Page 35 of Vow of Silence

I, on the other hand, lean in to be sure what they show me is indeed what my eyes tell me it is. Benito circles a pole, the thick kind that supports a house or other large structure. But what makes my jaw drop isn’t the way my betrothed’s hair sits disheveled over maddened eyes or that what appears to be thick streaks of blood cover his hands.

It’s the man tied to the timber support.

“He isn’t on our books,” Dion explains. “But this chump speaks pretty darn good Italian. Ain’t that right,leccaculo?”

The man’s head hangs, chin against his chest. He emits a wet-sounding chuckle, refusing to answer.

Benito fists the John’s hair and jerks his head upright to show the man’s face. It’s bloody but not bruised. They’ve had fun with him yet left his features untouched so I can easily identify his face. There’s only one problem: I didn’t see above the men’s waists that night.

“I need to hear his voice,” I say. “I won’t recognize a face, but I’d know the voice.”

“You heard the lady.” Dion’s hand extends from behind the camera to shunt the guy in the shoulder.

The captive winces. Their harassment wasn’t restricted to his head, it seems.

I glance beside me at Lana, mesmerized by what plays out on the other end of the video call. “Do you know this guy?” I stage whisper her way.

She shakes her head. “I wish I did.” Her butt slides over the sofa cushion again until she’s a hair’s breadth away from sittinghip-to-hip with me. “Do they think he’s one of the guys who went after you?”

Benito’s head whips up in the shot. The malice in his eyes is palpable, even through the screen of a six-inch device. He strides towards Dion, his head tilted to one side and his eyes narrowed as he stares into the camera.

“She’s here to help pick out my dress,” I answer robotically. “I hope you like black.”

His lush lips split into a grin, eyes softening as he moves away. Back to the camera, Benito flicks one hand out to point to the man tied to the pole. He snaps his fingers. The man jolts.

I’m in fucking awe of how Benito can command a room without the one thing most people rely on to threaten and intimidate: words.

“What do you want this fucktard to say?” Dion asks.

“I don’t speak Italian,” I remind him. “I don’t know what they said.”

“Do you remember any of it?”

“Something that sounded likechia…Ugh.Chiama…” I butcher their language.

“Chiamata?”Dion asks.

“Yeah. What does it mean?”

“Call.” He makes a huff while Benito fidgets with his bloodied hands. “Come on then,” he coaxes the hostage. “Let’s hear it.”

“Chiamata,” the man mutters with no shortage of sass, chin to his chest again.

Benito jerks the man’s head high and smacks the side of one hand to his throat—twice.

“He wants you to say it louder,” Dion explains.

“Chiamata,” the man enunciates with husky chords. “You happy now? Anything else?”

The camera shifts as though Dion gets comfortable to their left. “Now, use it in a sentence.”

“What is this? Jeopardy?” the guy quips.

My dark suitor uses the hand nested in the man’s hair to whip his skull swiftly against the pole. The crack is sickening.

“Fuck!” The man winces. “What the fuck do you want me to say?”

Lana leans in as though the goddamn call is an episode of her favorite Netflix drama.

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