Page 2 of Bound Vows
“Forgive me. These are associates from out of town. They have interests in the matters we’ll be discussing.”
The taller of the two men has a scar that runs from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. It’s the kind of mark that comes from someone who fights dirty and lives to tell about it. His companion keeps his hands visible but relaxed, which tells me he’s carrying and comfortable using whatever he’s hiding.
“Maya Mastroni.” Lorenzo nods in my direction. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“All good things, I hope.” I take another sip of wine and let my gaze drift over his companions. “Though I don’t believe we’ve been introduced to your friends.”
“Business associates,” Lorenzo repeats before settling into the chair across from Vincent. “Shall we order? I understand the veal here is exceptional.”
The scarred man positions himself to watch both entrances while his partner takes the seat with the best view of thekitchen. Professional positioning. These aren’t random business associates; they’re security, which means Lorenzo expects trouble.
Or plans to cause it.
“Vincent was just telling me about the territorial issues in Queens.” I keep my tone conversational as my right hand drifts toward the knife strapped to my thigh. “Apparently, someone’s been conducting unauthorized business in your neighborhoods.”
“Yes, unfortunate situation.” Lorenzo signals the waiter. “Though perhaps we can resolve these matters through cooperation.”
“Cooperation usually requires trust,” Vincent points out. “Hard to build trust when people bring armed strangers to dinner.”
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. Lorenzo’s friends adjust in their seats, and I catch the telltale bulge of shoulder holsters beneath their jackets.
“I assure you, any precautions are purely?—”
The scarred man moves first, lunging toward Vincent with a wire garrote. His partner draws a pistol from his waistband as Lorenzo scrambles backward, overturning his chair.
Amateur mistake—they should have secured me first.
I come up from my seat with my blade already in hand and drive it upward into the gunman’s wrist before he can aim. Bone cracks, and his weapon clatters across the marble floor. Vincent tackles the scarred man, sending them both crashing into the dessert cart.
The third assassin—because that’s what this is, an assassination attempt masquerading as a business dinner—emerges from the kitchen. Young, dark hair, and wearing chef’s whites that don’t hide the tactical vest underneath.
“Professional setup,” I call to Vincent while dodging a wild swing from my wounded opponent. “Someone paid good money for this.”
Vincent grunts his acknowledgment while struggling to keep the piano wire from crushing his windpipe. The scarred man has training, but Vincent has desperation and a pregnant wife waiting at home.
I solve my immediate problem by opening the gunman’s throat with a lateral slice that sends arterial spray across the white tablecloth. He drops, clutching his neck as life pumps out between his fingers.
The kitchen assassin raises his weapon toward Vincent, and I throw my backup blade with an accuracy that comes from years of practice. Steel bites deep between his shoulder blades, and he pitches forward onto the marble with a thud.
Vincent finally gains leverage against the wire and drives his elbow backward into his attacker’s solar plexus. The scarred man’s grip loosens, and Vincent spins to deliver a killing blow with the butter knife.
Improvisation at its finest.
“Rude,” I mutter, wiping blood off my blade. “We hadn’t even ordered.”
Vincent straightens his tie like he hadn’t just dodged death thirty seconds ago. “Your sister is going to kill me if she finds out you were here when this happened.”
“My sister married you, knowing what kind of life you lead.” I step over the body of the gunman, noting the quality of his shoes and the fresh manicure on his fingernails. “Besides, she’s too busy being pregnant and domestic to worry about little old me.”
The dining room has emptied except for us and three cooling corpses. The other patrons vanished the moment shooting started, smart people who understand that survival means selective blindness.
I crouch beside the scarred man to study his features. Something about his face tugs at my memory like a word dancing just beyond recall.
“Vincent.” I tilt the dead man’s head toward the overhead lighting. “This one looks familiar.”
My brother-in-law joins me, frowning down at the corpse. “You know him?”
“Not personally. But I’ve seen that scar.” The memory crystallizes with sudden clarity, and I suck in a gasp. “He was one of the men who tried to kill me outside that nightclub six months ago.”
