Page 79 of The Enforcer's Vow


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The cliff edge drops away beneath us, jagged rocks meeting the endless blue of the Aegean Sea. I've chosen this spot carefully—isolated, private, with no security detail shadowing our every move. For the first time in years, I am alone with someone I care about, and the freedom of it feels strange in my chest.

Zoya stands beside me in a simple white dress that moves with the evening breeze. The fabric is soft, flowing, nothing elaborate or expensive. Her feet are bare against the warm stone, and her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, catching the golden light of the setting sun. She looks nothing like the woman who counted dirty money at the Podsolnukh Racetrack, nothing like the guarded stranger who first approached me with lies on her lips. This version of her is unguarded, vulnerable, and more beautiful than I have words for.

The priest—a local man with kind eyes and careful English—opens his small book and begins to speak. His words drift over us, blessings and promises that feel different here, away from the cold marble and political theater of our first ceremony. This time, there are no witnesses except the sun sinking toward thehorizon, splashing the sky in shades of gold and pink that I've never bothered to notice before.

When he asks for the rings, I produce them from my jacket pocket. Simple bands, nothing flashy. I slide hers onto her finger, and she does the same for me. The gold feels cold against my skin, and I find myself staring at it, this small symbol of something I never thought I'd have. Her hands shake slightly as she pushes the ring over my knuckle, and I cover her fingers with mine to steady her.

"The certificate," the priest says, offering me the pen with a gentle smile.

I sign my name in careful script, then place the pen in Zoya's hand. She hesitates for a moment, staring down at the document, and I cover her fingers with mine, guiding her through the motions. When she finishes, I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles, tasting salt air and the faint sweetness of her perfume. Her skin is warm, and I feel her pulse fluttering beneath my lips.

The priest pronounces us married, and I turn to face my wife. Her eyes are bright with tears, but she's smiling—the first real smile I've seen from her in weeks. I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing away the moisture on her cheeks, and kiss her softly as the sun disappears into the sea. Her lips are warm and soft, and she melts into me with a sigh that speaks of relief and joy and something deeper.

"It's done," I murmur against her lips, my forehead pressed to hers.

"It's done," she agrees, and there's relief in her voice, as if she's finally allowing herself to believe in this moment.

We walk slowly along the cliffside path, her hand in mine. The villa I've rented sits back from the edge, white stone and blue shutters that blend seamlessly with the landscape. Bougainvillea spills over the walls in cascades of purple andpink, and the scent of jasmine hangs heavily in the evening air. But tonight, we're not going inside yet. A table has been set beneath a linen canopy, surrounded by flickering candles that dance in the evening breeze. The scene looks almost too perfect, too much like something from a movie, but Zoya's sharp intake of breath tells me it's exactly what she needed.

"You did this?" she asks, squeezing my fingers as we approach the romantic setup.

"I made some calls." I pull out her chair, waiting for her to settle before taking my own seat across from her. The table is small, intimate, set with simple plates and glasses that catch the candlelight. Fresh flowers from the local market sit in a small vase between us, their petals already beginning to open in the warm air. "I thought you might want something different from the usual."

"Different from what?" she asks, her fingers tracing the edge of a rose petal.

"From everything else." I pour sparkling water into her glass, then wine into mine. The bottle is local, from a vineyard that clings to the volcanic slopes of the island. "From the life we left behind."

She watches me with those hazel eyes that have learned to read me too well, her head tilted slightly to the side. "And what life is that?"

"The one where we were always performing for someone else," I say, setting the bottle down carefully.

She considers this, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. The candlelight flickers across her face, highlighting the sharp line of her cheekbones and the fullness of her lower lip. "Is that what we were doing?"

"Weren't we?" I lean back in my chair, studying her face in the soft light. "From the moment you walked into my world, we were playing roles. You were the lost sister looking for herbrother. I was the enforcer following orders. Even after—" I stop, not wanting to name the things that came after. The pregnancy, the revelations, the choices we both made.

"After what?" she prompts, leaning forward slightly.

"After we stopped lying to each other," I finish, my voice quieter now.

She nods slowly, her free hand moving to rest over her stomach. The curve there is more pronounced now, visible even through the loose fabric of her dress. "I'm tired of performing."

"Then we won't," I say simply, reaching across the table to cover her hand with mine.

The server appears with the first course—fresh fish and vegetables that I ordered from the local market. The man moves quietly, filling our plates and retreating without disturbing our conversation. We eat in comfortable silence that doesn't need to be filled with words. Zoya's grief is still a heavy thing we don't talk about, but I know it's there.

The fish is perfectly prepared, flaky and seasoned with herbs that grow wild on the island. The candles burn lower, wax pooling in their holders, and the stars begin to appear overhead like scattered diamonds.

"Tell me about your father," I say when we're nearly finished eating, setting down my fork.

She looks up, surprised by the question. "My father?"

"You've never talked about him. Not really," I explain, leaning back in my chair. "I want to know about the man who raised you."

She sets down her fork and leans back in her chair, her expression growing distant. "He was a good man. Quiet, gentle. He worked at a bookshop in the city center, and he used to bring home stories for me and Damir. Not children's books—real stories, about places we'd never been and people we'd never meet."

"What happened to him?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

"He disappeared." The words come out flat, emotionless, but I can see the pain in her eyes. "One day, he went to work, and he never came home. The police said he might have run away, but..." She shrugs, the gesture conveying years of unanswered questions. "Damir always believed someone took him. Someone who thought he knew more than he did."