Page 44 of Vow of Silence

I didn’t count on Benito being the one I needed protection from.

My fingertips ghost across my lips, and I sigh. I don’t know how I thought it would feel to kiss Benito now that he has no tongue. I suppose the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. How fickle would I be if I let a deformity dictate how I feel toward him? I got more apprehension from the glint of desire in his eye when he told me what he’d do to Caroline’s assassins.

I’ve been around career criminals long enough to recognize the sick fascination that blooms when they discuss topics that would shock the general public: murder, torture, sexual extortion. There’s a certain disassociation that occurs. It’s as though their soul pulls the shutters closed, and base instincttakes over. If I needed to name the emotion that lingers after the conversations have ended, it would be remorse. A kind of regret that these are the things they must do to maintain order in the chaos.

But with Benito… I fist my hands in my messy hair and cross the floor to my bathroom. The look in his eye showed satisfaction. That lack of moral compass should scare me. But when I know the depth of the love that he’s able to show, it garnered curiosity.

How can he be such a dedicated and passionate lover and still disassociate himself from the pain he inflicts on others?Could be.Perhaps that passion died off when our teenage tryst did? How do I truly know he’s the same man underneath it all?

The black clothing to match his raven locks. The heavy brow over eyes that never rest. The stoic grit to his jaw he maintains throughout it all—even when he smiles.

How do I know I haven’t set myself up for heartache all over again? Perhaps Benito and I are destined to repeat our past mistakes—only on a public scale this time.

“Fuck.” I utter the single word into the ether and reach for my toothbrush.

Benito never said what he’d do with the nugget of information I revealed last night, an easy feat for him. I don’t know if he plans to look into why the men would travel into the estate or if he wanted me placated. Maybe that’s all he did: take me to the crash site so that Ifeelas though they’re doing what they can to track down the killers.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, you dork.” I slam the used brush back into the holder and pull a deep breath into my tight lungs, relishing the prickle of fresh mint.

He’s already done more for me than my damn father. Both Benito and Dion have. And, if I want to be honest, nothing happens within the De Santis family without the don’s approval—Gennaro knows about this. He’s given his blessing for his sons to get involved.

While on the other hand, my father stays locked away behind closed doors, avoiding the fact his heartbroken daughter struggles to reconcile her new position within the family.

He dismissed me at the De Santis home. By announcing out loud that Benito gets no say in the running of the Bratva world, my flesh and blood threw me to the wolves. Papa says that he doesn’t want our influence compromised, for our enemies to see us weakened by having me at the head of the table. And yet, he was happy to announce to our greatest adversaries that he feels I’m incapable of taking over the family business.

I’ve never felt so invalidated in my life.

Is that how Benito felt when he lost his right to the throne?

I stride across my vast bedroom toward the walk-in, questions jumping around my mind like popping corn. The thoughts collide, sending my musings off on new tangents, and I sort through the facts and opinions I’ve received these past few days.

I knew losing Caroline would change my life, but I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams that this was where her death would lead. A week ago, I was a sheltered princess in thevoryworld. No more than a placeholder for a scared old man who had yet to find his successor. That part is still true, but now I hold a much more interesting role: bridging the gap between ourselves and our Italian counterparts.

There has never been such a union of the houses.

My breath leaves my lungs on a heavy exhale, the power of that simple fact stalling my thoughts in their tracks. Rows of clothing hang before me, organized by style and color, yet I have no preference for what I should wear. My heart craves the comfort of a plush sweatsuit, but I need something more for what I have planned.

Something that incites confidence.

I run my fingers over the fine materials, trying to remember where each dress, blouse, and skirt came from. Some, I bought myself on various out-of-town shopping trips to fill the time while Papa met with our associates. The rest Mimi purchased for me—staples of a socialite. I’ve always had the illusion of free will, but when I take the time to examine my years within these walls, I quickly find that a lot of who I am was manipulated and directed from a very early stage.

Who I see, where I go, what I do? It was all vetted and approved by my father. Sometimes, it was by my mother when she was still with us.

Fuck, I miss her.

I slide a long garment from its soft hanger and lower the zipper. The black one-piece has loose, flowing sleeves that split from the wrist to the bicep, allowing the cape created to move freely over my arm, secured by a diamante studded cuff. When standing idle, it’s a delicate drape that gives me a feminine edge, but when I move, the skirt parts to show that the design is a loose pantsuit. Matching splits from ankle to hip reveal my legs when I walk, my modesty kept by the tight hotpants built in beneath. I love how it can catch a man off guard; I seem demure and modest when at my father’s side. But give me the floor, and I’ll show you how a real woman wields the power of her supple curves and lines.

I slip into the outfit, careful not to catch my hair in the matching choker that buckles at my nape. My locks’ natural wave makes styling them quick, which I’m incredibly thankful for when a smoky eye and the proper contour can take me half an hour to apply.

I check myself in the wide floor-to-ceiling mirror in my walk-in and then slide on my heels before heading for the door. I barely recognize myself when I’m this made up; I becomesomebody new. Jekyll and Hyde. More like Nastasya and the Bratva Princess.

Marcus straightens his spine when he spots me at the threshold, my hand still on the door handle. “Miss Kuznetsov.”

“Come, now, Marcus,” I tease, aware his heated stare drags the length of me. “We’re on first-name terms after these past few days.”

He nods, falling into step behind me as I walk down the hallway toward the grand foyer. I can’t deny the thrill that runs through me when I feel it—power. After mourning Caroline’s passingandthe loss of my freedom with this sham marriage, I’m finally able to become my ballbreaker self again.

I feel every inch the underworld goddess I am.

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