Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

13. Andrik

13

ANDRIK

“ Y ou’re married!” My father’s eyes fling from the simple gold band Mrs. Sakharoff shoved into my palm last night, now circling Arabella’s ring finger, to me. “When? How? You said you weren’t ready.”

I wait for my staff to leave as per the demand of my hand thrust before answering, “I changed my mind.”

Well, I had.

Arabella presented as the perfect reared-to-serve-my-ruse bride. Then I spent the night ravishing a woman who made me wonder if vengeance is for the weak.

I assumed Zoya would be the wildcat I’d suspected she’d be, but then I’d move on like I generally do. How was I to know one taste would never suffice? Or that it would change my plans in an instant?

I had no clue she’d place me under a spell that would fog my perception so well I thought I could end an agreement with a sternly worded email.

I requested a suspension on the paperwork that shouldn’t have been filed until Monday morning, confident it was an easy fix.

Demands work in business, so why shouldn’t they also work in my personal life?

You can save your lecture. It seems karma has come knocking to gnaw my ass.

I work my jaw from side to side before getting to work on settling my father’s skyrocketing blood pressure before he goes into cardiac arrest. “Paperwork was endorsed yesterday?—”

“After a whirlwind three-month courtship and permission from her guardian,” Mrs. Sakharoff interrupts, following the plot we devised on a whim last night.

Our union needed to look legitimate, or it would be utterly pointless, so we spent more time tying up the loose ends that would have seen it ending sooner than planned.

My family would have never believed I married a stranger during a drunk, drug-fueled bender. I’m more astute than that.

Furthermore, those types of marriages don’t last in my family.

It wouldn’t have ended with an annulment, though.

Bullets are cheaper than losing assets that took centuries to earn.

“Did you at least demand a prenup?”

I glare at my father, disapproving of his wrath but conscious he has a right to be angry.

It won’t stop me from badgering him, though.

“Do I look like a braindead idiot?”

He doesn’t hide his nod, and I can’t kill him for it.

He didn’t lie, so I have no foundation to punish him.

“The contract we endorsed stated a monetary amount for the dissolution of the marriage. Despite the shortness of our union, I will abide by that term.”

My father’s cheeks redden, loathing that I’m handing over money to which he has no claim.

I earned the millions in my bank accounts, so I can spend them however I see fit.

“And the rest? What happens with that?”

Mrs. Sakharoff’s tone better take a seat before I remind her that she is not running the show around here, and neither is the woman she thrusts in front of her like I won’t kill her just as fast.

Arabella means nothing to me.

She was the commencement of answers I will devise another tactic to unearth.

It appears her mother believes differently, though.

“The consummation of your vows could have evoked an additional clause.”

“I didn’t touch her.” I sound disgusted by the idea, and Arabella doesn’t miss that. Tears dust her lower lashes as her face turns ashen. I’d hate that I’ve upset her if I actually cared. Since I don’t, I keep my tone blunt. “So any clauses you’re referencing are null and void.”

I was too generous with my assumption of Mrs. Sakharoff’s age when she screws up her face while shouting, “Your marital contract demanded haste.”

“Because I’m not getting any younger,” I fire back, needing to say something to lessen the suspicion on my father’s face. It isn’t my clock I was watching when determining the terms of our contract. It was my grandfather’s. “And neither the fuck is my grandfather.”

I age a decade in a second when victory flares through Mrs. Sakharoff’s eyes. “So you can understand why we put immediate measures into play to ensure we’d meet the terms of your contract in a timely manner.”

What is she saying?

Is she implying what I think she is?

Did she use my fucking sperm to impregnate her daughter earlier than the stated timeline in our contract?

I wasn’t lying when I told Arabella and her mother that our union would never be about love. They believe it is for the massive payout I’ll receive from my grandfather’s estate when I create an heir to the Dokovic lineage that has ruled this country for over a hundred years, because that’s what I want them to believe.

