Page 47 of Vow of Silence

“Throwing a tantrum like a child.”

“My best friend was shot because they thought it was me,” I growl. “And that doesn’t seem like a priority to you?”

Something flickers behind his gaze before he turns his head to the side. I’m not quick enough to recognize what, only the uneasy feeling it leaves in the pit of my gut. “Of course, it’s a priority. But I have men to deal with the details.” He brings his attention back to me. “Until they have leads to bring me, what else am I to do? Sit here with my thumb up my fucking ass?”

There’s logic in what he says, but I’m still not convinced of his dedication. “When does Ivan get here?” I divert my gaze to the floor to my right.

Papa lifts his arm in my periphery to check his watch. “It should be within the hour.” He smirks. “Excited to see him?”

I meet my father’s eye. “The man traumatized me when he thought entertaining a four-year-old with knife tricks was a good idea.” I cock my head to one side. “I can’t say his absence has bothered me much the past decade.”

“He hasn’t been absent,” Papa snaps. “Merely engaged on the side of the business you don’t see.”

“So, that would be all of it, then?”

“I don’t want to hear any more of your pitiful whining,” he roars before leaning back in the chair with a sigh. “I really don’t care, Nastasya. Men have always held the title ofpakhanin our organization; it won’t change. Women aren’t biologically capable of managing the stress of the responsibility.”

I have to swallow twice to avoid choking on his bullshit.

“Why do you believe our adversaries would see me as weak?” I push regardless. “A woman at the head of a crime familyisn’t unheard of, you know. Look at Caragh,” I say, naming the widow who has held the Irish together for fifteen years after her husband passed. “She’s revered and respected.”

“She also killed two men at the age of thirteen,” Papa states. “I think she has a little more merit to her title, don’t you think?”

My eyelids drop a little, the same as the corners of my mouth. “Seriously? You’re going to measure my worth on how many lives I’ve taken?”

“You really don’t want me to list all the ways you’re inadequate.” Papa frowns, waving me away with a dismissive hand. “Go before you upset yourself.”

“Because heaven forbid I’d do something so quintessentially feminine such as cry.” I roll my eyes and step toward the door. “I’m going to my office when Ivan gets here.”

“I said no, Nastasya.”

“Why?” I throw my hands wide and spin to face him. “You have no idea who shot Caro. What good does it do any of us to keep me locked here? You can’t protect me from the world, Papa.”

“No.” He braces both hands on the desk, head hung between his shoulders. “But I can protect you from yourself.”

TWENTY

Benito

Hands slung between my legs, I sit on the stone steps of our grand entrance and watch the guy I had locked away in the stables wander down the long driveway. He has a limp, probably from poor circulation: he didn’t move from the pole, strung on his feet the entire time. We got what we needed out of him, and as much as I would have loved to place a bullet between his eyes and be done with it, we needed him back on the street to start the whispers.

When your business is built on greed and desire, the people at the bottom sometimes grow a little too bold—too desperate to have a slice of what the one percent possess. Nothing puts the worker ants back in their place like sending one of their own back into the nest with a twisted story to tell.

At least the fucker can talk.

I run a hand over my head and then fix on the guy’s back again as he pauses at the roadside, probably wondering if he should attempt the long walk back into the city or find somewhere nearby to use a phone.

My silence had become comfortable in the last year or so. At first, the frustration would have me lash out in fits of violence. I broke Mama’s favorite antique vase the first time the anger gottoo much to bear. For months, my priority was healing. Keep my head down, take it easy, and get the fucking thing over and done with. Once that phase passed, I had the ugly truth to contend with—healing hadn’t fixed the fact I couldn’t say a goddamn thing. It seemed a fickle reward after week on week of suffering.

I drank, fucked, and fought my way through my recovery and back to sanity—Nastasya’s goddamn cousin was an early casualty of that tirade.

Fuck. I drop my head low, hands clasped behind my head while I stare at the flawless leather of my goddamn boots. I want to explain it all to Stas; tell her what led me to those foolish fucking minutes with Lana. I didn’t want to hurt Nastasya—I wanted to punish myself.

Nobody can love me like this. Nobody would want me.

I figured I’d test the theory with the Russian troublemaker.

Three weeks, I’d stayed around here—home—cycling through pity and rage while I came to terms with my new reality. Fuck—I was nineteen, and my goddamn best years had been turned on their head. Dion had dragged me out to a bar, arguing that nobody would know I didn’t speak if the music was too loud to talk anyway. I’d reluctantly gone, more to appease my brother than for my own benefit. And there she’d been—Lana—Nastasya’s cousin, dancing up a storm at the far side of the floor. I’d only gone over to see if the girl I really wanted was with her, but when it became clear she wasn’t, I found an outlet for the frustration.

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