Page 118 of Vow of Silence

My love is down, not out.

If Ignazio is lucky, the blade hit his stomach. If he’s not, then he won’t last long with steel through his liver.

“You fucking little shit.” Anger spikes his gaze, pupils a dark storm.

Benito laughs.

I find comfort in knowing he can still form a smile and find humor in the situation. My focus slides from panic-induced survival to calculated response. Gaze sweeping the floor, I locate where Benito’s gun dropped and run the math in my head: is it easier to lean over him and grab that one or twist to retrieve mine from a little further away? Which is less likely to draw attention?

I choose Benito’s pistol on the floorboards.

Ignazio still studies the knife in his side when I make my move. I lean forward, press a kiss to Benito’s lips, and then dive for the gun, spreading myself out lengthwise for maximum effort. My fingertips graze the handle, grasp scrabbling to get the fucking thing in my hand with enough control to pull the trigger and shoot an accurate line. I wrap my hand around the gun and place my free hand on the cold floor to push myself up and around when Benito’s palm slaps hard against my waist. I wince at the ache—grimace at the shock of his brutal hold on me—but soon realize why.

He pulls me to safety.

Fingers bruising my side, he rolls me toward him, facing out toward Ignazio, and then shoves his injured arm beneath my lower side. I register the madness in his uncle’s eye and fumble with the weapon in my hand, but the grip slides from my fingers, the pistol clattering to the floor. A growl emanates from behind me as Benito hoists me up and toward his left, my lover rising on his knees to curl his body around me as he does.

I hit the floor with a deafening ring in my ears, but it’s not the hardwood that creates the echo.

It’s the shot that Benito takes to his back.

The grunt of his breath leaving his lungs echoes in my ears long after the shadow of pain has left Benito’s eyes. Dusky gray-blue meets my gaze, and he slides his eyes lazily to the right, gesturing toward the bathroom.

Toward escape.

I move in the opposite direction instead, the fire of injustice licking at old wounds and coaxing me to make this right. I dive again for the gun. A boot crashes down on my wrist, my fingers less than an inch from victory.

Ignazio bends double to retrieve Benito’s gun, his foot still pinning my hand. “I’ll have this.” The clip hits the floor beside me before the asshole tosses the useless weapon aside.

I use my periphery to check on Benito, nausea swimming violently in my stomach when I find him bent double in a prayer position, arms braced beneath him to keep his head off the floor. Crimson pools in the space between his knees and elbows.

Ignazio grabs me roughly around the bicep to wrench me to my feet. I stare at the one fucking thing I never considered: Ivan.

He leans against the doorframe and swings his good arm. A weapon hits the floor and slides toward our feet.

I use the split-second it takes for Ignazio to register the noise—his back to the door—and squat low to snare the gun.

This time, I don’t hesitate.

“You wouldn’t,” he chuckles as I point the business end of the weapon at him.

“I would.” I flick off the safety. “And you know why?” Discharge the shot. “Because my name isn’t De Santis.”

EPILOGUE

Nastasya

The wedding was postponed.

I cried the day it was supposed to happen, thankful that it wasn’t canceled.

I cried the day after when they discharged Benito to a private hospital closer to the De Santis home.

“You have that glazed look again.” Lana pauses pinning flowers in my swept-up hair to catch my eye in the mirror. “The mascara is waterproof, right?”

I pick a hairpin off the dresser and throw it over my shoulder at her. She laughs.

Everything about today seems surreal.

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