‘Or just the School of Cryptic Bullshit?’

The corner of his mouth twitches beneath that perfectly trimmed beard. ‘You walked into a warzone back there, little bird. And you’re still flapping your wings like it’s a fucking tea party.’

I take him in properly for the first time—that aristocratic nose, the way his hazel eyes shift from moss-green to amber in the dashboard lights. Fine lines fan from his eyes, the kind earned from squinting into Siberian winds rather than laughing at parties. Silver threads glint in his dark waves, catching the light like knife edges.

And God, that scent again—leather, gunpowder, and something expensive beneath it all. My traitorous lungs drink it in.

‘What I walked into,’ I say slowly, ‘was your Russian friends turning Tommy Benedetto into ground meat.’ My voice hardens. ‘A Camorra prince doesn’t just get whacked without consequences.’

His grip tightens. Just a fraction. Just enough. A dark chuckle. ‘You do understand the game.’

‘Enough to know you’re not some Good Samaritan.’ I lean closer, whiskey and adrenaline burning my throat. ‘So who the fuck are you really?’

Those wolf’s eyes flick to me, then back to the road. ‘Persistent little thing, aren’t you?’

‘Try ‘woman with a working survival instinct.”

The Porsche accelerates, pressing me into the seat. ‘Tough blyad,’ he murmurs, almost approvingly. ‘You’re better off not knowing my name. Unless you enjoy breathing.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Stating facts.’ He downshifts, the engine growling like the danger lacing his words. ‘You’re not going home tonight.’

Ice floods my veins. ‘Excuse me?’

The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of tires on asphalt. Streetlights strobe across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw.

When he finally speaks, it’s so quiet I have to strain to hear: ‘You’re cargo now, devochka. Precious, troublesome cargo.’

Several minutes later, he pulls up to a gorgeous hotel somewhere on the Gold Coast.

‘What are we doing here?’ My voice sounds hollow, even to me.

The building looms before us – all gleaming glass and art deco flourishes. Rooftop lights twinkle like trapped stars above us, promising a world of crystal glasses and Lake Michigan breezes.

Snap out of it, Eileen. You’re not a guest.

‘What are we doing here?’ I repeat, sharper this time.

‘You’ll be safe here.’ His voice is calm, but his fingers flex on the steering wheel. I notice how his signet ring catches the light – that damned two-headed eagle winking at me.

‘Safe?’ The laugh bursts from me, raw and jagged. ‘That’s rich coming from my kidnapper.’

He turns then, slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. The movement makes his suit jacket strain across shoulders that could probably bench press me. ‘If I wanted you dead,’ he murmurs, ‘you’d already be feeding the fishes at Navy Pier.’

‘I could scream,’ I blurt out.

The silence that follows is heavier than the Chicago humidity. My father’s voice echoes in my head – That smart mouth will get you killed someday, Eileen.

His hazel eyes darken to forest green in the dim light. ‘Those men back at the club? They’re Andrei’s attack dogs. And you just became their favorite chew toy.’

He gets out of the car, then comes around to open the passenger door for me. I get out, immediately smacked in the face by the cold night air. Shivering, I follow this mysterious man into the building, noticing that he doesn’t look around or seem fearful of anyone following us.

This is clearly his turf.

“Good evening,” he tells the night manager, who sits behind the reception desk, half asleep. He gets a slight nod and a mumbled reply as we walk over to the elevator. “Keep your eyes on me and your mouth shut.”

I can’t help myself. ‘What, no blindfold? No handcuffs? I’m disappointed in your kidnapping technique.”

The look he gives me could freeze vodka. ‘Keep testing me, malyshka, and you’ll learn why they call me Kholodnyy.’

The Cold One. The nickname slithers down my spine.

He leads me inside the elevator and the doors shut.

The elevator doors part to reveal a hallway lined with blood-red wallpaper that reminds me too much of the Infinity Lounge. His suite smells of lemon polish and something darker beneath – gun oil, maybe, or the metallic tang of old blood.

‘Not bad for a criminal,’ I mutter, taking in the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows.

His laugh is dark as he locks the door behind us. A devastatingly cute dimple appears in his cheek when he smiles, barely visible beneath his stubble.

My God, there’s not an unattractive inch on this man.

‘Compliments will get you nowhere.’ He shrugs off his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster that makes my breath hitch. Try anything stupid…’ He pats the gun meaningfully.

‘Charming.’ My voice shakes despite myself. ‘Do you always kidnap women at gunpoint, or am I special?’

He’s suddenly in my space, all heat and expensive cologne. ‘Special?’ His breath ghosts over my lips. ‘You’re a problem I didn’t need tonight, krasavitsa.’

