Merciless Vows: Blood and Thorns, #1

By Faith Summers and Khardine Gray

When I was sixteen, a gypsy fortune-teller told me my future held darkness and death.

She was right.

But what she didn't tell me was I'd lose all my memories and I wouldn't recognize the devil when he came to steal my life.

Lucca Dyshekov—the Bratva assassin they call Merciless—rose from hell and turned my world upside down.

On our wedding day, he taught me real monsters aren't the ones who hide in the dark.

They're the ones who stare you in the face and steal your soul.

On a quest for revenge, he takes me and unearths secrets from the past that will cause a war.

When death lies on the horizon, the enemy of my enemy becomes my friend.

In this instance, he's my husband.

The real question is when he finishes uncovering the truth, will he keep me or kill me.

 

Merciless Vows is a dark mafia arranged marriage romance. It contains mature content, and graphic violence some readers might find offensive and/or triggering.

This book is part of a duet and is not a standalone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Khardine Gray
• Release date: Jun 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781915383211

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Present day

Dear Miss De Marchi,

After our last evaluation, I think it’s in your best interest we continue your treatment program here in L.A. Therefore, I recommend that you do not return to Boston for your studies at Berklee College of Music as of yet, and your father continues to be your legal guardian.

A letter with your next schedule of appointments will be sent to you later in the week.

Yours truly,

Dr. Pelchant

Consultant Psychiatrist.

I tear the letter right down the middle, then again and again before stuffing the pieces of paper back in my purse.

The fucking words of doom are, however, etched in my mind, echoing words I never wanted to hear. Yet, I knew I would.

It’s no surprise Dr. Pelchant is recommending things stay the same. As fucked up as I feel inside, I knew this was coming. After all, I’m not getting any better.

How dare I get upset?

How dare I hope?

It was foolish, but I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, the decision would’ve been different, and I could leave the asphyxiating gilded cage my father has kept me in for the last two years.

Thankful for the cover of darkness in the booth I’ve selected, I grit my teeth and dab at the tear rolling down my cheek with the heel of my hand. Blinking rapidly, I will the rest of the tears away.

I can’t cry here like some loser. I mustn’t.

I’m in the Devil’s Claw, a swanky upscale club in Malibu. I already look like a fish out of water in my too casual skater dress, my long black hair a mess in the low hanging bun, and the scent of desperation reeking from every pore in my body.

I wish I could have gone to a bar somewhere downtown and drank myself into oblivion. At least then, I wouldn’t have to worry about drawing attention to myself.

A normal person could have done that. Since I’m not normal, I had to pick

somewhere on the approved list of places my father selected. Places he can keep an eye on me. Whether that’s to make sure I’m safe or that I don’t run away. As if I could.

I might look like I’m always on the verge of running, but I’m not stupid. I know I wouldn’t get very far.

Not with Bruno, head of my father’s security entourage watching me like a vulture ready to devour the flesh clean off a fresh carcass, and Roger his second in command guarding me like St. Peter would the gates of Heaven.

At least when I’m out like this, they keep a reasonable distance. So, tonight, Bruno is near the exit by the dance floor, and Roger is outside in the parking lot waiting in the car to take me home.

Drawing in a ragged breath, I reach for the Pina Colada, the bartender whipped up for me, and I take a sip of the sweet cocktail.

I was told this was my favorite drink before I lost my memory, so every time I come here, I drink it, hoping the taste might pierce through the block in my mind and evoke the other things I should remember.

Like who I am. Who I really am.

My name is Aria De Marchi. But I only know that because that’s what I’ve been told.

I don’t remember being her or anything about my life.

My mind feels like someone built a brick wall inside it, locking me in a confined space where I am to accept everything I’m told. That wall is so high and so wide I can’t see over or around it.

I’m trapped.

That wall and the space inside is all I’ve known since I awoke from that deep sleep that robbed me of time.

Screwing my eyes shut, I swallow the drink and rest my head against the soft leather of the booth. I then draw in a measured breath and try to calm myself.

Calm my rapid breathing, my rage, my impatience.

