Page 98 of Vow of Silence

“You think we haven’t?” She laughs, bitter and frankly disturbing. “You have no idea how many dead ends we encountered. How many nights my husbandcriedbecause he couldn’t do his son justice? You havenoidea,” she growls, “the pain we all endured. Theresiliencethatwealldeveloped over the years. Yes, my beautiful boy bears the scars of his mutilation, solely and painfully, but weallgrieve what happened that night.” She huffs, gaze raking the length of me. “Hediedthat night. Do you know that? Did that cold, hard fact reach you up there on your high horse?”

I fight back the bile that rises and push away the fist around my lungs.

She smirks at the pain written clear across my face. “You didn’t know that, did you? That my son’s heart stopped. That my throat grew hoarse with how I screamed for Vinny to revive him while we waited for the ambulance. How I fuckingprayedwhen the Lord brought him back to us.” Her eyes glisten, yet the enviable powerhouse keeps her emotions in check, refusing to let her heartache show in any other way than her words. “He died, Nastasya, and you dare question whether we take his brutality seriously?”

I stay silent. What can I say? That I’m suitably mollified? Subdued? Well and truly put in my place?

That I want to open the fucking door and throw myself from the car to avoid the suffocating feeling that I keep getting it wrong. That I continue to let down the ones I love through my ignorance.

“It’s clear we havemuchto discuss,” Brigida states carefully. “But, Benito will not be one of those things today.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and murmur, “What will we discuss then?”

She sighs. “A subject that will likely make you as bitter and vengeful as I’ve been all these years.”

“I thought you said we wouldn’t discuss Benito anymore?”

“We’re not.” She fidgets with her bag at her side. “We’re discussing your mother.”

THIRTY-FOUR

Benito

“Alittle further,” my father’s voice coaxes, resonating off the stone walls of the stall. “Watch your step.”

A hefty sigh and the scrape of a shoe are the only indications my father isn’t alone. I glance at Dion and then at the chump strung up to the pole before focusing on the stable door.

Arseni steps into view and draws a deep breath when he spots the mark. “Am I supposed to be intimidated?” He hitches an eyebrow, shifting focus to me and my brother.

“Got a reason to be?” Dion counters.

Arseni’s brow deepens; the firm set of his lips indicates he’s less than impressed at being here.

“We speak the truth with one another, don’t we?” Papa asks, circling thevorto stand between him and the man who’s catatonic against the pole. “We’re all friends here.” He spreads his hands wide.

Restrained anger stiffens the set of his shoulders.

Arseni blinks, taking a beat before he responds. “You said you had news about Nastasya.”

“I do.” My father lifts a scrap of cloth off a nearby crate and uses it to wipe the tied man’s mouth. “Well,hedoes.”

Jacob Seymour Kipperson. Everyone on the street called him Kip.

“You fuckin’ want a presentation, then let me down from here.”

The man still has fire—I’ll give him that.

He wheezes in his breaths, likely due to a cracked rib or two. His gaze never strays from the floor—vacant and emotionless. I’d say the guy’s a master at shutting off from reality. Disassociating. Maybe that’s why he’s lasted this long. He shoved his guilty conscience so deep inside he can’t remember where.

“Give him some water, Dion.” Papa nods toward a half-used bottle against the far wall.

Arseni seconders a dusty chair from the corner and brings it toward Jacob.

I rub the blood on my thumb while I wait for the pleasantries to be over and the real fun to start.

“Tell our friend what you told us,” Papa coaxes. “About who you work for.”

My gaze never strays from Nastasya’s father.

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