Page 55 of Devil's Vows
Milana shrugs. “He didn’t know when she fell pregnant the first time. It happened so fast. Turned out she wasn’t getting clean for anybody, and well, you know how it goes. Ivan needs sons. This—” she waves at the room encompassing the house, the compound, the Petrov Bratva, “—needs sons. These angels are going to need protection. It’s the way of our worlds. Surely, you know that.”
She meets my gaze, and again, there’s this quiet understanding. This morning’s mess and now this conversation are breaking down some of the wall between us, and I love this softer, gentler side of her. She seems calm now, if defeated. It’s almost as if we’re friends.
Katya is building a foam animal puzzle, and I help her fish out the next piece lost in the bubbles.
“I’m surprised he agreed to marry her at all, but I suppose he didn’t have a choice,” I say eventually. “He doesn’t strike me as the type who would choose someone less than perfect.”
“Oh, you already have him on a pedestal, don’t you?” Milana says with a soft chuckle. “He tends to do that to women, but trust me, Ivan is… Ivan is what he needs to be. Cruel. Ruthless. Calculated.”
And yet, I haven’t experienced any of that with him. Ivan has only been kind and considerate to me, tender as if I were a fragile bird with a broken wing.
My brothers are caring, loving, and somewhat overprotective of their wives, as is Dominic with Ariana, but what do I know of who they are outside of the close-knit family circle? Nothing. They’ve only been good to me, if I’m honest, looking after me as if we weren’t strangers at all, but I’m under no illusion that they don’t have their vices or haven’t done things that will chain them to Hell for all eternity.
“I bet my brothers are who they need to be, too.” Although I can’t label any of them as cruel or ruthless right now. This is the world we live in, and I’m not here to judge. “I’m just surprised she would… you know…end herselfwhen she had these two beautiful girls to live for.”
It breaks me to think they weren’t enough—that Darya was so deeply lost, she couldn’t pull herself out of addiction for her daughters’ sake. But what do I know? It’s not as if I’ve ever had any experience with drugs.
“That’s what you think happened? Sheended herself?” Milana repeats my words, an elegant brow quirked.
“What else?”
“Tsk-tsk-tsk.” She just shakes her head at me. “I see now you didn’t grow up with your brothers,inthe Mafia. With your realfather. How nice to have been in a convent where everything is cozy and safe.”
What does that even mean? She knows as little of my experiences as I know of hers.Irritation grates at me because Milana has no clue. She’s the princess here. As for me…cozy and safe?More like hunted, scarred, owned.I don’t even want to dissect this. I don’t want to talk about my past, so I steer the conversation back to her. “Where were you when the girls were born?”
“I was a student at Juilliard, but I spent time in Russia on and off all my life. I was there a lot at that time, during the summers the girls were born.” She grows quiet, and when I next glance at her, she’s sniffing and wiping at her cheeks. “Let’s not talk about Russia. Let’s talk about you. How many brothers do you have?”
Safe territory, at last, with a topic that isn’t riddled with potholes. “Five. They’re all older than me.”
“So you see, your family is sorted. I bet they’re all married with kids of their own. I’m surprised you’re not needed in your own family, helping out with nephews and nieces.”
I still. There will be children in the Scalera family, probably sooner than we think. I’m here because I’m protecting them. I will never be part of my family, not in the sense Milana could be, and it makes jealousy and regret stir in me. Here she has these two beautiful girls who need a mother, and she basically shoved them to the side for reasons I don’t understand, not now, maybe never. I’m planning to put as much distance as humanly possible between me and my brothers, their wives and children. “No kids yet, but two of them are married, and one is in a serious relationship.”
“I see.”
It grows quiet between us, pensive, and Katya glances up at me, splaying all her fingers over the puzzle. “Look, it’s finished.”
“That’s very well done, sweetheart. Can I wash your hair now?” I ask, reaching for the shower head.
“Tryápochka!”
I smile and reach immediately for the face cloth on a close-by rail and hand it to her. Katya plasters it on her face. “Ready!”
“Dip your head back,” I say, reaching for the faucet, and she complies.
“Tryápochka?” Milana says quietly.
My hand stills.
My heart starts to hammer.
Katya’s request.Tryápochka. It’s not exactly a word used in basic everyday conversation.
Milana’s eyes are on me, burning, and in the quiet of the moment, the tension balloons, as tight as a suspension bridge at snapping point.
In one split-second, I gave my secret away.
In one weak moment of being too comfortable with Milana, I let my guard down. If she guesses that I understood Katya’s request—not exactly a simple word or one used in basic everyday conversation—then I’m screwed.
