Page 58 of Vows in Violence

I sense Ivan’s look fall upon me, then shift back to Damon. “We've had a long day, and I’m not in the mood for gifts.”

Ivan tries to push past Damon to get the car door open, but Damon puts his hand on Ivan's shoulder. It's the same shoulder that was stabbed. Ivan doesn’t react.

“You are really going to want this gift.” Damon smiles and walks away without waiting for a response, and after a brief hesitation, Ivan opens the door and hands me into the back seat.

He settles himself beside me, putting a hand on my knee and squeezing gently. “To the Valachi residence,” Ivan tells the driver. “Follow him.”

His look settles on me, brooding and assessing. “Can we trust this man, pet?”

I take a breath and let it out slowly. “Yes.”

But the truth is, I don’t know who we can trust anymore. Damon was able to trick my entire family for years. I know that Lulu would never do anything to hurt me, but Damon Papparado?

Only he knows his agenda and what he’s capable of.

Chapter 22

Ivan

Venturing to the Valachihouse after everything that has happened and being escorted by Damon Papparado himself, is something so out of the ordinary that I can’t help but hear that little voice in the back of my mind. It's telling me that this may all be an elaborate trap. The promise Damon made at the cemetery was too enticing.

A gift. From a man who was once my enemy, one who now purports to be my ally. I’ve always been a believer in the whole “if something looks too good to be true” saying, but unlike the times I promised my enemies gifts and gave them blood, there didn’t seem to be a hint of sarcasm in Damon’s language.

My thoughts churn like a storm as the limousine glides through the cemetery to the Valachi residence. The family cemetery is on the edge of their expansive property, and the car moves through a peaceful wooded park, driving slowly to account for the winds and turns in the narrow road.

As we drive, the voice in my head grows louder, whispering suspicions and doubts. This could be a setup. A final move to eliminate me. But what choice do I have? The play has been set in motion, and stepping back now is not an option.

I sit in the back of the limousine, Vivi beside me. She is still; the grief is too much for her right now. But there is something else, something as distinguishable from grief as night from day. I recognize it as the burden of the first kill. I felt the same once, long ago.

Vivi’s silence is a heavy, oppressive presence. I can almost hear her thoughts, the echoes of her first kill reverberating through her mind. Her eyes are fixed on some distant point, seeing something far beyond the confines of this luxurious car. I want to reach out, to offer some semblance of comfort, but the words catch in my throat. What could I possibly say to ease the weight of her guilt and sorrow?

I was a child when I experienced this. I cannot remember the exact age; things like this do funny things to timelines. I remember that I was just old enough to sit in the front seat of my father’s car. Maxim Romanov always drove himself. Always rode by himself.

That day seemed like any other at first. Usually when we went somewhere, he would tell me, "When we get to where we are going, climb under the dash. Do not come out until I tell you," he had said.

The first indication I had that this day was different was the absence of that command.

This day, my father told me to leave the car and accompany him. I remember the slamming of all the doors. Larger bodies crowded around me as we walked toward a shipping container at the pier. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and diesel, the sounds of distant seagulls mingling with the faint hum of machinery. I remember my father rolling up his sleeves as we approached, a gesture that sent a shiver down my spine.

And when the huge metal door was opened, the space revealed a man sat tied to a chair. Terrified. The dim light from a single overhead bulb cast long shadows, giving the scene a surreal feel. The other men stepped back as my father kneeled on the ground, getting eye level with his son. With me.

“I am going to ask you to do something no human child should ever have to do,” my father, Maxim, says, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel. His eyes, usually so distant, bore into mine with an intensity that made me feel both small and significant.

“Yes, Papasha,” I responded automatically, using the term of respect I'd always called him by, even though a part of me dreaded what was coming next. I didn’t know what that was, but I knew I should not welcome it. My voice was steady, but inside, I was a whirlwind of fear and confusion.

“You know what we are. You know the things we must do. It’s time that you got blood on your teeth.” His words were a grim reminder of the world we lived in, a world where mercy was a weakness and violence a currency.

“On my teeth, Papasha?”

He bared his own at me. “Yes. Teeth. Like the monsters we are.”

He looked behind me, giving a nod to one of his men. I heard the sound of movement, and before I knew what was happening, a baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire was thrust into my hands. The weight of it made my arms fall. My father stepped forward, grabbed the bat, and forced it against my chest. The barbs bit into my skin, but I didn't cry out. I had learned that my cries had no effect on him.

“This man has betrayed us, Ivan,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. “Betrayed me and, since you are my heir, betrayed you. Now, I’ve warmed him up for you, but he is done talking to me. He is no longer useful. What do we do with useless things?”

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. “We throw them away,” I replied, my voice barely more than a whisper. The words felt hollow, but I knew they were the right ones.

“Right, son. Now, go in there and throw this man away,” my father ordered, standing up and stepping back. A dozen men surrounded me, all watching, all judging. Their eyes were cold, devoid of compassion. Somehow, as young as I was, I recognized that I was being tested, and failure was not an option.

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