Things come to me when I’m calm. Sometimes it’s a flash of memory, although it’s blurry, and I can never make out the images that present themselves before me.

At other times, feelings come to me. Happiness, sadness, confusion.

I push against the barrier of the wall in my mind and try for what might be the trillionth time to remember facts of my life I know exists somewhere in the recesses of my brain. If I could just remember something, something true that wasn’t fed to me, then I know I’d have some hope of change.

Except for the burst of a fruity flavor in the back of my throat, nothing else happens.

Not a damn thing.

Not a fucking thing besides the same void of nothingness.

Defeat sinks my heart deeper into the darkness of my soul. It’s been two and a half fucking years since the accident, and I still can’t remember anything.

As long as I stay this way, everything else will remain the same. I’ll continue to live this same hellish way, where my life is not mine, and everything I do is done with my father’s approval.

I understand his worry and why he’s overly paranoid. Two and a half years ago, that horrible accident didn’t just take all my memories of my life and the people I love and care about. It also claimed my mother’s life and left me in a coma for six months.

I completely understand his worry, but it’s too much, and what irritates me more than anything is, it feels like there’s more to his paranoia than what he’s made me aware of.

All I know is I can’t keep going on like this. I can’t. Dad’s controlling hand feels like a noose around my neck, suffocating the life out of me.

Soon there will be nothing left of me.

When the club music changes to something more upbeat, my eyes snap open, and another tear slides down my cheek. The lively music bounces off the walls in an exaggerated fashion, purposely done to make it sound cooler. The people dancing below on the dancefloor go wild over it and wilder when the DJ cranks the volume.

I lean forward onto my elbows, and that’s when I feel the intense sensation of eyes watching me.

The feeling is so potent it forces me to look up to the balcony on the third floor. In the flashing club lights, I pick out a face against the sea of people standing there.

It’s a man who's the sort of handsome that gives new meaning to the word breathtaking. I’d be compelled to describe him as beautiful if not for the rugged Viking warrior edge in his presence. It tamps down anything that resembles beauty.

Those razor-sharp angles in his chiseled face, his unruly dark shoulder-length hair, and that neatly trimmed but scruffy beard keep the warrior edge going and alludes to something dangerous. They all seem to be a warning not to be fooled by the fairytale prince features in his looks.

It’s also clear from the bulk of muscle in his powerful shoulders and biceps that what you should pay attention to is everything else about him that cautions of danger.

Men don’t get that kind of muscle by just going to the gym to work out. There’s more to gaining it than wanting to achieve that look.

I know that much from seeing how my father’s bodyguards look.

My handsome stranger fixes his gaze on me like he wants me to know he’s watching me and doesn’t plan to look away.

I get looks of admiration from men all the time. It’s usually my double D’s that catch their attention first before seeing the rest of me. But this guy is looking at my face, not my body. And the way he’s watching me, so fixed and unwavering, has my attention in more ways than I’d like.

His immovable stare holds an interest that shifts the air around me and commands my body to react. And react I do as heat streaks through me, pulsing desire through the surface of my skin straight to my core.

A crackle of energy seems to pass through the vast space between us, raw and carnal. It stirs an unexpected sexual hunger in me that catches me off guard.

The sudden flush of arousal paralyzes me, and as it works its way through my body, I realize there’s something familiar about the feeling.

And… him.

My God, do I know him?

Is that what this is? Does he know me?

The longer we stare at each other, the more powerful the sensation becomes, and I think it must be true—the familiarity. I only feel this way when I come in contact with something or someone I should remember but can’t.

With him, though, it’s different. The feeling is stronger, and there’s an unmistakable desire pulsing through my veins, luring me into an enchantment where I wouldn’t be able to look away even if I wanted to.

That isn’t because the man watching me is drop-dead gorgeous. It’s something else.

Something I need to check out, especially since no one else has managed to produce such a strong response to my mind. Not my father, my supposed friends I heard talking shit about me behind my back, and not the thing I was told was my only love in life—music.

I played the violin in my previous life, and played so well that I got a scholarship to Berklee. I was told I was so good I had jobs lined up for me when I graduated. But I can’t remember holding a violin, much less playing one.

