Page 4 of Vow of Silence

It’s widely known that I bring silent vengeance to a man’s door, but here’s the thing about dead men: they don’t speak. And a dead man can’t tell others that this motherfucker is ambidextrous. Blind them with the apparent danger in my right hand while I hit them with the damage concealed in my left.

I advance on the cursing mark, the guy clutching his bleeding wrist to his chest. I could walk away now, and I guarantee he’d bleed out from that slice alone before help could arrive. But where would the fun be in that? Fingers pinched around his trapezius, I force the fucker to his knees. He buckles—no thanks to my foot hooking the backside of one leg—and drops to the floor.

The footsteps above scurry to the head of the stairs, the stupid bitch drawn to the pained racket her baby-daddy makes. I whip my right arm straight and let off a single round into the plasterboard, sending dust spraying everywhere and eliciting a squeal from the hidden woman before her scuffs slowly recede over our heads.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt her,” the mark grits out between clenched teeth.

I chuckle low in my throat. I neversaida goddamn thing—I never do.

Warmed steel touches his temple, and he flinches. I could torture the guy, drag the whole debacle out, but as much as this doesn’t disturb me, I’m not fucked in the head. I have some morals. Not many, but enough. He abandons the gushing wound and drops his right hand toward where his weapon still sits hooked in his waistband. I press the muzzle of mine against his head harder and pull my kerchief out once more to retrieve the Glock. Its metal hits the floor behind him with a clatter, skidding until it stops against the back door.

The longer I’m here, the more chance one of his street buddies wants to play the hero. Time is of the essence, and I have other things to do tonight. Like, figure out why the fuck my father called us all home with such urgency.

I right his head so his chin tips up, fingers in a vice around the mark’s throat. My face is all that he’ll see if the coward chooses to open his eyes. I give my weapon a couple of nudges against his head to garner his attention and then raise my brow while tipping my head.Any last words?

With what bravado remains, he stares me square in the eye and hisses, “I don’t regret a thing, you greedy motherfuck?—”

My finger hits the trigger, and like a delicate ballet well practiced over the years, I spin away from the spray, my hand dropping from his neck as I swing my left shoulder back. I’ll never tire of how it looks to see the light leave a man’s eye.

It reminds me to value what I have. To never take this life for granted.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.And it didn’t bother me one fucking bit.

THREE

Nastasya

“What did they say?” Papa roars for the fifth time since Dmitry escorted me into the house. “Are you certain they were Gennaro’s men?”

“I think so,” I answer yet again. “I didn’t catch all the words, Papa, but they didn’t have the same sound as the cartels.” I wince as our housekeeper, Mimi, tends to the cut above my eye.

“What did they look like?” My father widens his eyes and shakes his head. “Come on, Nastasya! Details.”

To anybody else, he’d seem cold and uncaring. The way he presses me could be classed as borderline abuse when I’ve just witnessed the death of my friend. But I know why he does it: the longer I take to confirm the details, the more they grow hazy.

The longer his adversary has to plan their next move.

A strike against our family calls for retaliation. To save face and regain the power, Papa needs to strike back before dawn, and I need to tell him where to hit.

“It was too dark to see them properly.” I curl my legs to my chest and tuck my body into a ball on the high-sided armchair.

Dmitry stands to Papa’s left, listening as keenly as my father. His men will be poised and ready to act on his instruction. An instruction that’ll become clear once Papa gives his directive.

“Where’s Caroline?” My voice is small in the grand den. That of a frightened child, not the twenty-five-year-old woman I am.

“She’s taken care of,” Papa states simply, hand to the top of his gray head. He wears his mane in a fashionable cut, the lengths on top slightly longer and swept to one side.

He’d be handsome if it weren’t for the look of unhinged madness that occupies his eye more often than not these days. He lost his grip on civility when Mama died, all his anger and frustration spilling out on those around him. He’s yet to rein it back in.

“Can I see her?”

“No.” Papa sighs. “I need you to focus, my love. What kind of car did they drive?”

“A sedan.” I frown, chewing the inside of my cheek. “I think it was an Audi.”

“Think? Or know?”

My back still aches from the final impact. I gingerly press the cuts on my knees and allow my mind’s eye to drift back to when I first saw the car take pursuit. “I can’t be sure. Their headlights made it hard to see the emblem.”

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