“Can you at least tell me your first name?”

He shuts the door, then locks it, slipping the key back into his jacket pocket. “There you go with the questions, little bird.”

“I have the right to know my abductor’s identity.”

“The kitchen is stocked. You can have the bedroom at the end of the hallway. I’m going to pour myself a scotch. Would you like one?”

“Are you deliberately trying to get me wasted?”

“No, I’m just trying to see how much is too much for you. I hear Irish girls can drink most men under the table,” he shoots back with a cool grin.

Why are my legs quivering? This is not the kind of reaction my body should be having in this man’s presence.

Get a grip, Eileen.

My phone buzzes in my clutch.

I hold my breath praying he doesn’t notice.

His hand flashes out, confiscating it with terrifying speed.

‘Give it back!’ I lunge, but he’s quicker, those massive arms trapping me against his chest. Every inch of him is hard muscle and barely leashed violence.

‘Sit. Down.’ Each word is a bullet. ‘Unless you want Andrei’s men to finish what they started.’

The mention of those Bratva enforcers stills me. Against every screaming instinct, I sink onto the sofa.

I take a seat on the edge of a plush, creamy-beige sofa, my reflection staring back at me from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He dials a number on his phone. I watch his gaze darken as it travels across the room, his mind carefully processing everything.

“Andrei, you need to call me back ASAP. Whatever that thing with Benedetto was, you need to stop it. Put it on the back burner and tell your goons to back off,” he says.

Andrei. That name again.

Tommy was terrified at the mere mention of the guy back in the alley. Definitely a high-ranking member of the Russian mob. But there are so many of them waltzing around like they own Chicago these days, it’s hard to keep up. Not that I truly ever cared. I should’ve cared. I should’ve paid more attention.

Within a few minutes, he calls this Andrei guy again. “For fuck’s sake, you’d better call off the hit on Benedetto and the witness back at the club. Your boys will know who I’m talking about. You’ve really stepped into it this time. Call it off, or there will be consequences. And call me back, you idiot.”

“Let’s hope he gets the message sooner rather than later. For your sake.”

The underlying threat does not elude me. I feel it coursing through my veins and making my blood freeze. There’s a hint of danger to every word the man says, yet here I sit with my chin up and a defiant glare in my eyes.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but I should warn you—I’m not the kind of woman you can kidnap and get away with it.”

“Is that so? Scotch?”

The audacity of this man.

He strides toward me with a tumbler, the honey-colored scotch swirling seductively with each determined step. He offers it to me, his gaze dark and penetrating. For a fleeting moment, I consider accepting it.

Instead, I slap his hand away.

The glass flies, shattering against the parquet with a shrill crash, scotch splashing like golden rain across the floor.

A sudden chill in the air wraps around me, making me instantly regret the impulse. His calm, however, remains unbroken.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” he states calmly, his voice a low rumble of controlled power. “But I have been nothing but courteous up to this point.”

‘You call dragging me here against my will courteous?’

His hands rise slowly, hovering near my hips without touching. ‘I call keeping you alive courtesy enough.’ That deep voice rolls over me like thunder before a storm.

I tilt my head back to glare at him, but the effect is ruined by how my breath catches. ‘I don’t need your protection.’

‘Don’t you?’ One dark eyebrow arches. His gaze drops to my parted lips. ‘That pretty mouth was about to get you killed back there.’

My pulse jumps at the word pretty. ‘And what’s it getting me now?’ The challenge slips out before I can stop it.

His answering smile is all predator. ‘Trouble, malyshka. The kind you’ve been begging for since you first looked at me.’

‘I—’

His hand finally lands on my waist, burning through the silk. ‘Your pupils have been dilated since the car. Your breathing changes when I get close.’ His thumb brushes the underside of my breast. ‘And right now, your heart is trying to escape through that pretty little throat.’

The tension shifts palpably; the air thickens with unsaid promises. I swallow hard, my defenses wavering under the weight of his intense focus. ‘Observant for a kidnapper.’

‘I pay attention to what I want to take.’

The possessiveness in his tone sends heat flooding through me. ‘And what exactly do you want to take?’

His lips graze my earlobe. ‘First? That sharp tongue of yours.’ A nip at my jaw sends a shiver down my spine. ‘Then every other part that keeps pretending it doesn’t want this.’

When I open my mouth to protest, he captures it in a searing kiss. There’s nothing gentle about it—just hunger and possession and the faint taste of expensive whiskey. My hands fist in his shirt of their own accord.

My hips rock forward in answer before I can stop them.

His groan vibrates through me as he backs me against the wall, one muscular thigh sliding between mine.

The kiss tastes like danger and damnation.

And worst of all? I have no intention of stopping.