If that accident hadn’t happened, I would have completed my final year and graduated two years ago. That girl I was told I was, had the world at her fingertips for the talents she possessed.

I straighten up at the same time my handsome stranger does, and my gaze follows him as he moves away from the balcony. His eyes, however, don’t leave me.

Adrenaline spikes my nerves when he raises his hand and crooks his finger, beckoning me to come to him.

His finger lingers in the air for a few moments, and the beginning of a smile tips the corners of his lips but doesn’t quite come to fruition.

As we share this silent conversation, I wonder if I should go to him. What if my feelings were just stupid and I’m wrong?

Maybe I’m just attracted to him, and this is a standard prelude to a hook-up I can’t have.

Or could I?

I glance down to the dancefloor where Bruno is supposed to be, and I’m surprised when I don’t see him.

I look around frantically, but he’s not anywhere. That’s never happened before. He’s always, always within my line of sight. I’ve heard Dad telling him to be precisely that.

I must never be out of Bruno’s view, and he isn’t supposed to be out of mine either.

Not seeing him gives me a surge of freedom. An opening I haven’t had since I first opened my eyes to this world where my mind was a blank slate.

I return my gaze to my handsome stranger, and again he beckons for me to go to him. The enchantment that seizes me now is fueled by the knowledge that if I can’t see Bruno, he won’t be able to see me either.

When the man drops his hand, turns away, and disappears into the crowd behind him, panic surges through me at the thought of a chance lost. What if he was a route to finding some missing piece of the fractured puzzle of my life?

I would’ve at least liked to have found out who he was.

What I sensed as I looked at him was real, and I felt I knew him in some significant way. Maybe even… intimate. Could it be that? I might be damaged, but even I know it’s not normal to feel so aroused within seconds of looking at someone.

I don’t think he’d have such a powerful effect on me if I weren’t right on some level.

With that reasoning, I stand and move as quickly as I can. I take the stairs to my left and go up to the floor he was on. When I get there, I make my way around to where he’d been standing.

There’s a lounge area ahead of me surrounded by more dancing bodies and couples gathered on the plush leather sofas, either making out or talking and laughing. The volume of the music is much lower up here, so all I’m hearing is the disjointed cacophony of conversation.

Since the light is a little brighter by the bar area, I make my way over there and try to look around for him.

I scan the area, looking amongst the people sitting on stools around the small square tables by the glass barriers. When I don’t see him, I look over to the waitress carrying a glowing tray of drinks to the group of college guys leaning against the wall.

He’s not amongst them either, so I look over to the other side, where there are clusters of people standing together.

My stomach clenches in despair when I make my way further across the floor and don’t see him anywhere.

Damn it. I wasn’t quick enough to catch him, and clearly, he’s gone.

It’s not until I turn around to go back the way I’d come that I see him standing by the alcove in the shadows. And he’s watching me like he was before. Dressed entirely in black, he almost blends in with the darkness.

He’s leaning against the wall with one solid black boot pressed against it, and his hands jammed in the pockets of his slacks.

Now that I’m closer, I’m nervous, and although I’m not exactly a shy person, he makes me feel shy.

Being closer, I can see just how gorgeous he is and tall. I’d say he must be at least six feet four, maybe six feet five, and the muscles I saw previously look more enhanced too.

Summoning bravery, I walk toward him, and as I do, that nearly there smile comes back to his handsome face.

When I stop a few paces away, he inclines his head, and a lock of hair falls over one silver-gray eye, making him look more alluring, dangerous. Sexy.

Sexy is what makes my nerves scatter, and suddenly I’m not sure what I’m doing here or what I’m going to say to him.

I almost thought you wouldn’t come, he states in an accented voice. It’s slight but very much there. It sounds like Russian. More importantly, my interest in him piques even more because I know I’ve heard his voice before.

I… recognize it.

The acknowledgment of having recognized something makes me giddy and excited all at the same time. I’m almost weakened from the surge of elation and what it means. If I acknowledge that I’ve heard his voice before, it means something is happening in my damaged mind. Something good.

My lips part and I gaze intensely at those stormy gray eyes. I try to remember his face but can’t.

