Page 41 of Sinner's Vows

He’s standing with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets, his white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves. For the first time, I see the hint of a tattoo on his inner arm that disappears underneath his shirtsleeve. His forearms are dusted with dark hair thinning towards his hands. Muscles flex as he seems to pump his fists in his pockets, veins embossed on his skin from where they run their course from his wrists to his elbows.

My gaze glides from his arm to his face, where his jaw ticks.

“You have blood on your shirt,” I say softly. “Just a few specks on your collar.” But blood all the same.

“Yeah?” He reaches for his shirt’s collar as if he should feel the blood on him. “Occupational hazard. Come, I organized dinner for us.”

The way he says those words so casually makes my stomach turn.Occupational hazard.How can he want dinner after what he’s done? He doesn’t even try to hide what he is to me, open and almost mundane about killing someone in cold blood. This evidently runs in the family, but what did I expect after yesterday’s brutality?

Get real.I’m familiar with the fucked-up world of the Mafia. I was born into it. Grew up in it. I turned my back on this world, but with a vow to one day tear it apart. Now I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing, but here are wolves aplenty, and they protect their own first. One of them is going to see through me.

I drop my flip-flops to the floor, shove my feet in, and straighten my skirt as I stand. He waits for me to walk out of the room, and then with a hand on the small of my back, guides me through the quiet house. I should shudder at the intimate contact and pull away at a minimum, but I don’t do either. I don’t want to acknowledge it to myself, but I can’t reconcile this man, who looked after me with such gentle care, with one who would torture someone else.

“Portia was here earlier, but I was busy?—”

“I know,” I say softly. “I heard you.”

“What was that?” he asks as I’ve spoken under my breath.

I’m not even sure why I said anything. I’m literally poking at the beast with a stick, provoking him as if I have a death wish. “I heard a man screaming. Through the vent.”

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t hear a thing.”

He stops me with that soft grip on my wrist, gently turning me to him. For a few beats, we just stare at each other, summing one another up.

“So tell me, Ariana, what would you do if they come for your family? If they threaten to torture and kill every single one of your brothers in the vilest way humanly possible?”

Dominic raises his eyebrows in question, waiting for my answer. Seconds tick by, and I don’t know what to say.

“Not just black and white now anymore, is it?” he says when I don’t answer him. “Think it over, sweetheart, and tell me what you would do.”

I don’t have family, and the little I had got torn from me by Randazzo and his machinations. I’ve promised to avenge both my mom and Elena Bianchi, but now, it’s too late.

But I have a team—the closest to family I’ve ever had since my mom died. And then the Mafia in Italy killed Elena, the only other woman I connected with at fifteen—my mentor who got me through life in the aftermath of Franco. I’ve made it my mission to be independent and detached from the world, but when it comes to my team, I’d do anything to protect them, as they would protect me.

I can’t tell him about them, so instead, I admit to another truth. “I have no family.”

“No family? You’re a loner with no burdens. My brothers’ safety gives me sleepless nights. I think about them about ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“Lucky them.” What else can I say? That it’s fun to have no family and no place to belong? Nobody to think about me ninety-nine percent of the time? How lucky I am!

“For now, you think you have no family, Ariana,” he says with a soft smile. “I’m getting the DNA tests back soon, and then we’ll know.”

He nods, and we continue towards the kitchen, his hand still wrapped around my wrist in the stance that saysbullshit will only be tolerated to a point.

I bet he can feel my pulse where it flutters wildly through my veins.

As we walk inside the spacious kitchen, all white marble and chrome, he lets go of me.

“From experience,” he says, “I can tell you what those men went through wasn’t half-bad.”

“Experience,” I scoff, but I sound bitter. I’ve had ample experience when it comes to torture, and it started the day Franco Fiore decided it was time to ‘train me’ for my ‘job’ in his extortion scheme.

On the kitchen island, there’s a spread of take-out.

“I got a variety of things,” Dominic says, promptly ignoring my remark. “Reckoned you’d be hungry, and I don’t know what you like, so…” He tapers off and draws some of the dishes closer and opens the lids. “Green Thai curry with chicken and rice, some spaghetti marinara—it’s really good, gets my vote for the best in Boston—and some pizza. We’ve beef tenderloin, cooked medium-rare, with Greek salad, and some vegetarian options… You know, hummus with pita and some dolmades, olives…”

I bite my lip. It’s extra, and everything looks delicious. This isn’t some random take-out either; this looks like food from top-tier local restaurants. “Thank you. I’m starving.”

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