Page 33 of Twisted Vows

I can’t hear him from here, but his posture says enough. The way he stands, stiff and deliberate, tells me he’s not calling his girlfriend or checking in on some routine task.

He’s reporting.

And whoever is on the other end of that line… they aren’t on my side.

I lean back in my seat, the weight in my chest growing heavier. Emilio’s loyalty is as slippery as oil. One minute, he’s toeing the Famiglia line; the next, he’s smirking like he knows something I don’t. And I hate not knowing.

When I step outside, Emilio is gone, leaving only the faint smell of cigar smoke behind. The cool night air feels sharp against my face, but it doesn’t clear the fog in my head.

My phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not Sal. It’s a message from one of my contacts—a guy who owes me more than a few favors.

Heard about the docks. Word is someone’s feeding info to the Bratva. Careful who you trust.

I stare at the screen, my fingers tightening around the phone. The Bratva? The Bianchis? No. It doesn’t make sense. Franco wouldn’t allow it.

Unless…

The thought hangs there, heavy and poisonous.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It’s all lies, darling.

Ari

The sheets are too soft. That’s the first thing I notice when I wake up—smooth as silk, almost slippery like they’re trying to pull me under.

A faint smell clings to them, something sharp and woodsy. Him. Us.

Did last night really happen? The vows, the intimacy.

Did Maxsim mean any of the things he said when he buried inside my body?

Shaking off the fantasy, I sit up and shove the blanket off with more force than necessary.

The hotel room is quiet, suffocatingly so. The heavy curtains keep the sunlight at bay, leaving the room bathed in muted gray. I rake my fingers through my hair and glance around the room.

Alone.

Unsurprising, given that marriages in our world operate on the assumption that nothing lasts. A moment of connection is fleeting at best…and deadly at worst.

I look down and see a faint red imprint of his finger on my thigh. The place where he held me and let pretty lies slip from his lips.

My stomach twists...and then I see it.

A tray on the nightstand holds a French press, two delicate porcelain cups, and a folded note with my name scrawled across it in sharp, black ink. Maxsim’s handwriting.

For a second, my chest tightens. I don’t know what to expect—maybe something personal. A leftover warmth from last night.

But when I unfold the note, the tightness in my chest explodes into anger.

The handwriting is precise, neat, and cold. Just like him.

Ari,

You’ll follow these protocols from now on. No exceptions.

The list is short, but every word slices.

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