It’s about far more than political power, but they’re not privileged enough to be informed of that. I haven’t even told Mikhail, so why the fuck would I mention it to someone I hired to help me?

Mrs. Sakharoff scoffs when I say, “I don’t believe you.” For the first time, fear crosses her face when I stand from my chair and bang my fist on my desk. “And it will be in your best interest to remember what I do to people who lie to me.”

“What reason does she have to lie, Kazimir?”

I shoot my eyes in the direction of the Russian voice steeped with history. It doesn’t belong to my father. It is projecting from his phone on the coffee table in front of him.

It belongs to my grandfather.

“She had a signed marital contract that stated your wish for an heir, so the federation had no reason to send her away.” My jaw tightens during his last sentence.

The public believes the president runs our country. The president and his minions know differently. The federation was once the most ruthless and largest organized crime syndicate in the Soviet Union. Now it is the crown of the Russian political conglomerate.

Don’t misconstrue what I’m saying. Bratva members and politicians have worked side by side for centuries. Now, more times than not, they’re the same people.

Same suits.

Same arrogance.

Same end game.

Power.

The federation is the peak of the food chain for the entirety of Russia. Nothing said or done under its canopy occurs without its complicit consent—not even the conception of a future presidential candidate.

My contract with Arabella was meant to unearth the main players so I could implode the organization from the inside out, one hierarchy at a time.

That’s how much I despise following a life plan devised for me before I was even conceived, and having the only person I’ve ever loved so cruelly stripped from me.

My mother wasn’t waiting for me when I galloped down the stairs on my fifth birthday like my stomach didn’t have me wanting to fold in two from being forced to hold.

She was nowhere to be seen, and despite how often I told my guests that she didn’t just “leave” as implied, no one believed me.

I had to endure a group of strangers singing happy birthday to me before I was forcefully walked to my room and told not to come out until I had an attitude adjustment.

If it weren’t for Anoushka, I would have starved to death.

That’s how stubborn I was.

That’s how stubborn I still am.

I am Kazimir Andrik Dokovic the Eighth. I don’t answer to anyone, so how the fuck did I, in fewer than twelve hours, lose sight of a hate so deeply engrained I’ve carried it with me for over thirty years?

It shouldn’t have left my sight for a single second.

I won’t make the same mistake twice.

I just need to fight fire with fire, and the best way to do that is to remember a promise given thirty years ago is still valid today.

“My anger is not directed at the federation.” I have to work my following lie through a tight jaw. “It is from the remembrance I forgot to have them vet the future First Lady of our great nation.”

Arabella gleams over a title she will never see.

I want our family name to return to what it was initially about. We’re gangsters, not political mongers who will do or say anything if it guarantees a vote.

I just can’t announce that until I ensure the procedure Arabella undertook last night won’t have me breaking the only promise I ever issued directly to my mother.

“If unvetted endorsements are the cause of your backflip, you have nothing to worry about.” Mrs. Sakharoff steps closer. “Arabella was reared for precisely this. She is well-educated, can cook and clean, and her political viewpoint will forever match yours.” She tugs her daughter forward, oblivious that her praise is weakening her confidence instead of expediting it. “She is also fertile.”

“Unlike the woman you spent the night with.” My grandfather’s chief of staff continues talking, drowning out the brutal snap of my back molars. “So enough with the unnecessary drama. The federation approves of your connubium. However, there are a handful of infractions we need to iron out…”

My grandfather rejoins the conversation. I don’t hear a word he speaks. I’m too busy plotting the demise of the leading players to listen to the demands given by faceless voices.

I knew they were watching me, but I had no clue it went this deep. Zoya’s fertility issues were only unearthed yesterday, so how the fuck does an organization with millions under its control know about them?

Dr. Hemway is my first guess.

He’ll be the first on my hitlist too if my theories stack up.

The rest of the insolent fools thinking I’m a puppet they can make dance on demand will soon follow.

I just need to unearth who they are first, which could be impossible without Arabella’s help.

Regretfully.