Page 7 of Brutal Vows

I scoot to the far wall, careful not to lift my feet too high and accidentally step on the oversized furball until Pops is no longer in danger of getting whacked by Scraps’ tail, and cross my arms over my chest, refusing to pet the mutt until he stops his antics.Despite jumping around and whining in excitement, he never puts his paws on me or nudges me hard enough to disrupt my balance, so when he finally plants his butt and looks up at me with doleful eyes, I can’t resist. His tail thumps the floor and his entire body wiggles with excitement as I scratch his ears and pet his head.

“You’re as whipped as little Bella, aren’t you,mio figlio?”

“Ifmia mammahad wanted another trained killer in the house, she’d have left a much different dog in her will. She knew you needed a big softie to take care of when she was gone,” I say.

When I lift Scraps’s leash, he leans against my side but whines and looks to my father. I chuckle whenmio papàrelents and reaches over to take the lead from me. Scraps gives a happy chuff and prances beside my father until a door opens down the hall. At the reminder that he’s no longer within the safety of his home, the dog’s tail droops and his ears flatten as he sidles closer to my father.

I chuckle and follow them into the elevator.

“If anyone is whipped, it’s you, Pops,” I say.

He enters the elevator, scans his key card, and presses the button for the next floor up before shrugging.

I check my watch but don’t admonish my father about how late we are for our appointment.

Even though the high-rise is the most secure building in the city, I exit the elevator first and scan the receiving hall before crossing the space and pressing the bell. The security system already sent an alert to the Russo apartment—which takes up the entire floor—the moment my father clicked the elevator button, butmia mammawould rise from her grave and slap me stupid if I failed to show such a simple common courtesy.

Bella—Nico’s fourteen-year-old half sister—opens the door within seconds. Her flush and heavy breathing show she ran to the door the moment she saw us on the security camera.

“Scraps! C’mere, cutie pie,” she croons and reaches for the ecstatic dog.

My father drops the leash and smirks despite mumbling, “What am I now, chopped liver?”

“Don’t worry, Pops. Even if you were chopped liver, Scraps wouldn’t eat you. He’s too loyal and sweet,” Bella says in her high-pitched sing-song voice as she hugs and pets the spoiled mutt.

“Watch him for me for a few hours, will you?”

He doesn’t need to ask. Her response is always yes. She squeals as though she just won the lottery and rejoices, talking with Scraps as though he understands every word. By the ecstatic wagging of his tail and the goofy grin on his face, the dummy doesn’t care what’s going on. He’s just happy to be included.

“The oversized bunny is still traumatized from the vet visit last week, so be careful if you take him for a walk,” my father instructs.

“Of course, Pops. I’m always careful with him. Aren’t I, Scraps?”

“Romo, we missed you at dinner last night,” Dante addresses my father as he heads toward us from the living room.

My father and I give slight bows in unison. Dante clasps my father’s shoulders and gives him a peck on each cheek, offering him the traditional Italian greeting.

Concern flashes through Dante’s eyes as he studies my father’s face, but he masks the reaction with a smile.

“Why don’t you come in for a bit? I’m sure Nico and Ermanno have things to catch up on,” he says.

“I would, but I’m takingmio figlioto his doctor’s appointment,” my father lies. My heart churns as he continues. I hate liars, but my father isn’t a backstabbing manipulator. He’s protecting those he cares about by omitting the truth. “We’rejust dropping off my sheep in wolf’s clothing so he doesn’t fret himself to death while I’m gone.”

My heart squeezes again over the thought of him no longer being there for Scraps.

Dante earns more of my respect when he doesn’t pry despite the doubts lingering in his eyes. We say a quick goodbye and head to the parking garage. I don’t offer to bring the car around, knowing my father will refuse, and shorten my strides to match his as we cross the brightly lit space.

Halfway across, a coughing fit wracks through my father. I yank the handkerchief from my breast pocket and cover his mouth as I wrap my arm around his back. He accepts my help and cups his gnarled fingers over my hand. When he finally stops half a millennium later, blood covers the white cloth. I wipe his mouth and fold the square, hiding the dark crimson splotches, and tuck it into my back pocket.

“How many times today?” I ask.

“Just now,” he wheezes.

I eye him skeptically. He gestures at the path behind us, indicating how far we’ve walked.

“I’ve been sitting on my ass all day. No chance,” he says.

I usher him into the passenger seat of my car without a word and we drive to the hospital in silence.

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