Page 87 of Vow of Silence

By using Ignazio’s precious fucking traditions against him.

They want tradition? Then they’ll fucking get it.

And all the blood that comes along with it.

THIRTY-ONE

Nastasya

My phone connects with my nightstand and promptly slides off to hit the carpet with a dull thud. I don’t care enough to pick it up. I don’t care enough to do much at all. Benito left in the early hours, as agreed, and my fucking heart went with him.

If I could have curled into a tiny little ball and slipped myself in his pocket, I would have.

But I can’t. So here I lie, ruing the fucking house I woke up in while he’s out fuck knows where doing God knows what.

I should be there to help him, but that’s the sickly truth of my existence—nobody needs me to do shit. Although my office team sends me copies of anything they deem relevant, they’re content to operatemybusiness without me. My father tells me jack-shit about the marriage agreement he includedmein.

And my only true friend lies six feet under God only knows where.

Breath shudders into my lungs as I stare at the creeping crack in the plaster above my bed. I haven’t felt this isolated since Mama died. Alone, sure. But isolated? Nope. I had my ways and means of pretending I was a part of something—my business being chief among those.

Nothing to fool you into thinking you matter, like surrounding yourself with false friends.

Because that’s all they were. People paid to act as though my every thought and idea mattered. But where are they now? Where is the compassion when I need it most?

Absent.

Just like my fucking father.

I swivel to the side of the bed with a sigh and slam my feet down on the floor. Fingers clutched around the edge of the mattress, I stare down at the chipped paint on my toenails and draw a deep breath. Reveling in my misery won’t achieve anything. I may not understand why it is I keep finding myself back here, in this weird state of nothingness between wishing for more and hoping for less—for death—but I know one thing without a shadow of a doubt.

I can’t stay here.

And the only way I’m guaranteed to get out of this perpetual state of misery is to do something contrary to it. Fake it until I make it. Slap that fucking mask on for another day and make waves toward being the person I wish I were.

Having the life I feel I deserve.

With clean jeans and a soft sweater draped over pointlessly provocative lingerie, I pad toward my bedroom door and wrench it open, damn well knowing who’ll be on the other side.

“Miss Stasya,” Ivan greets, legs wide, from where he sits on a dining chair he repurposed to be his post opposite my room.

He slides his phone into a breast pocket, tucked inside his thick jacket.

“Is my father home?”

Ivan shakes his head. “Left an hour ago. He’ll be back soon, though.”

Of course, he did.He can fucking escape this prison despite the threats to his life over the years. But me? Fuck no.Couldn’t have a little lady running rampant through the world unprotected, now, could we? Imagine what could happen to her.

More like, imagine the damageshecould do if yesterday’s bullshit is anything to go by.

“Did he take Dmitry?”

Ivan shakes his solid head.

I raise my chin. “Bring him to me, please.” I slam the door in the asshole’s face and turn to stamp both hands on my hips.

Appealing to my father’ssovietnikbrings risk, but after the confrontation before I left yesterday, I feel confident that the man may be somewhat on my side rather than my father’s.

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