Page 76 of Ruthless Vow

I am a man who prefers to control my emotions rather than having them control me. But in this moment, I have no control. Rage and hate and grief drown me, stealing my breath, my thoughts.

I stalk to where Luca holds Bianca with her hands pinned behind her.

I pull my knife from the sheath at the small of my back.

Without a word, I plunge it deep into Bianca’s belly, drawing the blade up in a straight line. She screams and struggles, but Luca holds her easily.

I push my hand through the long slit, into her belly. I close my fist around the slippery loops of her intestine. Then I pull her guts out through the slit, letting them fall like an apron.

She screams in terror, in pain.

“You’re the one who’s worthless, valueless, disposable,” I say.

Then I walk around behind her, yank her head back by her hair, and slit her throat.

26

Leo

I sitin the armchair I’ve pulled next to the bed, my head resting in my hands. The blackout curtains are closed. The room is dim, lit only by a bedside lamp.

Every breath I take stings my nose with the scents of antiseptic and alcohol wipes.

When was the last time I slept?

I don’t know.

I shared this bed with Nicole. I made love to her in this bed. Laughed with her. Talked with her.

I miss that. I miss her.

The door opens then closes with a soft click. I look up.

Sabina stands by the door, regarding me with a solemn expression. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail. Purple shadows darken the skin under her eyes. Her expression is tense with worry.

“You need to sleep,” she says.

“I can sleep here,” I say.

“In a chair?” She sighs. “I’ll stay here, Leo. At least lie down on the chaise lounge. Close your eyes for a few moments.”

“And if she dies in those moment?” I ask, my gaze sliding to Nicole.

She lies on the bed, her skin as white as the sheets. She looks so small in the California king, small and fragile. There’s a tube in her chest, helping her collapsed lung to reinflate.

Machines surround her. There’s a heart monitor to one side, the small screen showing her vital signs. Next to that is an IV pump with several bags hanging from it: fluid to keep her hydrated, antibiotics to stave off infection, pain meds to keep her comfortable. On the opposite side of the bed is an oxygen tank, with the nasal cannula sitting under Nicole’s nostrils. Next to that is a blood pressure machine.

The beep of the heart monitor, the hiss of the oxygen tank, the whirr of the IV pump… I focus on those sounds because they reassure me that she is still alive. Unconscious, but alive.

Each of my siblings have taken turns sitting with me in this room, reminding me that there is hope. They’ve brought me food, water, told me stories, sat with me in silence. I guess it’s Sabina’s turn again.

“I spoke with Dr. Caravaggio,” Sabina says. “He reassured me again that Nicole is stable. But she lost so much blood, Leo. And infection is such a big worry.” She pauses and comes to stand by my side, resting her hand on my shoulder. “I know it isn’t our way to take our wounded to a hospital…”

“Hospital for a gunshot wound means questions. Which means police,” I say, the words automatic, repeated by rote, indoctrinated into me and my siblings since we were children.

Sabina glances at Nicole. “But maybe we should, this time.”

“Our equipment is state of the art. Dr. Caravaggio is staying at the house, right here in case we need him.” I glance at the nurse sitting in the corner, crocheting. “We have three nurses on site doing eight hour shifts. That’s four medical professionalsoffering round the clock monitoring for one patient.” I say the words as much to reassure myself as her.

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