Do you know me? I ask, hoping I don’t sound foolish.

Maybe… The smile comes now, and I see the dark beauty of this man in full force.

That dangerous edge, though, continues to warn me away. Telling me this isn’t a man I should be talking to. My curiosity, however, gets the better of me.

Maybe? I prod.

He pushes away from the wall and inches closer to me until he’s a breath away.

"Dance with me… Aria," he replies, saying my name, and I gasp.

You do know me. How?

Come with me, and you’ll find out.

When he puts out his hand, I take it even though I know I shouldn’t. The same warning bells go off in my head, and for some reason, I feel this man and I should never touch.

As if to confirm my suspicions, a zap of electricity sparks through me when he closes his large hand over mine.

I allow him to lead me up another set of stairs to the VIP lounge, where he ushers me over to the small dance floor away from the sofas. The area would almost be private if not for the bartender mixing drinks behind the bar.

The lounge, however, becomes all ours when my handsome stranger nods to the bartender, and he leaves. I watch him go, and the tension increases in the air around me.

The tautness only eases when the warm hands of my handsome stranger brush over my elbows and pulls me to his granite chest. I’m petite next to him, but I manage to press my fingers to the beginning of his shoulder while he slips his arm around my waist.

His fingers flutter over the small of my back as I peer up at him, and we start swaying to the music. It’s an upbeat song, but we’re dancing slowly like it’s a song for lovers.

What do you know about me? I ask, eagerness taking over.

Music. It’s a part of you. You play the violin like it was made for you, he replies, capturing my attention.

You’ve heard me play?

Many, many times.

When did you hear me play? Where?

Shhhh, he whispers and moves closer to my ear. No more, Printsessa, just dance with me. We didn’t dance last time.

Printsessa, means princess in Russian.

I know that.

I know that… because he told me so. Although I can’t remember being told, I know it was he who told me.

When though?

He said we didn’t dance last time. When did I see him?

Where?

The scruff on his jaw tickles my cheek, snapping me from the reverie of him. We’re so close, his lips are inches away, and I almost believe he’s going to kiss me.

Our eyes lock, and I’m trapped in the storm of his gaze.

The push and pull of the force drawing me to him is so strong I have to fight against it to make my mind work.

I try, I do. God help me, I do, but when he leans in closer and closer, and his lips brush over mine, everything fades into the ether. All my worries, my thoughts, my wishes, my hopes.

What takes over is raw desire, and I’m lost in his kiss. His tongue swoops into my mouth and claims me.

I melt into his hard body when the kiss turns greedy and fills me with an insatiable hunger for him and that taste. That raw masculine taste of need and sex and everything I want but never knew I craved.

The kiss sings through my veins, and as he cups my face, a flash of memory sparks in my mind, and I see him. I see him clearly, not blurry, or vague like everything else that’s come to me. There’s no mistaking that it’s him.

I see him in my mind, touching my face and holding me. But I’m hurt. Something bad happened to me.

I’m Lucca.

His words come to my mind, and the intense blast of memory is so strong I pull out of the kiss, but he’s still holding me, holding my face to him.

Lucca? I whisper, and his eyes become sad for a fraction of a second.

Yes, Printsessa, that’s right, he answers, and as he rubs over the edge of my neck, something sharp stings my skin.

It makes me jump, but he holds me still.

What was that?

Sorry, Printsessa, maybe it’s best if you don’t try to remember me. I’m not here to save you this time. And there’s no one who can save you from me.

My eyes widen with terror and fright that closes my throat.

The first thing I think of is Dad’s paranoia and overprotective nature. This is why he’s like that. It’s for this very reason. Danger.

My mouth opens to say something, anything, but the words don’t come.

I move out of his grasp, but the movement is too sudden and whatever he put on my neck makes my vision blur. And, damn it, I can’t talk. I can’t call for help even though I try my best.

The words just won’t come. I stumble backward, and he allows me to back away from him. I use the chance to look around for Bruno, but I can’t see him anywhere. The only thing I can think to do is to try and get away. Run and try to save myself.

