Page 133 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

Slowly, I take it all in. Sean’s dying body is inches from mine, his remaining eye staring blankly at the ceiling. With a choked sob, I push myself to my feet, cradling my throbbing arm.

Shaking violently, I stumble to the bathroom, desperately searching for a way out. There are none—no windows here either, no vents big enough to crawl through. Just gleaming marble and chrome fixtures that seem to mock me. Even if there were windows, I wouldn’t be able to climb out with my injured arm hanging at an awkward angle.

As the reality of what’s happened—what I’ve done—crashes over me, I crumple to the floor, sobs wracking my body. Blood—thick, sticky, and drying in rusty patches—coats my skin.

I’ve done it. I’ve killed a man. My husband. Brutally. And now what?

“Dante,” I whisper into the empty room. “Where are you?”

But there’s no answer. Just the sound of my own beating heart counting down the moments until someone comes to check on the bride and groom. Until my fragile safety shatters, and I have to fight again—or die.

I close my eyes, trying to summon Dante’s face, his strength. I’ve survived this far, but I don’t know how to survive what comes next.

Chapter Forty-Three

Adele

I stumble back to the bedroom, every step a reminder of the fight for my life. Collapsing at the foot of the bed, I find myself unable to tear my eyes from Sean's motionless body. What if he's just stunned? My breath catches with each imagined twitch.

Cradling my throbbing shoulder, I shift into a position that dulls the pain from excruciating to merely agonizing. But it's not just my shoulder—every inch of my body screams in protest.

My training never covered killing a perp only to end up trapped in a basement with his corpse. So I wait. And pray. For death. For a miracle. For an oblivion that never comes because suddenly, there is a soft knock on the door.

“My King, are you okay?” A woman’s voice floats through the other side. “I heard . . . something.”

Mezhen.

Had she been standing right outside the door all this time?

The knock continues for a full five minutes, by which time I can hear her heart-wrenching sobs. It’s as if she knows he’s dead. “Please . . . Sean,” she whimpers. “Please be okay.”

Fucking hell. Shouldn’t she be jumping for joy? Stockholm much?

I’m dimly aware that might not be the most relevant thought considering I’m about to be found out, but I can’t exactly focus on anything else.

With my good arm, I reach for the scrap of lace caught under Sean’s massive body and pull it free. I’m not about to make my execution more exciting by having my tits out. I slip on the blood-soaked bra, pulling it over my injured arm first, then the other. After managing only one clasp, I give up.

And Mezhen is still sobbing like her heart is breaking.

Shit. I may have just killed the man she loves. But I have no other choice. I can sit here and get killed. Or do something and get killed.

I move to the door. “Mezhen?” I call out tentatively.

“Is . . . Is h–he . . .?” She trails off.

“He’s sleeping,” I say quickly. “But I’m . . . hurt. He hurt me. I’m ah, bleeding. Can you help me?”

“Liar,” she spits.

Yep, she was pressed to the door the whole time.

“I swear. I just need . . . like a tampon, please.” I have no idea what I’ll do once I open the door and let her in, but both of us in here has to be better than her out there bawling her eyes out and alerting the guards.

After about a minute she finally says, “I go get one for you.”

“Thank you,” I sigh, then slide down the wall in relief.

Not even five minutes later, the banging starts. Shit. I guess Mezhen didn’t buy the tampon story. I close my eyes, resigned to my fate. A few more seconds of banging, followed by loud pops and splintering wood, and then half a dozen pale-faced men pour into the room, including Benjamin.

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