Page 8 of Vow of Silence

"As ostentatious as I remember," Arseni says through a grimace. "Always one to show off what you have, Gennaro." He flicks his stern gaze at my father.

"And as always, so gracious with those you envy," Papa quips, arms out to greet Arseni.

Alessio stands to our father's right, Dion to his left. I stay toward the back, hidden in the shadows with my arms folded,while I silently watch the woman of the hour emerge from the car. Dressed in black, she looks barely put together in a plain pantsuit and heeled shoes. Her hair is the same pale blonde I remember—a shade off that of the angels. But it's her face that strikes me hard. My memories are of the soft cheeks of a troublesome girl, the wide eyes of innocence, and the rosy lips of a young woman who always had a sucker in her back pocket. Not anymore. High cheekbones match her hardened jaw, giving her elegant eyes a cutting edge. She would look ready to kill if not for the fear in those sea-green irises.

"Did we not cover everything in our phone call?" Papa asks as Arseni climbs the slick steps.

"I didn't feel that you got my point," thevorstates, shaking his hand before him. "That you took me seriously enough."

"Perhaps we could have done this at a better hour." Papa's tone hardens, his shoulders stiff as he fights to keep his hands slung in his slacks pockets.

It's after midnight the same evening Arseni's daughter narrowly avoided an assassination attempt. The man has lost his mind if he thinks this is the best approach to sorting a dispute between the families.

"What better time to address the issue than when everyone's memory is fresh, hey?" Arseni shouts the words, his aggression causing Vinny to rest a hand on the hilt of his gun.

"And what issue would that be?" Naz asks, stepping out of the shadow beside the front doors. "You've made your claims. Gennaro stated the family's position. What more do you need?"

"What do I need?" Arseni's brow peaks. He turns to assess where Nastasya stands before reaching out and taking a fistful of her jacket. "You fuckers thought you killed my daughter," he hollers, shoving her forward toward my father. "And you thought that one dismissive word would have me forget what shesaw? ThatItalianstried to gun her down." He pulls his daughter closer. "I need justice, Gennaro."

Stas's eyes are wide but appear pained more than scared. Like me, she's lived among these men long enough to know what our life entails. Not much scares the woman, I bet, but damn it all, if the way her father manhandles her doesn't make my blood boil. We respect our women here, in the De Santis family. I can't say the same for the Kuznetsovs.

"We should take this inside," Papa suggests, turning his body to indicate our guests can go first.

Arseni's guards rise the steps to follow, yet Vinny holds a hand toward them. "No weapons."

"Is your monkey stupid?" Arseni asks Papa. "Your thugs tried to take my daughter, and you want us to walk into your halls without protection."

"You have my word," Papa states, chin held high. "As you did when I told you that the order didn't come from us. If that isn't enough, I suggest you rethink why you're here,friend."

Thevorlooks between each De Santis man and finds the same impassive stare on our faces. We don't fuck around, and when we give our word, it means something—unlike that of most of our enemies. Arseni releases his daughter; Nastasya stumbles on her heels as she rights herself at her father's side. I wait until everyone else has gone first and then follow the family into the foyer.

The enticing scent of Nastasya's perfume hits my nostrils, and I find myself moving closer to her as we walk. She turns her head to the side; no eye contact, but enough of a gesture that she makes it clear she knows I'm there.

Papa leads Arseni toward his home office, turning to stop Alessio and then Dion from following inside. "A chat between old friends first." He signals Vinny and gives Dmitry a nod, indicating the bosses can have one man for protection each.

Uncle Naz steps forward, shocked when my father stops him with a hand on his chest. "This involves me, Gennaro."

"Not tonight, my brother." Papa nods towards a vacant chair. "I will call for you if I need you."

The look my uncle gives Petey as our adviser joins the exclusive meeting could strip paint. Ignazio has no reason to be there while the men negotiate the issue, but Pietro, ourconsigliere, does. The dispute requires an adjudicator, and that's precisely what Petey is.

Somebody not biased by blood on either side.

The men disappear behind closed doors, leaving the offspring and remaining payroll scattered around the expansive sitting room. Alessio returns to his leather wingback and sighs. "Guess we wait, huh?"

"Fuck off and sulk somewhere else," Dion snaps, heading for the liquor. "Drink, Nastasya?"

She swallows, shadowed by the remaining Bratva soldier. "Thank you."

Vinny's man taps the soldier on the arm and gestures for him to join our detail at the door. Nastasya freezes, hands laced before her with perfect poise. She'd almost pull off the tough-girl act if it weren't for the way her body shakes where she stands. I cross the room while Dion pours her drink and stands face-to-face with the Bratva brat. Almost ten years have passed since I last gazed into these eyes, touched this face—kissed these lips. It's long enough that we're relative strangers to one another but not so long that she has a right to ignore me the way she does. Her green eyes finally meet mine; she lifts her chin the smallest amount to show she's not intimidated.

I don't stand here to scare her. I find myself in her personal space out of curiosity. Is it still there? The pull we once had?

A fresh cut high on her forehead mars an otherwise flawless complexion. I lift my right hand and push her blonde hair outof her face to inspect the injury better. She flinches, jerking her head back and glaring at me. Her reaction is warranted—I was an asshole the last time we spoke. Regardless, I take my time circling her and noting each swell and curve of her primly dressed body. She seems uncomfortable in the executive-style clothing, as though she doesn't usually wear such things.

"Relax," Dion assures her as he passes a tumbler of scotch. "He only checks you for concealed weapons."

"Shouldn't one of your soldiers do that?" Her voice is huskier than I remember, sultry and sure.

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