Lucca watches me unfazed with the confidence of a man who knows he’s just caught his prey.

Panic carries me toward a set of steps in the corner. I take them, hoping they’ll lead me out of the club.

I move as quickly as I can against the darkness threatening to take over and send me to the ground.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and open the door, grateful it leads outside.

But when I turn the corner, I stop short right there in my tracks as my gaze lands on a man wearing a hooded sweatshirt, crouched over Bruno’s body. His knife is in Bruno’s heart, and dark red blood mingles with the silver moonlight as it gushes out of him.

I want to scream, but I can’t, and I only back away into the arms of the beautiful devil as he catches me when I crash into him.

I want to tell him to let me go. I want to run away and scream.

But I can’t do either of those things, and we both know it.

He touches my cheek, and I have that memory of him again.

How strange.

In two and a half years, my first memory is of this man, and I think he’s going to kill me.

The darkness comes, and I fall into it, allowing it to take me the same way I fell into that kiss of doom.

1

Three years ago

Death greets me like an old bastard friend as I stare at the mutilated body of Timothy Mikhailov. The man who was like a brother to me.

The burned, disfigured version of what remains of him is lying before me on a slab in the morgue.

On the two slabs next to him are the lifeless bodies of his wife, Galina, and Evan, their three-year-old son.

Death was kinder to them. The bullet to their heads would have taken them quicker. I can only pray to whoever will hear me that they felt very little pain, and it was quick.

My gaze drifts to Evan’s tiny body, and a mixture of rage and despair rakes through me as I stare at the bullet wound.

He was a child, a baby, gone far, far too soon, gone from this world because of the evil that men do. I don’t have a paternal bone in my body, but when I remember the day he took his first steps toward Timothy and called him papa, I felt like a father then too.

This is not the first child I’ve seen this happen to, and he’s not the youngest I’ve seen either.

The youngest death—murder— I’ve seen is still my baby brother. I can say with certainty that my soul died that day so long ago from the moment I saw him, and a void of darkness filled that space inside me. But still, my heart beats with anguish when I see sadness like this.

I’ve seen the cruel hand of death more times than I’d like in my life. Unfortunately, this is one of the worst, creating a numbness inside me I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to shake.

The sting is always the same when it takes people I care about, and there aren’t many of those people left in this world.

Timothy Mikhailov was one of those few. His wife and child were like an extension of him, and they felt like they were mine to protect too.

Now all three have crossed over to the other side and are no more. They’re gone far, far away from me to the place I’ve tried to avoid.

The horrific scene before me reminds me that something human still resides in me under the hard exterior of the man I am.

Something that awakens my cold heart as well as that sense of helplessness I hate. The feeling pushes me to recall the only other time I felt this destitute. The same taunting vibe hangs in the air.

A tell that death came for retribution it felt it was owed. Maybe because every time death comes for me and I survive, it feels cheated, and I’m always robbing death of that satisfying finishing blow to end me.

This time death issued payback like a bitch, and it seems like it had help.

There are ligature marks around Timothy’s neck and angry bruises on his cheek.

That already tells me more than one person did this to him. One person would never have been enough to take down a man like him. More people were involved, and because of the skill set I know this man has, I’m going to assume it had to be a group of fuckers. And they could only have gotten to him if they’d weakened him severely first. I wonder if they used his wife and child to do that. It’s likely.

The rest of his body tells me the story that my best friend was tortured before he was killed.

The skin on his legs was burned off, and all that remains is the skeleton with burned flesh fused to it. So, all I see is burned flesh right up to his stomach, and that’s where the bullet wounds take over.

There are several on his arms and shoulders. In my world, you only shoot a man in those parts of the body if you want them to live so you can scare them into giving you information.

The three bullets in his chest would have been the finishing blow. The one in the middle is to his heart.

Why was Timothy tortured?

What did he know?

I saw him only two days ago. If there was anything that was going on, he would have told me. That’s how close we were.

Whatever happened to Timothy was planned. Planned well and executed by people who had skills akin to his and mine.

It would have been some kind of elaborate setup to tie up a man you wouldn’t be able to beat.

