Page 2 of Heartless Vows

With half my attention on his app usage, I accept a job and halfway complete it before his phone locks him out. His grumbling as he settles into bed assures me he’s a healthy eight-year-old boy.

I finish the job and submit it for approval before closing the browser and logging into a program of my own making.

My heart skips a beat as a new device pops on screen. I scroll through the short call log and plug the phone numbers into the database I’ve been building for years.

After skimming through the conversations, I decide none of the information is worth transcribing and zip the files under today’s date before skimming through my mother’s tablet and phone usage. When I find nothing out of the ordinary, I pause long enough to pop a piece of gum in my mouth and let the blast of mint clear my head before I sneak into my father’s phone.

Three new contacts. Half a dozen new email addresses. Four accepted calls from numbers without contact information.

My stomach churns. I choose the longest call, fit my headphones over my ears, and brace my elbows on my desk.

Surprise flares through me as a woman’s voice comes through the speakers, but as the conversation unfolds, disgust supersedes all else. Ignoring my growing nausea, I transcribe the entire interaction and file it away before jumping into detective mode.

After a few minutes of typing, I successfully hack one of the unknown numbers from my father’s call log—a burner phone bought from a corner store on the other side of the city—and use the already-disposed-of-device to send an anonymous tip to my local police station.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my thighs and silently curse myself. Tipping off the police isn’t part of my plan. I can’t keep taking unnecessary risks, but the thought of doing nothing fills me with guilt.

Some things my family thrives off—like drugs, weapons, and money laundering—I can ignore, since they rarely involve innocent people, but my father has grown less scrupulous over the years. I ruined his last attempt at human trafficking. I’ll do it again, if I must.

If my escape plans fall through and this is the only way I can protect Tristan, at least he won’t inherit an empire built on innocent women’s misfortune.

I’m not an idiot. Escaping the mafia lifestyle, especially from one of New York City’s founding families, is unlikely.

But I have to try.

I exit out of all my hacking programs and replace my history with a randomized list of presets and times before checking my inbox, sending the second half of my open job, and confirming the funds hit my account before closing down for the night.

I stumble through my nightly hygiene routine and snag my phone off my desk before dropping into bed. Right before I slip into a doze, my phone buzzes. I check the screen and grab the hairpins from my bedside table before tucking my phone into my pocket and rising.

With a few practiced moves, I pick the lock on my door and tiptoe down the hall to Tristan’s room. I pick his lock without turning on a light and ease his door closed behind me. I whisper his name. He whimpers and curls into a tighter ball. I settle onto the bed behind him and rub his back.

“Hush, Tristan, I’m here. You’re okay. No one can hurt you,” I whisper.

He wakes with a sob and rolls over to bury his face against my chest. I gather him to me and stroke his hair from his face.

He’s no longer the tiny newborn whose entire body fits on my torso, but he’s still my little brother. I’ll do anything for him. I wish I could take away his nightmares, but at least he doesn’t remember why he has them, and part of me is grateful I’m not alone. Even with star-shaped lights dancing across his ceiling from the lamp on his bedside table and his warm yet bony eight-year-old body curled against mine, I struggle to fall asleep as memories of the worst night of my life plague me.

I decide to stay with Tristan all night instead of going back and forth between our rooms, so I regulate my breathing until my body follows my cues and drops into regenerative sleep.

I grunt awake when Tristan’s bony elbow digs into my stomach.

“You’re in here again?” he mumbles as he sits up and rubs his eyes.

I groan and throw my arm over my face.

“Did I have another nightmare?” he asks.

I shrug and roll away from him.

“Ari, why’re you in here?”

His little hands push and pull at my shoulders.

“Did you spy on me again?”

I sigh and give a halfhearted, blind swat behind me.

“Give me a few minutes to wake up before you grill me, will ya?”

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