Page 27 of Vow of Silence

I slam the heel of my boot into his shin and then wiggle my head, brow raised.Sorry.

“You fucking touch me again and?—”

“And what?” Dion hisses. “Behave yourselves, for fuck’s sake.”

“Everything okay down there?” Papa calls out. “How are you liking your meal, Nastasya?” He eyes her empty plate.

“My daughter believes shellfish is bad for her.” Arseni laughs. “I think she’s a fussy eater. Always the dramatic one.”

I’m ready to rip half the men at this table limb from limb. For most, family dinner is a special occasion full of cherished memories. We should look forward to these moments now that we live in separate residences. But instead, the De Santis get together, and common decency packs up and fucks off for the night. Mama blames having too much testosterone in one room. I blame Alessio and Ignazio for being absolute cunts.

I choose not to partake in the lobster, given Nastasya’s allergy. She hasn’t indicated as much, but should I get the chance to kiss her later, I don’t want to be the one responsible for sending her into anaphylactic shock because I still carry the taste of lobster. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’m not keen to find out. I cast my gaze her way and relax when I find her watching me also. She takes a deep breath and turns away, observing our parents instead.

Perhaps we didn’t make as much progress outside as I thought. Stas’s silence appeared at face value to be an acceptance of my situation, but if I know anything about women, they like to pick their moment. Maybe she sits beside me, working out the best way to call this off, slowly growing increasingly disgusted at what she saw.

What I revealed.

I haven’t told anyone outside the family the reason for my lack of voice. Sure, I can make sounds. Horrible fucking tones that would make the most hardened man shiver with repulsion. I chose pretty quickly to say nothing over sounding like an absolute imbecile. People respect the mystery of my silence, but they’d mock my muted attempts to speak.

To retain any power in the family, I need to keep my reputation as unblemished as possible, which is why we all hold the secret.

The only assurance I need is that my new wife will do the same.

THIRTEEN

Nastasya

The family is an absolute train wreck. I thought Papa and I had issues, but after watching Benito’s brothers and uncle sling insults at each other all night, not to mention Benito’s outbursts, I wonder what else I don’t know about the De Santis men.

My mind keeps rolling back to what Benito revealed in the garden, gaze skimming over the faces at the table while I try to figure out if any of these people could be held responsible for his mutilation. He didn’t say it was family, but logic tells me that if one of their enemies touched him in such a way, the word would have traveled through the street.

Lord knows, Papa would have gloated for weeks if he’d been able to pull off such an insult.

“I think we’ll all retire to the parlor for coffee. Yes?” Benito’s mother rises from her seat, coaxing everyone toward the grand double doors that lead to the adjoining room.

She’s beautiful, radiant with sleek black hair and a shapely figure that she adorns with glittering silver silks tonight. I’m in awe of her strength, her unwavering class amongst a brood of animalistic men. Gennaro had said she was keen to speak with me, but I have yet to see any evidence.

I fold my napkin on the dessert plate and ease my chair back to follow the procession. Benito is quick to offer his hand, waiting beside my chair for me to join him. Rejecting his touch would raise questions; therefore, I place my palm on his and stand.

He refuses to let go.

With lithe fingers wrapped tight around my touch, he leads us to the opulent parlor, choosing a two-seater chaise for us to occupy. I resent him for it. Thanks to the delicate design of the antique sofa, our legs touch from hip to knee when we sit.

I feel sorry for him. I’m angry on his behalf. But I don’t forgive him. Not yet.

I don’t want him to get the impression that I do.

“Brandy?” Brigida lifts a glass, her soft gaze direct and unsettling.

I nod and glance toward Papa. He settles himself in an embroidery-embellished wingback, one leg slung on top of the other and arms wide on the rolled rests. He studies Gennaro and his wife with a shrewd intensity, moving his lips back and forth.

“Here you are.” Brigida passes me the short drink and then offers whiskey to Benito. “And one for myprincipe.”

He nods to her, clear adoration in his otherwise hard eyes. He’s a total mama’s boy. The Italian stereotype. The difference is that his mother deserves steadfast devotion. Even when we were young, she was a shining light among the darkness of our world. I don’t hold any illusions about her; she’s probably had a hand in the demise of more than a few people in her time. But whether directly or indirectly, it doesn’t matter. Unlike the men around her, she hasn’t let the hard choices of an underworld life sully her, at least not on the surface.

I’d love to dig deeper and discover what lies beneath the doting exterior.

“When do we celebrate this insanity?” Ignazio asks, already refilling his glass.

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