Page 50 of Ruined Vows
“What kind?”
I glance toward the big mutt still chasing shadows near the adoption tent.
“Guard dogs. Shepherds. A Rottweiler named Juro.”
She blinks. “Wait—you had a Rottweiler?”
I nod. “We didn’t pet them. We trained them. Fed them. Watched them fight.”
Her lips part. Just slightly. Then she says, softer, “They weren’t pets.”
“No,” I admit. “They were protection. They weren’t there to love us. Just keep the wrong people away.” It brings back painful memories of my youth. I love animals. Who can resist them?
I hated my father for making those dog weapons. I was too young to be left home alone. I did the best I could to take care of David. Dad and Milôs could be gone for days. Mom left us, and I’m sure it was to save herself. Dad had a way of using his words and fists.
I longed for a dog to comfort me on lonely nights, nights when I was scared of the dark. But I knew Dad would ruin any dog we bought home, so I went without, and I told myself that I saved an animal by doing so.
Bianca looks down at her feet for a second, then over at the dog again—the one who smeared glitter down her arm like war paint.
“I always wanted one,” she says quietly.
“A Rottweiler?” She doesn’t seem to be the type to pick a Rotty.
“A dog,” she replies. “Any dog. Something cute, soft, and loud. I used to beg my father for one every Christmas. Every birthday. Once, I even put together a little presentation folder—like a pitch for the cause. I was six.”
That does something to me. She’s a woman who isn’t afraid to work for what she wants. One wouldn’t think she’s ever worked by looking at her. She’s always put together—her hair, makeup, and everything are designer.
I try to picture her—tiny, in some oversized sweater,holding her folders and her hope like armor—and I want toburn the worldfor her all over again.
“What happened?” I ask. I know she didn’t have an ideal childhood either. Some assume that we had the best of everything because we come from money. We’re living proof that it’s not always true.
Bianca shrugs it off like it’s nothing, but I know she’s sad, and that there is a reason she feels this way.
“Dad said pets are for children who don’t forget their place. I was supposed to be a Borrelli, not a girl. We don’t get to love things.”
My jaw tightens. The bastard. She was sweet and innocent, and he ruined it for her. He wanted her to be like him, alone and miserable. Her father was an asshole, just like mine.
I push the rage down like I always do. I’ve been doing it my entire life. I bury it beneath control. But my fingers itch.
She shouldn’t be telling this story. She should’vehadthat dog. And I vow I’ll be a better father than ours. I’ll be a great husband and treat her right. She’ll have whatever she needs and more. I will give her the world.
I just hope she sees me for who I am, and that I’m not just a man who kills his enemies, but a man who loves deeply. I want her to know that I’ll be faithful to her. And that I’ll never steer her wrong.
“I hope he’s rotting in a hole somewhere,” I snarl. It flies out of my mouth like a reflex—a reflex that’s been ingrained in me, and one that vents my unspoken anger.
She looks at me, startled by the venom in my voice.
Then she smirks.
“He is.”
Good. Be sure if he wasn’t, I’d kill him myself. And then I remember the fact that her father died over a year ago, and that her life revolves around her four brothers.
She turns back to the tent. “It’s funny. I never reallythought I’d still care about something so… simple. Why is that?”
She pauses.
“It feels good to give to those who appreciate it. And your generosity of time spent with the animals doesn’t revolve around your need for power or favors or silence in return.”
