Page 3 of Captive Vows
He was a liaison between the Dubinin Family and the Vipers, but with his intimidated appearance, I couldn’t be sure whether he was behaving like he should.
Afterward, when it was concluded that he’d deliver specific pieces of intel to another cell of soldiers near Brooklyn about a big order of drugs that would be dropped there, I wondered if that was a good idea.
While suspecting a man could be a traitor was slightly challenging, this was still the same old, same old. Because it would always end in the exact same way.
No one would fuck with me.
No one would ruin or endanger what was mine.
Afterward, on the ride out of there heading toward the massive building that I considered my fortress in the city, both Ivan and Emil rode with me.
“I don’t like this,” Emil said.
“I think Lopez is a rat,” Ivan told us.
“My thoughts exactly.” The weaselly man seemed too skittish, too nervous to be trusted. He had to be hiding something, and I intended to find out what. Secrets would always threaten to ruin us from the inside out. With a heavy sigh, I slumped against the cushions. “Set up a trap. See if you cancatch him in the act with this drop near Brooklyn. And make him pay.”
Ivan nodded, getting his phone out to do as instructed.
“We’ll make it happen,” Emil said, drumming his fingers on his knee, likely itching to kill another traitor.
Commanding these ruthless men to play God, to determine the details of life or death, was one more example of how it really was the same damn old. This would be far from the first time I’d had to order a kill or to set a trap. This wouldn’t be the last time, either.
The same old shit.
Even this.
Nothing would ever chip away at my need to kill, this bloodlust to protect every part of the Dubinin organization and empire. I would see to the end of every enemy, including the nervous and tense Miguel Lopez.
He’d pay.
Just like everyone else who'd dared to cross me.
2
GABRIELLA
Ipressed my shoulder blades to the wall and exhaled a long breath. Sitting back in the corner of the dance studio was the last place I ever wanted to be. This was an ugly twist on being a “bench warmer”.
Benches didn’t exist in ballet. You were either in the show or not. You were starring or eking out the best you could manage as a secondary dancer who blended more with the props and scenery than the stage.
Back here, idle and allowed to merely watch instead of dance, I tried to ignore the burn of humiliation that I had been selected as one of the outcasts.
The rejects.
The unwanted.
“Maybe next time,” Amy, the daughter of the studio owner, said.
I turned my head slightly, just enough to glare at her. I couldn’t help it. Timing was everything. Opportunities were fleeting. At twenty-two, I was at the prime age to be excelling as much as I could. To be taking up every chance to dance, audition, and impress.
But not this time. Nope.
I was sitting back here with the few others because I was deemed unworthy.
The dancers still on the floor, practicing and trying to follow the choreography from the guest instructors, were only up there because of who they knew. It wasn’t a matter of what we knew. It wasn’t a challenge of who had the better skillset. Having the privilege to dance with these instructors came down to who these people knew.
“It’s not fair,” I whispered to Amy.
