Page 13 of Ruthless Vow

“Do you see this curve?” he asks, turning the knife. “It’s excellent for skinning. And this handle?” He taps his index finger against it. “If things get messy, my grip won’t slip. Textured rubber. Excellent for wet conditions.”

Panting, I stare at him, my panic nearly overwhelming.

But as my father and aunt forced me deeper into their twisted expectations, they had me trained for the possibility of a situation just like this, trained to cope with panic, with chilling fear.

Tactical breathing. Box breathing. Slow, deep breaths in a controlled pattern. I do that now, letting it begin to calm my nervous system and reduce my adrenaline.

And as I master my panic, I recognize that Leo’s intention is for me to be terrified, hysterical, to let my own reactions amplify his actions.

He’s about to be disappointed.

I silently list five things I cansee: the service cart, the table, the four chairs, the walls, the floor.

Four things I can physicallyfeel: the padded lining of the handcuffs, the cement floor beneath my feet, the clothing that covers my body, the tips of my fingers resting against the chain that hangs above me.

Three things I canhear: the rasp of my breathing, the whir of a fan somewhere behind me, the beat of my heart.

Two things I cansmell: lemon cleaner, and the memory of the ammonia smelling salts.

One thing I cantaste: the cold water Leo gave me.

And as I finish my lists, my breathing regular and smooth, I realize that while Leonardo Russo wants me terrified, wants me to devolve into a babbling mess, and is using intimidation to get me there, he has no intention of harming me, at least, not yet.

Because he would have left me thirsty if he wanted me to suffer.

Because on the cart at my side are a set of handcuffs that have no padding, that would bite into my wrists and cause great pain. Handcuffs he could have used if he wanted me to suffer.

And because the chain above me is taut enough that my arms are raised, but there’s enough give that I can move them and ease the ache. If he wanted me to suffer, the chain would be so taut that my full body weight would be hanging on my wrists and shoulders, my toes barely touching the ground, or maybe not touching at all.

At this moment, the only suffering Leo wants me to experience is fear.

“You’re a Moretti,” he says.

“Yes.” No point in denying it. He found me at my father’s grave.

“You think I had something to do with your father’s death. An explosion of some kind.”

“Yes.” No point in denying that either. I had told him as much on the yacht.

“But your father died almost three years ago—”

“Twenty-seven months,” I say.

“If you wanted revenge why not kill me years ago? Why wait until now?”

I stay silent but the answer echoes in my mind.

Because my aunt wanted me in a position where I could funnel the Russo secrets to her. She said that the death of the firstborn Russo son might throw a wrench in the flow of information. She said that she didn’t want that much turmoil in the Russo organization until she was ready to make her move. And as a good soldier, I followed my aunt’s orders.

Until I didn’t. Until I failed to kill Leo on the yacht.

When I don’t answer, he again rests his hand on my waist and walks to stand behind me.

“Who have you been feeding information to for all this time? With your father dead, there is no male Moretti heir…”

Still, I say nothing.

“Tell me your secrets, Nicole,” he whispers against my ear, his chest pressed against my back, the fronts of his thighs against the backs of mine.

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