Page 23 of Vows in Violence

Without hesitation, I shove Dimitri’s body forward. The man sidesteps, aiming his gun, but he isn’t fast enough with his weakened shoulder. My bullet tears through his skull, sending blood and brain matter splattering against the wall behind him.

This needs a cleanup, a major one, but I'm not concerned about the police. Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder, but I will get away. I have to get away.

If Azrael got to Angel, then they got to Vivi.

Vivi is mine.

I spin and grab the dead driver, dragging his body out of the driver's seat and let him sail onto the ground before I climb in. The cab barely turns over when I start it, but it’s running. The engine whines loudly as I back away from the dumpster, running over the body of the driver. It’s hard to see through the blood splatter on the windshield. As I manage to gun the car, it shakes when the engine tries to meet my demand. It’s in bad shape, but it needs to make it.

I should have kicked out the windshield, but there’s no time for that. They’ll be sending more men to finish what the others fucked up. I get out my phone and try to call Nikolai, but he isn’t answering. Nikolai always answers. That whelp wants power. He wouldn’t ignore me.

Traffic blocks me, and I curse, slamming my hand on the steering wheel. This is taking too long. I can’t wait. I abandon the car and walk toward a messenger motorcycle, idling while the motorist checks the GPS on his phone.

Without hesitation, my fist connects with his face, his phone sails to the ground, and his body slumps. Ripping him from the seat and taking the bike, I kick the peddle and peel away from the sidewalk. People are shouting, but I don’t care. Vivi is mine. No one is going to take her.

I weave through traffic, the motorcycle cutting through the chaos. It takes too long. Way too long. But eventually, I get home.

Or as close to home as I can get. Fire trucks surround my property, blocking my access. The bike has barely stopped when I jump off. The wheels are still spinning, and the bike clatters to the ground. Firefighters cross in front of me, hauling hoses to put out the fire that rages in my home.

My heart clenches, fear and rage mixing into a volatile cocktail, and I run toward the flames.

But there is nothing left.

Chapter 9

Vivi

In my memory, Iam a girl again. A tiny thing, more of a wild goblin than a human being. My hair is wild, my face is dirty, and my shoes are long abandoned after getting them wet from playing with a garden hose. My little stomach is plump from the treats from vendors in the streets of Cervinara—the pizza chiena, the chestnuts, the capocollo.

My family always travels for the Easter festival to Campania, Italy, and this little village in the Avellino province is so far removed from the dangers of New York that the adults let me roam free. I’m aware of my father’s men lingering in the crowd, always watching, but life as a Don’s daughter has made them mostly invisible.

Wallpaper in a busy room.

I wander, the stonework of the streets hot and dry under my bare feet.

Cervinara is the ancestral home of the Valachi family. When my family lived here long ago, they were nothing but small farmers. Father says the Valachis gained their power and came back to Cervinara as conquerors. My great-grandparents were nothing, but now my father owns this village, the entire town the spoils of some decades-past war.

I don’t really see it. It’s just a village, friendly and cozy, and everything New York is not. The street vendors reach across their stands to hand me their tasty treats. Old Lucia’s granddaughter gave me a pretty necklace just yesterday. It bounces against my narrow chest now as I skip, and I curl my fingers around it, relishing the weight of my new treasure.

She told me to be sure to tell Father about it when I got home, and I did. I showed him the gift, and he measured it gently with his fingers before nodding in satisfaction. “That will do,” he murmured and set me down.

My feet slap against the road as I move closer to the fountain in the middle of the town square. I see Angel, his hair still a dark, muddy blond. His hair wouldn’t darken until years later, after puberty. Right now, he’s leaning over the edge of the fountain, trying to steady a small boat he made from newspaper.

Although I don’t make a peep, he stills, becoming aware of my presence. This is how he is with me and Lulu. Always watchful. Always protective.

He turns to me and smiles, the gesture softening the angularity of his face. Father is always complaining that Angel is too skinny, saying that he needs to man up. Mama says he’s justbusy—always moving. He burns his food away as soon as he eats it. Regardless, Angel is strong.

He’s plenty manly, in my opinion. Like Superman-ly. He’s the strongest boy I know. Not that I know many. I’m not allowed to talk to boys yet. Lulu, either.

The sun has kissed freckles across Angel’s cheeks, and his dark brown eyes focus on me.

“There you are,sorellina.”

“Here I am. Did you see my pretty necklace?”

He grunts and returns his attention to the boat. I tuck my bare toes in the stonework of the fountain and reach for the top lip, attempting to pull myself up. I can’t quite reach, though, and my toes streak down the side. “Ow.”

“Wait a minute…” Seeing that I want to get up on the side of the fountain so I can see better, he helps me climb up and sets me beside him on the wide ledge, then goes back to his work with the boat. The newspaper is absorbing the water too quickly, making the boat pitch sideways. He mutters words under his breath that I’ve heard our father say, words I know are not meant for children.

---