Page 12 of Vows in Violence

The first week ofmarried life came with no true settling of nerves, no real learning of routines. Ivan is unpredictable in most aspects except for one area: he expects to have my body before he goes to sleep. This is not a consistent time of night or even day; it is simply whenever it fits into his daily schedule.

He takes me during the early hours of the morning, after he’s just come in from some ungodly task, or in the middle of the day after meeting with members of the Five at the Bastoni e Pietre, while the housekeeping staff vacuums the hallway outside of the door.

He fucks me out of a sound sleep in the dark hours of the night, makes my body sing, then rolls to his side and falls asleep within minutes of finishing.

It is difficult to tell if he is doing it because this is just how he lives or if he is trying to mess with my head. As long as hisschedule is so unpredictable, I can’t form an anchor in this new life. I can't figure out how to assert more authority over myself and relax into my new identity as Ivan Romanov’s wife.

It’s a conundrum I find myself chewing over when I ought to be sleeping.

Ivan slept from the early evening into the night. I laid beside him while he slumbered, unable to sleep for all the times my rest had been disturbed in the past week. The fact I lie awake makes no difference to Ivan. He sleeps easily…peacefully, even, his arm clutching onto me and holding me close.

The buzzing of his phone stirs him awake at midnight. His face is turned toward me, and I’m watching as his eyes blink open and focus on me.

“Wife.” His voice is gravelly with the remnants of sleep.

Without thinking, I reach across the scant inches that separate us and touch the bare curve of his pectoral muscle, tracing the tattoo inked there.

“Husband.”

For one fleeting moment, I think I see a trace of softness in his gaze.

Then the phone buzzes again, and the look is gone, hardened to steel. He rises without another word and leaves.

It hurts this time, for some reason. What is he doing? Where does he go when he leaves on these midnight calls?

I stare at the ceiling as a square of light travels across its stark white canopy, the movement matching the pace of a small boat creeping up the river on a lazy day.

I’m still awake an eternity later when a knock sounds at the door. I stand and throw on the robe I’ve learned to keep close to the bed, moving toward the door.

“Yes?”

The door swings open swiftly, revealing Brodie. Before I can react, he places his hand over my mouth and shoves himself into the room.

What the—?

I go to scream, but he shushes me, eyes pleading. “I’m a friend, Vivi.”

Reluctantly, I nod, and Brodie slowly lifts his hand. “Explain yourself,” I hiss softly.

Brodie nods. “Of course. I will. We’re pressed for time, but the main thing you need to know is that years ago, right before your brother disappeared, he sent me to work for the Romanovs.”

I gasp.

“He wanted eyes on the Russians, and the Romanovs in particular. I am so sorry for not being able to warn you the night Ivan showed up at the Valachi house. Ever since Lulu and Damon came back—”

“What did you say?”

Lulu and Damon were dead. It was confirmed. There was a funeral and everything.

Closed caskets.

No, it was enough for Angel to come back to me; my sister is gone. I can’t be greedy.

And yet, Brodie’s gaze communicates a vastly different truth. He waits patiently for me to arrive at the correct conclusion, for me to add two and two and get one thousand.

“Are you saying…you’re telling me…they’re—”

As my mind whirls and reality dips and spins and does a hard reset, Brodie nods, as if understanding exactly what is happening inside me.

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