Page 7 of The Enforcer's Vow


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He's good at this. Patient. Professional.

But he's also alone.

I complete the circle and find myself back where I started, standing on the sidewalk in front of my building. He's returned to his position by the car, watching me with the same steady attention he showed at the track.

The smart move would be to go inside, lock my door, and plan my next step from safety. The smart move would be to assume he's dangerous and keep my distance.

Instead, I cross the street.

He doesn't move as I approach, but his posture shifts almost imperceptibly. His hands come out of his pockets. His weight settles differently on his feet, suggesting he's preparing for an attack or pursuit.

"You're not very subtle," I say when I'm close enough that we don't have to raise our voices.

"I'm not trying to be subtle."

His voice carries the same calm authority it had at the track, but up close, I notice details I missed before. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The cold hazel of his eyes that seems to see everything and reveal nothing.

"Most people would be intimidated," I continue, stopping just outside arm's reach.

"Are you intimidated?"

There's heat in the question, in the way his gaze moves over my face. Not the clinical assessment of an interrogator but the focused attention of a man looking at a woman.

I take another step closer. "Should I be?"

The air between us tightens. I can smell his cologne now—something dark and expensive that doesn't match the casual leather jacket he wears. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a moment before returning to meet mine.

"That depends on what you're planning to do next," he says.

I could walk away. I could go upstairs and pretend this encounter never happened. I could keep my head down and hope the Bratva loses interest in me.

Or I could take the risk and turn it into an opportunity.

The thought crystallizes as I look at him. This man—this enforcer—he's here because they're hunting Damir. That much is obvious. But if he's watching me, it means they think I know where my brother is. They think I'm useful. And if I'm useful to them, then maybe they're useful to me too.

I need to know what they know. How close are they to finding Damir? What exactly do they want with him? The original plan was to run, to grab my false papers and disappear before they could connect me to my brother's business. But running means going in blind, and blind means dead.

This enforcer could be my way in. If I can get close to him, make him see me as harmless—maybe even make him want to protect me—I might learn enough to save both our lives.

"I was thinking about getting dinner this week," I say, my voice softer now, almost conversational. "Thursday, maybe. Do you know any good places?"

His expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tilt of his head—surprise, maybe, or amusement.

"I might know a place."

"Eight o'clock?"

"Where?"

I name a restaurant in the city center, upscale enough to feel safe but not so expensive that it seems suspicious. He nods once, then extends his hand.

"Maksim Vetrov."

The surname makes my pulse skip. Vetrov—I know that name from the track, from whispered conversations about the families who run this city. His handshake is firm, controlled.

"Zoya," I say, meeting his eyes directly. There's no point in lying about something he already knows.

"I'll see you Thursday, then." I step back, breaking the tension but not the connection. "Try not to follow me until then. It's distracting."