Page 22 of Vow of Silence

ELEVEN

Nastasya

Benito was crazy if he thought meeting out the front of the house was the best idea. I eye the two guards standing at attention on either side of the entrance when I step out of our family car. Papa stands to my right beside the SUV’s fender, hands clutching the lapels of his jacket. You’d think it would hurt him physically to be even the slightest bit chivalrous with how he avoids extending me any manners, such as a hand to steady me.

I don’t know how Mama put up with his shit for so long.

Probably half the reason for her mental health issues.

We arrived ten minutes early—no doubt some bullshit idea of my father’s to catch the De Santis’ off guard. Still, it’s five minutes later than I promised Benito. A part of me wonders if he’s already quit on me, assuming I wanted only to embarrass him by making him wait like a fool.

“I trust you rid yourself of any tears you felt necessary to shed today.” Papa smiles as Gennaro appears at the top of the steps.

“I’m fine.”Thank you for asking.Apparently, it’s unsightly to have a woman grieve the recent loss of her friend. Gee. Wish somebody had told me that during my years of education at a private girls’ school.

I wait while Papa gestures for his men to keep their distance and follow him up the grand steps to the De Santis residence for the second time in as many days. One could be forgiven for thinking these visits have become a habit. I opted to wear something more my style but still respectable tonight. Paired with camel Palazzo pants, I chose a white chiffon tank, and my hair pulled into a loose plait that falls down my back. Papa chastised me for showing too much skin; I reminded him they’re only shoulders.

The desperate women he throws money over each Monday at the gentleman’s club wear less.

“Arseni,” Gennaro De Santis greets as we reach the top. “I hope tonight is more pleasing for all of us.” His warm irises light up with promise; the lines around his eyes prove he finds reason to smile often.

“It would be pleasing if you had names to give me,” Papa bites back, breezing past his host to leave us redundant in his wake.

I sigh and offer Gennaro a soft smile.

To my surprise, he extends his arm and takes me by the elbow, gently guiding me into the house. “And how are you today,mio caro?” Soft eyes find mine briefly.

I look away, tilting my chin down and focusing on thefleur de Lispattern of the textured foyer wallpaper. “Better.”

He makes a grumbly noise low in the back of his throat. “We’ll find the person responsible.” The don’s gaze flicks to where my father waits impatiently at the foot of the sweeping staircase. “I make this vow to you, Nastasya.”

My stomach does a complete backflip, feet rooted to the spot as the head of the De Santis family crosses the floor to my rude father. It didn’t escape me the importance of Gennaro making the promise tomeand not Papa.

“Come.” Gennaro sweeps his arm toward the formal lounge at the rear of the house—just as I’d hoped. “Let us drink before we sit for dinner. Brigida is eager to talk with you, Nastasya.”

I take a deep breath and recite the words I’d practiced in my head all afternoon. “If I may, I’d like to step outside a moment.” I press my fingers to the side of my head. “The lights play havoc with my headache, I’m afraid.”

“Of course.” Gennaro nods.

Papa eyes me with discontent. “We only just arrived.”

“Have you had her looked over?” The don directs the question to my father as though I’m a prize racehorse.

“Our family doctor treated her.” Papa scowls. “I’m sure it will pass.”

I’m thankful for the distraction as I skim past the door to the sitting room and toward the exit I’m familiar with. The glass door leads out onto the rear patio, heavy thanks to the reinforced panels. One of the first things you learn in this life is that nice-looking ingenuity can hide a lot of ugly necessities. At first glance, our homes may be something straight out of the pages of a designer magazine, but what’s unseen is the extra security to protect us from the evils of a life spent besting our enemies. Bullet-proof glass, reinforced steel in the walls, and cameras hide in almost every corner of the residence.

Cameras that aren’t in what Benito and I lovingly dubbed the Playhouse many years ago.

Despite the lie, I cross into the cool night air and find immediate relief in the darkness. Soft lights dot the side of the house, illuminating the patio in intervals. I weave between the highlighted patches, the path burned into my subconscious, and head for the rose pergola.

Benito’s mother was the first person to introduce me to the small spot of respite on an otherwise heavily guarded property. She brought me out here once, letting me in on the secret whenshe noticed my poorly disguised tears.“You’re free to be yourself here,”she’d said.“Nobody will judge your behavior within these aromatic walls.”It was one of the few places I felt safe enough to cry.

The climbing roses have grown over the years; the stems that barely reached halfway up the framed walls the last time I visited now curl and sweep over the roof of the painted structure, blocking the tunnel from the world outside. I catch sight of his back at the far end, the broad shoulders and stiff posture of a made man elevating my heart rate a little. He’s no longer the boy I loved—the very reason why I’m here now.

I need to know what happened to the man.

“I apologize for my lateness.” I race along the pavers, my heels clacking loudly against the stone surface. “It wasn’t intentional.”

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