Page 34 of Vows in Violence

I worry my lip between my teeth as I consider the question.

Angel made so many bad decisions over the years, decisions that got himself and so many others killed. I was raised to be a dutiful mafia wife, someone who supported her man as he made all of the decisions that affected them both—not someone who would have to make her own choices.

I’ve never put much effort into condemning my parents, but honestly…it was such a shortsighted way of raising a child.

A girl, at any rate. Angel hasn’t seemed to suffer the same agonies of independence that I have.

As I stare out at the spread of city beneath me, I’ve never felt less equipped to handle my own future.

The decision I just had to make could lead to people dying, even while I went with Nikolai to avoid exactly that. The awful truth of that is a hollow sensation in my gut, a kind of lonely sorrow. In the moment, it seemed like the right thing to do. Guns were being pointed, and bullets were about to start flying. There was no one to consult, no time to think. I just had to act.

Maybe I’ve been naive about what it means to hold any power in this world. Is it actually possible to make a decision that leads to an outcome where everyone is safe? It feels like someone will always be at risk.

Can I truly fault Angel for some of the decisions he has made?

Can I fault Ivan?

Our own safety—that of ourselves, personally, and the people we hold dear to us—comes first.

I turn back toward the inside window just as a flash of lightning brings a brief spark of light to the room, my gaze moving without real interest over my temporary prison. Whoever owns this office is a family man. Photos of smiling faces in mahogany frames march along the edge of the coordinating mahogany desk—vacation photos of sunny climes and more laughter line the wooden walls that divide the offices. A child’s hand formed the rustic pencil holder sitting on the desk. I can see the tiny fingerprints frozen forever in the hardened clay.

Famiglia.It’s all that matters, right?

I drift over to the internal window and pull one of the vertical slats back so I can peer out. The office is in the commanding position of the suite of rooms. Nikolai rolls over restlessly on the narrow couch in the lobby/reception area reserved for guests.

If I move a little to the right, I can see past him through the lobby area and the large plate glass window of the exterior door. The entrance of another office suite is situated just across the hallway.

Sighing, I glance around me. The photos on the desk catch my attention, creating a bitter lump at the back of my throat. My own father didn’t display such photos. Aside from the sentimental aspect that he never would have fallen in with, every sharp-cornered, glass-encased frame is a potential weapon to be used against its owner.

The lock turns in the door. My gaze flickers over to it as it begins to open, but I don’t move or speak as Nikolai enters the room and quietly closes the door behind him.

Outside the building, thunder rumbles.

Nikolai stares at me for a moment, growing visibly irritated when I keep my attention focused on my view from the window. Finally, he speaks. “We can’t sleep here.”

Now I look at him, my eyes narrowing. “You are mistaken. You can’t sleep here.”

I pull my gaze away from the office across the hallway and meet his eye just as lightning lights up half of his face. He was clearly not expecting a response, and my reply appears to have left him nonplussed.

I continue, my voice soft. “We could crawl into a sewer or check into the Ritz, but it would make no difference. You will never sleep as long as Ivan Romanov is after you.”

Nikolai laughs.

I’ve heard many different laughs in this world. There’s the light, careless laugh in response to a joke or something humorous. There is the laugh a person uses to play off an embarrassing or vulnerable moment. There’s the answering laugh, the one that takes the place of a verbal reply when a person doesn’t really know the answer.

There are sarcastic laughs. Intimidating laughs. Flirtatious laughs.

Nikolai’s laugh is one that I’ve never heard because I have never been in a position to hear it. It’s the manic laugh of a cornered man, of a creature who knows they are defeated, but they are going to sink their teeth into everything and everyone until they breathe their last breath.

They’ll drag everyone around to hell alongside them.

Nikolai’s face twists in an ugly sneer. “Do you really think you are the first bitch Ivan Romanov has dipped his wick in? Youaren’t special. You are one of many. A temporary bit of pleasure before he throws you away. The only reason why Ivan is coming after us is because he is angry with me. He doesn’t give a fuck about you, you stupid cunt.”

It isn’t true.It can’t be true.

Memory of the softness in Ivan’s gaze as he looked at me and drowsily murmured ‘wife’ hits me. It seems a lifetime ago. We may not have the most romantic love story in the world, but Ivan feelssomething. I know he does. It’s the only reason I stay.

I was an obsession in the beginning. I know that. He fixated on me, had to have me. I was the end goal, some weird representation of everything he thought he had to have.

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