He was just like me. A Vor in the Bratva. Untouchable, formidable, and nearly invincible.

We are both part of the Pakhan, Grigori Ivanov’s group of elite enforcers he hand-selected to protect and serve the Yurkov Brotherhood.

We are assassins and in the Bratva for life. We are in to live and to die if we must like the Spartans of old.

But I do not think my best friend’s death was about our code of honor.

So, what did he die for then?

Gritting my teeth, I inhale the clinical smell of whatever the coroners used to clean the morgue. It’s strong and should eradicate the scent of the dead, but I can still smell them clinging to the cloying air.

I can see your thoughts, moy syn, comes a voice from behind me, speaking with a thick Russian accent.

The voice belongs to Damien Mikhailov, Timothy’s father.

"I knew you would come as soon as you got the message, moy syn," he adds, calling me moy syn again.

It means my son in Russian. A title I feel unworthy of at this moment. Timothy and I have always had each other’s backs, and this time I wasn’t there to help him.

I’ve always felt honored that Damien would treat me like his own. He has since I was thirteen. After my family was massacred, he took me in and raised me.

Damien was my father’s best friend. Like my father, Damien is a brigadier. So, I was raised to become part of the Vory from that age.

His footsteps echo on the morgue’s stone floor as he comes closer, and I drag my gaze away from the demise of his son to look at him. I meet his bloodshot eyes as he stops a breath away.

I did, I reply in a raspy voice. I’m sorry this happened, Damien.

Expressing sorrow of any kind doesn’t come easy to me. You never hear words of sorrow leave my lips unless you deserve them.

I know.

My gaze drifts back to Timothy, and I look over his body, my eyes stopping at the areas that raise my suspicions. Damien said he could see my thoughts, so I’ll pass the shit and get to the point. Timothy was tortured.

He was. Let’s talk out here. Out of respect. He points to the door in the corner.

Of course. We make our way out of the room, but I still feel like I’m standing right next to Timothy. What happened, Damien?

They got into his home. Most of his men were burned to a crisp, and others shot in the head execution-style. The same as his wife and his child.

How the fuck did that happen?

It was a setup, Lucca, he clarifies, and my blood runs cold. "This did not just happen."

Who fucking did this?

The Pakhan’s lapdog, he answers, and the cold blood flowing through my veins drains from my body.

Damien pulls out a silver ring from his pocket and holds it up to the light so I can see the insignia of our Brotherhood embossed in the center. Every member and high-ranking associate of the Yurkov has one.

The insignia is a griffin carrying a dagger. Next to the dagger is a unique number that identifies the member or associate. The ring acts as identification and a symbol of loyalty.

The number on this ring is 106. The sight instantly flares my temper, and I

snap my gaze back to Damien. Where did you find that?

One of my police associates found it at the crime scene. He called me in before the Pakhan when he saw Timothy, and he took it before forensics could process it as evidence. It had Timothy’s blood on it, Lucca. My associate had it checked out and verified before I got here.

I can only imagine that it must have been one of the associates still loyal to Damien. He would have known the consequences of fanning the flames of Hellfire.

Fanning the fucking flames of Hell is the only way to describe alerting Damien because that ring belongs to Governor Raphael De Marchi, and he is indeed the Pakhan’s lapdog. An instrumental weapon of great importance wielded by the Brotherhood.

I’ve grown up knowing that truth and watching him act like he’s from the royal bloodline. Entitled to the same benefits of the Bratva because of the alliance he has with us, and the Pakhan makes it so.

For me, though, that man has always been everything I despise, and my hatred for him runs deep. I’ve hated him since the day I first met him, and he spat on me for getting in the way of his car.

I was seven years old. If my mother hadn’t pulled me out of the way of his speeding car, he would have run me over like a dog in the street, and he never looked back. I’ve had no end of run-ins with that man, each time wishing I could kill his ass. Hearing he’s responsible for Timothy and his family’s death just cocked the hammer in my gun.

He will pay for this with his life, I growl.

I take one step to go, but Damien grabs my shoulder with his free hand and stops me. He eyes me with a seriousness that catches and holds my attention. I don’t know why the fuck he’s stopping