Page 19 of Devil's Vows
I’ve been in Boston for two days, back to being a princess in a tower. It’s stifling. I’m still jet-lagged, and after the news of Mother Lucia, everybody seems to walk on eggshells around me, as if I, too, will crack with the merest pressure.
And I crack, often, in the privacy of my room where nobody sees me. Outside, the mask is always slipped on, but when I’m alone, the weight of it all gets to me.
The grief is so consuming that I force myself not to think of her passing. Sitting here, I can still believe she’s back in Potenza, living her everyday life. I force myself to think of something else, mainly of how to get away. I’m even more at a loss than in Italy, despite now having a passport, access to family funds via a credit card Matteo organized for me, and a driver and a bodyguard to take me anywhere my heart desires.
I’m no fool. Disappearing, in my books, means without a trace. Everything they’ve put in place leaves a trace.
It’s five in the morning, and I’m awake, staring at the ceiling—again. I can’t hide here the whole day. At some point, Tasha or Ariana will knock on my door, or Rosalia, Matteo’s housekeeper, will bring me breakfast on a tray. Princess indeed. I’venever been waited on like this, and it makes my life feel wasted. At least in Potenza, until I was forced into hiding, I had a job I loved. Children to care and hope for, who needed silly laughs and stories and hugs, the only armor we have against life’s cuts and bruises.
I slip out of bed, feet touching the plush cream carpet, and pad over to the bedroom door. I turn the knob slowly, not wanting to make any noise in this echo chamber of an apartment. As the door inches open, low male voices sound from the kitchen, drifting up to me where I’m hovering in the doorway.
I hesitate to step out into the corridor overlooking the open-concept lower floor, because whoever is in the kitchen will see me.
I haven’t been on the run for fifteen years without learning some things. I lean slightly back but prick my ears to better hear Matteo’s and Dominic’s voices.
“Fuck, Matty, I didn’t plan to stay longer. I can’t. I need to check in with the office?—”
“Yeah, I get it,” Matteo responds, as the coffee machine gurgles.
“Maybe you do, but what I really want is to head out to my place with Ariana. It’s been a while since I’ve been there, and we need to pick Bruno up at the old Don’s house, so?—”
“Bruno? You’re fetchingBruno? To stay withyou?”
“Yeah, kinda got attached to the little fucker while I was staying there.”
“Sounds like you’re fucking settling, old man,” Matteo says with a smirk in his tone.
“Look who’s talking. You’re much more pleasant to be round with now that you get laid all the time. Just look there, right there, a fucking hickey the size of a?—”
“Don’t touch, bro, just don’t.” A slap sounds, and they both laugh.
I blush at those last sentences, but they tickle me, too. Ismile. My brothers are kinda cute and human when they razz each other. They care a lot for each other. This was our mother’s work, and how they are with each other reflects her love. How they treat me and their wives is even a stronger reflection of how she raised them, quietly overriding everything our father was in his lifetime. They’re everything I described in my fairy tale: courageous, protective, brave, loyal, and ready to make sacrifices for what they believe in, for those they love.
I can almost forget they’re Mafia and have probably killed people amongst other crimes. I’ve heard about Bruno, and that they can care for animals immediately places them outside the monster zone. It’s a relief that at least Ariana and Dominic have someone else to fuss and worry over. I hate being the center of everybody’s attention.
“What’re we going to do about Petrov?” Matteo asks then.
My heart skips a beat. The Russian he mentioned two days ago.
“Our house is fucking clean, Matty.” Dominic grunts as a cup clinks softly on the marble counter. “I have no idea how he knows?—”
“Well, we’re going to have to figure it out because Petrov demands a meeting, in person, in New York, saying he wants to meetourlittlesister.”
My blood seems to drain to my feet. How does some random Russian know about my existence?
A cold rush of fear runs down my back and I grip the doorjamb. What if it’smy Russian? Impossible.
But if Mother Lucia broke under torture and gave my location away, he could be looking for mehere. The possibility makes it feel as if I’m sitting on a ticking time bomb, but with no idea how many minutes I have left before it explodes.
I need to get out.
“Fuck. I dunno. Someone’s been talking, or we’re being watched.”
“She hasn’t left the apartment, Nicky. And we know we’re being watched.”
“Hmm. We weren’t exactly careful when we got off the flight the other day. Once we left Italy, there didn’t seem to be a reason to hide her.”
Except they had every reason I haven’t shared, and this can’t be random at all.
