Page 146 of Ruined Vows
And suddenly, I can see it.
Tiny hands. A laugh I’d kill to protect. A version of Vukan that knows how to hold something without breaking it.
The thought terrifies me. Not because I don’t want it, but because I do. I stand quickly, brushing invisible lint from my shirt.
“I should go,” I say.
Alena nods, already focusing on wrangling the book from Lorenzo’s greedy hands.
But as I step outside into the late afternoon light, I’m no longer thinking about the storm building around us.
I’m thinking aboutafterthe storm.
And whether a man like Vukan will ever leave the war long enough to build something without blood and death as its foundation.
I return home, and Irina is busy with dinner, so I steal a chance to use my laptop. My heart is still hammering when I search his name online.
I know there will be little to nothing under the word mafia, so I click on the photo archives. I discovered a war photographer’s collection, primarily consisting of black and white images. The war and its subsequent skirmishes are as gritty as they are devastating. But perhaps the ones after the war weren’t the country’s war.
It must have been related to his family’s business.
A young boy—maybe ten. Shirt torn. Blood on his face. Eyes like the sky after a storm and just as empty. His features are similar to Vukan’s.
I don’t need details about what Vukan’s witnessed over the years to understand his brutal, obsessive protection—it all makes sense now. He’s not guarding power, he’s guardinggraves.
After dinner, I find him in the library.
His designer jacket is tossed over a chair. A Glass of something dark in his hand. He doesn’t look up when I walk in, so I sit beside him silently.
Then he says, without turning: “You looked me up.”
It’s not a question. It’s like he knew I was investigating him, and now I feel dirty. He’s so perceptive. I’m caught off guard, and I can’t breathe. The depths of this man’s love are overwhelming.
“I asked Matteo.”
He nods once, followed by more silence.
“I’m not angry,” he says.
“I didn’t think you would be.”
“She loved honey in her coffee,” he says quietly. “And she made our daughter wear yellow even when it rained. She used to say sunshine belonged everywhere.”
I don’t breathe.
“They were taken because of me,” he says. “Wrong side. Wrong deal. I thought I was untouchable. I was wrong.”
I reach for his hand.
“I dug them out of a foundation,” he says, voice breaking at the edge. “I didn’t even cry until the next day. I just… moved them like a soldier. It was too painful to think otherwise.”
My throat tightens.
“Slovenia is not peaceful for me. It’s memories. Lots of bad memories.”
I turn his hand over in mine. This explains the scars on his strong hands, the calluses that cover them. I lean my head against his shoulder.
“You’ve carried it for so long. But I’m here for you.”
