Page 31 of Vow of Silence

My fist hits the wall behind her with a dull crack. I keep my arm extended, semi-caging her close to me while I relish the pain that pulses through my knuckles and into my wrist.

Shaken but not put off, Nastasya continues. “I’m sorry if having Lana help me makesyouuncomfortable,” she snaps, eyes narrowing. “Because, you know, it’s so fucking great for me to have the bitch who fucked my first love help arrange the wedding.”

Her sarcasm burns, but three words in that tirade have me soften my fist into a flat palm against the paneled wall.My first love.I crook an eyebrow.

“What?” She turns her head, giving me her profile.

I jerk it back with a firm grip on her jaw.Look at me.One tilt of my head, the raise of my brow—she goddamn knows what I ask of her.

“Weremy first love,” she stresses. “As in, I don’t love you anymore.”

Liar. My smile is wicked, a glint of my teeth.

“Calm your ego, hero.” She presses a hand against my chest—hard. “I’ve agreed to do this crazy fucking thing with you, but that doesn’t mean shit. Got it?”

It so does.

I drag my fingers down the side of her face, amused when she flinches away. If I didn’t affect her, she would have shown indifference. But she runs from the connection, the thrill I still feel when I touch her supple flesh.

“You tore me apart when you did that, you know?” Her whisper punches the air between us.

She doesn’t give me time to respond, darting free of my presence and taking two refreshing steps into the open. I turn and slump my shoulders against the panels she’d occupied seconds before. I would love to explain the whole fucked up mess to her, but there’s only so much I can say through typed words on a screen. If she chooses to look away to stop reading or take the wrong meaning from the plain dialect, then I have no way to argue my point. I can’t put the feeling into the words I know she needs to hear.

I’m sorrycan be understood a thousand different ways when not voiced from the heart.

“I can send you a list of options for the wedding,” Stas says, breaking the silence. Fuck knows I can’t. “Choices for colors and styles.” She glances toward where our parents still exchange pleasantries. “I’m sure we’ll have the opportunity to get together again soon.”

Fuck.I frown at the despondence in her eyes and the downturn of her mouth. I was so focused on what she thought I didn’t give credence to how she felt.

The bruise on the swell of her shoulder reminds me where I should have directed my concern.

I catch her attention with a gentle snap of my fingers. She whips her head to face me, anger storming those emerald eyes. I jerk my head, asking her to move closer. With a sigh, she obeys, seemingly comfortable to do so when she sees my phone in one hand.

I’m sorry for your loss, Stas.

Her gaze lifts to meet mine, yet there’s no softness or gratitude in her stare. She looks downright murderous. “How fucking dare you.”

Christ, give me strength.What the fuck have I done now?

“Your goddamn family pulled the trigger, Benito.” Stas shakes her head and moves away. I resist the urge to pull her back to me. “Your men take my best friend, and you have the gall to offer condolences?”

I push off the wall and move toward her. She tries to flee, to dart out of my reach by circling the vast foyer, but it doesn’t take me long, with my lengthier strides, to catch up. I snare her by the waist of her camisole, quickly wrapping my other palm around her back, and then pull her flush. Stas resists, her hands shunting at my shoulders and upper chest to get me to relent, but I stand firm, copping a fist to the jaw in her frenzy that makes my head reel back.

I don’t care what she thinks or who she assumes did the deed. My father said the order didn’t come from him, and I believe him.

The De Santis family didn’t murder her best friend.

“I don’t want your sympathy,” Stas complains, back arched over my firm forearm in her effort to get distance between us. “Stop condescending me, you asshole!”

I hold my fiancée tight, waiting, counting the seconds until she folds. Because she will fold. We all do eventually, when the emotional outlet is one that we need.

“Fuck you,” she utters in weak protest, her back relaxing. “Fuck you and your whole goddamn family.” Her throat thickens, and she leans into the embrace. “All you give me is trouble.”

I lift my hand from her waist and cup the back of her head. She doesn’t cry; I’d wager she has no tears left. But what Nastasya does next is exactly what I’d hope: she relents. Her body falls against mine; limbs sated with the knowledge I’ll take her pain and let her be. She never has to pretend. Never has to put on a brave face or play the role when she’s with me. Women are overused and underappreciated in the criminal world. We expect our female counterparts to bear the equivalent pain that we endure but without the same privilege of release. Made men have the luxury of passing their agony and anger onto our enemies. I can excise the burn of my grudges into the flesh of the people I hold accountable. Meanwhile, as a woman, Nastasya is expected to burden her resentment in silence.

I know how fucking hard that is on the soul.

My hand continues to cradle her head while I trace a path up and down her spine with the other, grazing my touch over the curve and swell of her body. Her limp arms lift to encompass my waist, and I sigh. The rush of air ruffles her golden tresses, stirring her heavenly smell from heated flesh. I’ve waited years to have this again—spent just as long believing I never would.

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