Page 105 of Sinner's Vows

Dominic stares at me as I try not to lose my composure. Elena was my original guardian angel. She built the bridge for me out of the Mafia, once and for all. Franco was always my stepping-stone vendetta. I planned to get him annihilated en route to killing Randazzo.

Vengeance for my mom and Randazzo’s treatment of her was first on my to-do list, but then Elena happened. I always assumed Randazzo was the man behind her death and killing him would have avenged her and my mom in one smooth blow. Then Franco dragged me back into the Mafia over that same bridge before blowing it up. Now that Dominic knows my truth, I’m stuck, and there’s no way I ever get back to the other side again.

“Sounds like you had a mentor who cared for you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

At his words, so unexpected, I have to blink back the tears pushing behind my eyes. “Yes. We didn’t see each other often. In fact, our interactions were limited as far as possible for mysafety, but I never forgot what she did for me. I finished my basic studies and got integrated in the DIA via a program for people with my profile. I was already on their radar, thanks to prep work Elena did when I first met her.”

“Your profile?”

“Orphans. People who won’t be missed. People who have an intense hate for an institution and who would give their lives to take it down.”

We glare at each other. Dominic’s jaw ticks as we’re brutally honest with each other. I am a hunter, and in my world, he is prey. Except I’m weakened, in my heart and in my soul. First by the ordeal Franco put me through, and then by going to Boston, constantly on the run in my mind, and then by him, this man who made love to me earlier as if I’m the woman he’s been waiting his entire life for. Letting me touch him. Being human, caring, vulnerable, not the kind of cookie-cutter Mafia brute I grew up with and loathe.

I am a compass that lost its truth north.

Maybe I lost it when I learned Randazzo had died. Killed at someone else’s hand.

And then Franco met his fate with this lot.

None of it happened by my hand. In fact, I had no impact at all. I could have been wiped from the picture and it wouldn’t have made a day’s difference.

I didn’t count for squat.

I canobserve, adapt, and only act when the time is rightas much as I want, nothing has prepared me for this.

My whole life’s goals, the two things that kept me going through every up and down got ripped away from me, leaving me winded. I haven’t been able to catch my breath again since that night, stumbling through everything that led me here.

And now, I’m at the mercy of a man who I know has none.

57

DOMINIC

Jesus Christ. I didn’t miss it; I just didn’t heed my sixth sense, choosing to be blind to all her red flags.

As she talks, giving me glimpses into her life, little things add up to her truth. The way she gathered information as she walked through the Don’s house, how she tried to steal my gun and then wielded it like a pro, but unable to shoot me. Something short-circuited in her head in that moment, and I’d love to think it was me. But it wasn’t. It was the past she keeps on running from.

Or maybe she’s running towards it, to annihilate it once and for all. People don’t join the police force for no reason, especially not special units like the DIA.

Ariana Morelli—Emilia Korhonen, as she admitted—was in witness protection and changed her name, disappeared from her prior life, and yet chose to be integrated back into the Mafia as an undercover agent as if she belongs—because she does. No wonder she fooled me.

“What training did you have in the DIA?” I ask to keep her talking.

So far so good, but at some point, she might stop, choosing to protect her team over giving me information. Not that I woulddo anything with it. We have enough shit in Boston to keep us busy, and I don’t need to poke around the Italian police force or kick the hornet’s nest further down the field, hoping to shoot a fucking goal with it. It’s bad enough Matteo established the kick-off with killing Randazzo.

“The usual basic training, firearms, tactical, some combat training,” she says with a shrug, as if this is old news. “And then the specialized training in organized crime, surveillance, intelligence, hostage negotiations. Extensive psychological preparation to go undercover. That’s just the broad brushstrokes.”

Typical training, but nothing about this woman is typical or average, and I’m looking at her with fresh eyes…and admiration. Through everything, she kept her cool.

“What were you involved with when Franco came for you?” This is the inflection point in her story and where our paths start to merge. How did our paths cross? I’d love to know.

She glances to where the air hostess is busy on the other side of the cabin, preparing for landing. Nobody can hear our conversation over the hum of the jet’s engines. My bodyguards sit in their usual spots by the front and back of the plane, out of earshot.

“We were working on a long-term infiltration operation of Randazzo’s sex trafficking rings in Italy. The plan was to penetrate and take down the ring leaders and make the whole structure crumble.” She shakes her head with a frustrated sigh. “It took us years to get people undercover. I prepped as a make-up artist to gain entry and access to the auctions. And then—and then?—”

“Wait a minute,” I say, holding up a hand. “A makeup artist? At sex slave auctions?”

A feeling I’m starting to associate with her, one of burning fucking rage fueled by everything she’s telling me, flares up in me. It’s only doused by this intense need to protect her.

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