Page 10 of Vow of Silence

Don Gennaro’s office door opens; our man, Aleksy, stands in the space provided. “Miss Stasya.” He beckons me with a jerk of his head.

I feel the room’s heat on me as I finish my drink and set the glass down—one set of eyes in particular. My gaze meets Benito’s, and the same thrill he elicited nine years ago races down my spine again. Time may have hardened the boy into a man, but those soulless eyes still speak of evils too rich to deny. I’m drawn in by the unanswered questions such vehemence in a young life conjures. What could have happened to him in the time we’ve been apart to turn the outgoing rascal I remember into such a jaded, silent soldier of his father’s empire?

When I enter the home office, my father beckons me to his side with an outstretched arm. “Come in, my girl.” The click of the door behind me sends a jolt through my tired limbs.

“Nastasya,” Don Gennaro greets from behind his massive classically styled desk. “First, may I offer my sincere condolences for your friend’s passing tonight.” He gestures to the only free chair in the room—beside my father’s. “Please sit.”

“Thank you.” I do as I’m asked—respectful to those who’ve earned the accolade. My legs ache, back screaming from the jolt of the car when we hit the final tree.

“Please, tell me in your own words what happened.”

I look around the room at the men waiting for my next word. I’ve never felt pressure like this in my life, as though one tiny slip-up means offering my throat to a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. The collective violent reputation in this room would make even the hardest death row inmate quake.

“It’s okay, my love. You tell them what you told me.” Papa leans across to take my hand.

I stare at the connection, the feel of his palm against mine foreign. He’s kept me close since Mama died, but we’ve neverbeenclose.

“Two men,” I recite, distancing myself from the memory by focusing on the facts. “They didn’t butcher the words spoken; they were smooth and quick. That’s why I think they were Italian. A single shot was made. Through Caroline’s left eye.”

“Can you remember any of what they said?” A man I don’t recognize leans forward from my left. His voice is raw, as though he smokes several packs a day, although there isn’t a hint of tobacco on him.

“I’m not sure.”

Papa squeezes my hand. “Take your time. Close your eyes and remember.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to go back there; the memory is too raw, too fresh. I need time to grieve, to let these emotions that create turmoil in my heart free.

“If she doesn’t want to, Arseni, don’t force her.” Don Gennaro leans back in his seat, the leather creaking under his broad frame. The mob boss must be in his mid-fifties, at least, but he has the body of a much younger man. The only indication of histrue age is the gray hair at his temples, although that could be attributed to stress in a role such as his.

“The words may be key to showing you who did this, though.” Papa drops my hand and straightens in his seat to order, “Remember, Nastasya.”

Aleksy nods behind my father, a gentle reminder that it’s easier to do as he wishes than push back too hard, especially in a room of his peers.

I stare at my hands, the dirt still stuck in the cuticles and under my painted nails. Caroline’s face flashes into my mind’s eye first, sending my heart into a sprint for safety. I temper my breaths and ease my nerves by gently pressing my nails into my thumbs. “I think one of them said something that sounded likemessage. The only other word I picked up waschiamata.” Only because it reminded me of chia seeds.

The stupid connections a brain makes when in survival mode.

“Call.” The gruff man sighs. “It could have been about anything.”

“Think, Nastasya,” Papa growls. “What else was there?”

“I told you this would be an unnecessary exercise,” the Don grumbles. “She doesn’t need this, and neither do we.”

“I can’t remember what they said,” I cry, “But I know what they did. They shot my fucking friend through the eye.” I implore each man in the room with a quick sweep of my gaze. “We all know what that means. We all know what type of organizations use that as a message. This attack wasn’t random. It was planned, and it was meant with exact significance.”

“This we can agree on.” The gruff man speaks directly to his boss, the Don. “Regardless of who did it, the girl’s life is in danger until we can find out who wanted her dead.”

I feel sick. Hearing about the bloody side of the business was never an issue because it neverinvolvedme. But now thatI’m front and center of the threat, I feel a loss of safety like I have never experienced in my life. I was born to a Bratva king. Security was something that came naturally. I’ve been sheltered and watched my entire life, and never once have I felt the efforts of those around me weren’t enough.

Not until now.

“Until you find the rat in your sewers,” my father roars, rising from his seat, “my daughter’s safety is my concern, not yours.”

“I appreciate that this doesn’t affect our business endeavors.” Don Gennaro watches Papa with a steely glare.

My father scoffs. “Don’t give me your passive-aggressive bullshit, Gennaro. Until you find the culprit, you aren’t welcome on my docks.”

Gennaro bursts from his seat. I shrink down, choking back a startled cry.

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