Page 6 of Heartless Vows

“So you cut me out?”

“There was nothing to cut you out of. I couldn’t even be there,” I snarl as I shake the water from my blade.

Droplets land on my white shirt. I grunt in annoyance as I spot a tiny speck of red near my waistline.

A plume of dust rises from the counter as Fiero flops my garment bag on top. He knows me so well. He snagged it from my trunk and hid it near the doorway as I questioned the poor souls no longer alive in the other room.

I grunt in thanks and dry my blade on my pantleg before unzipping my bag and setting my knife on the open flap to preserve its cleanliness.

Fiero chooses a new counter to lean on as I unroll my sleeves and unbutton my shirt.

“So what’s next, boss?” he asks.

I shrug my shirt off my shoulders and drop it onto the flap before pulling my undershirt over my head.

“Should I keep bringing you dead men walking, or is it time for a new strategy?”

I unfasten my belt and meet his eyes as I pull it through my belt loops.

“Are you sure you don’t want to be my consigliere? My uncle will always side with my father. I could use you in—”

“Nope. I like the dirty work. All the posturing and backstabbing ain’t for me,” he interrupts.

I shuck my trousers down my legs, leaving my underwear in place, and work them over my shoes before adding them to the pile of dirty clothes.

“That’s a shame, since you’re so good at stabbing me in the back,” I retort.

“How the hell did your delusional ass come to that conclusion? I’ve never stabbed you in the back,” he says.

“You let me rampage for six months before you said anything.”

“I like my balls attached to my body, thank you very much.”

He has a point. I haven’t been receptive to criticism recently.

“Besides, we get along so well because we handle shit head on. Eye to eye. Straight and to the point. Stabbing in the back is so unsatisfying.”

Yet another point in his favor. I wash my face, arms, and chest in the sink again before yanking a few baby wipes from the container in the bottom of my bag and running them over my legs. Once I’m satisfied no blood hides within my tattoos, I shake out the towel rolled at the base of my bag and dry from head to toe before pulling on a fresh pair of trousers.

“Pause the deliveries for now,” I decide.

He nods. I slap a bandage over the tiny cut on my arm, pull an undershirt over my head, and settle it in place before threading my arms into a button down. As I systematically fasten my buttons, he waits in silence.

When I open my mouth to speak, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my old pants. I curse and fish it out of the fabric before checking the screen.

I answer my father’s call with a curt greeting. The tenseness of his tone lifts the hairs on my nape. He ends the call after I voice my understanding.

I stick the phone in my new pants pocket and add my keys and other things from the old pair before tucking in my shirts and fastening the front.

“Expect a call after I figure out what my father wants,” I say as I thread my belt through the loops and close the buckle.

“You got it, boss,” Fiero quips.

His insistence on remaining a nameless soldier only solidifies my conviction that he’d be amazing as my second-in-command.

Removing my suit coat from the hanger, I pull it on and smooth the lapels before slipping my knife into my belt and closing my garment bag. Dressed in clean clothes and ready for whatever menial crap my father throws my way, I lift the bagfrom the counter—careful to hold it away from my outfit—and stalk through the building to the side door.

Fiero knows the drill. He’ll ensure we leave nothing behind.

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