Page 4 of Brutal Vows

After a slight hesitation, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me. I return the hug with equal pressure and thank her, but I let go the moment she drops her arms.

I clear my throat and adjust my purse higher on my shoulder. Knowing neither of us is okay and asking her more questions will just grow the divide between us, so I shift into a quick farewell.

“Call me if you need anything,” I say.

“I will. Thanks, Loretta,” she responds.

It’s not the declaration of love I crave, but it’s more cordial than I deserve, so I wait until she latches the bolt of her apartment door behind her before turning to the apartment across the hall.

After wanding my key card, I step over the threshold and kick the door closed with my heel. When the automatic light flicks on overhead, I drop my purse on the front table and sit on the bench to remove my shoes. I untie my sneakers and tuck the laces inside before sliding them into the shoe organizer.

The light turns off.

My control snaps. With no one around to cast judgmental eyes over me, the day’s trauma roars through my veins. The Russian’s scarred face fills my memory, and the need to lash out becomes too strong.

I kick the shoe organizer again and again until it topples over. With fury in every move, I rise, step over the mess, strip down to my black sports bra and boxer briefs—leaving a trail of clothes behind me in the darkness—and strap on the heaviest ankle and wrist weights I have before squaring up with the freestanding heavyweight punching bag in the center of what should be my dining nook.

Even though my sister has only visited my apartment four times in the five years we’ve lived in this complex, I keep the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and guest room spotless and ready for her. Devoting my dining area as my workout spot meant buying multipurpose furniture for the living room—a modular couch, height adjustable coffee table, and long-armed lamps—for the rare occasion she drops by for a meal or to watch a movie, but it’s worth it. Livia likes the versatility so much she got one of her own modular couches for her apartment. It’s a different brand, color, and style, but still a modular couch.

I hope she thinks kind thoughts of me every time she sits on it, even though I know she most likely curses me.

With my fear and frustration flooding my veins, I skip warming up and land a flurry of bare-knuckle punches on the bag. The pain traveling up my arms and into my shoulders releases the toxins trapped in my body.

With only the dim floorboard lights in the kitchen illuminating my apartment, the bag becomes a Russian giant.

I hit harder. Slam my fist into his solar plexus. Jab his ribs with my elbow. Swing from the hips and bury my knuckles into his stomach. Knee him in the crotch. Shove him away. Kick his liver.

For a few minutes, nothing exists beyond the burning in my muscles and the bag representing my new demon. When my turmoil finally fades, I flop onto the floor and yank the hook and loop straps of the weights off my ankles and wrists, the harsh sound comforting since I control it. With my body spent and my soul numb, I heave and spend some time staring up at my white ceiling in the darkness.

My phone buzzes in my pocket somewhere on the floor between the living room and kitchen. I sigh and drag myself onto my feet before cleaning my mess robotically.

With the apartment reset to perfection, I take a quick shower and drop into bed for a few hours of shut eye, but every time I dip into sleep, nightmares wake me.

Premonition pulses through me. I tuck my misgivings tight around me, protecting my sister from my negativity despite the block she holds between us.

When my stepsister framed me for things I didn’t do and coerced our stepmother to exile us from our mafia family eighteen years ago, our brother stepped in and funded our education, but Livia and I vowed to never get tangled up in a criminal lifestyle ever again.

We broke our vow, but not by choice.

Intuition tells me this is only the beginning. As terrifying as the Russian mobsters were, their leader’s gruesome injuries attest to their enemies being much worse.

We can’t work at the clinic anymore. I don’t know how I’ll convince Livia to leave when she finally found her surgical dream team, but it isn’t safe for either of us.

The vilest creatures on the planet are sure to follow the monsters we met today, so we need to be far, far away when they come, otherwise we’ll be fucked.

I’m already a target for one devil. I don’t need another on my tail.

Sleep never comes. I rise for another grueling day.

Chapter 2

Ermanno Mancini

The constant ache in my chestflares into a burning pain, but I shove the man’s head deeper underwater and hold him down despite his frantic struggling. Just as he inhales water, I yank him up and hold his face half an inch above the surface as he coughs and sputters.

“I need names, Rubio,” I snarl.

“Fuck you!” he yells.

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