Page 32 of Brutal Vows

“It appears that it isn’t just us that Salvatore is pissing off,” Vitali remarks with a smirk, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement. His words stir a dark, unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach, like a storm beginning to brew.

“He’s been targeting multiple cities here in the states, trying to spread his product,” he continues, his tone now grave. “Tomas mentioned that a few years ago, he had to negotiate a deal with Fino because that piece of shit was sending flesh through his ports.”

A few years ago…

The phrase hangs in the air. The memories of that day refuse to fade, their edges still sharp and cutting. On nights when sleep eludes me, the past rushes back with relentless clarity, the abuse I endured as vivid and haunting as if it had just happened, leaving an indelible mark. But to Tomas Ivankov, it is as unremarkable as a simplefew years ago.

Not wanting to hear anything more and desperately trying to maintain my composure, I rest my head against the cool, hard frame of the window and let my eyelids flutter shut. The remnants of dinner are heavy in my stomach, like an immovable brick, and the unsettling conversation replays relentlessly in my mind until it fades into nothingness.

At some point, a warm, gentle hand tenderly cradles my head, causing me to stir slightly, but exhaustion weighs down my eyelids, making it impossible to open them. The familiar click of a seatbelt echoes in the quiet, and I feelmyself being carefully maneuvered to lie across the empty seat beside me.

My head sinks into a luxuriously soft pillow, and I instinctively snuggle in closer, enveloped by a comforting warmth as a cozy blanket is tucked snugly around me. The soothing scent of cedarwood and smoke fills the air, wrapping around me like a gentle embrace, as I drift back into the peaceful embrace of sleep.

I’m not sure how long I slept, but when I finally stir, I immediately sense that I’m no longer on the plane. The familiar hum of the engines has vanished, replaced by the chaotic symphony of heavy traffic outside and the smooth glide of air travel substituted by the jarring, uneven rhythm of bumpy, broken roads beneath us. The air is different, heavier, and tinged with the scent of gasoline and city life.

Soft voices echo in the confined space around me, their words a distant, incomprehensible murmur until fragments of conversation begin to sharpen, my name resonating like a distant drumbeat.

“She isn’t going to be a docile bride.” The Russian-accented words belong to Adrian, his tone laced with skepticism. “How do you expect to get her compliance? Force it?”

Vitali responds with a dark, humorless chuckle that sends a chill down my spine. “Isn’t that what Kenzo did? Forged her signature and filed it without her knowing? I see no difference here.” His statement hangs in the air, heavy with implications, as the silence stretches taut like a drawn bowstring.

“That’s true,” Kenzo’s voice follows, a whisper soft as a sigh. “But we’d been engaged since before she was born. Evaline and I were inevitable, and even in her defiance,she understood that. Gia isn’t Evaline. She’s strong, undeniably so, but there’s something in her eyes—a darkness that neither Vanya nor Evaline have ever encountered.”

A darkness. Kenzo’s term for the life I’ve been steeped in is both apt and damning. It encapsulates everything I have ever known: a world shrouded in shadows, marred by damage and brokenness. Evaline and Vanya, in the brief time we’ve shared, have unveiled fragments of their own histories to me. Like me, they endured childhoods under the oppressive rule of parents who despised them, withholding love and kindness. Yet, there our paths diverge.

“She’ll do what she must to keep her brother alive,” Vitali growls, his voice a low, threatening rumble. “He’s landed himself neck-deep in trouble, and if she wants to prevent a bullet from finding his head, she’ll follow orders.”

He found Elio? Where? My mind races, a chaotic storm of fear and urgency swirling through my veins, electrifying every nerve. Panic claws at the edges of my thoughts as I grasp for possibilities. Maybe there is something I can do… perhaps I can find a way to convince Vitali that Elio was coerced, manipulated into attempting such a reckless act against him. It’s not in Elio’s nature to plot an assassination on his own—right?

I cling to this hope, desperately searching for a way to unravel this tangled web of danger surrounding us.

When the conversation dwindles and a heavy silence envelops the car, I begin to ‘stir’, crafting the illusion of just emerging from sleep. I shift slightly, my body adjusting to the seat’s contours, and let out a genuine yawn, my jaw stretching wide, a testament to my lingering fatigue. The sensation is akin to being wrung out like a damp cloth. The effects of the time change are relentless, a persistent ache that lingers in my bones.

It reminds me of the trip from Italy. Those initial two weeks spent in that cozy cabin with Elio were a blur of drowsiness and tranquility. I would spend most of the day enveloped in the warmth of the soft sheets, only to reluctantly pull myself from the embrace of the bed for brief moments of time. The hours of wakefulness were fleeting, and I would find myself nestled beside my brother on the worn, comfortable sofa, lulled back into slumber by the rhythmic sound of his pen scratching against paper as he worked diligently beside me.

“Are we there?” I ask with another, slightly milder yawn. Vitali spares me a brief glance before shaking his head.

“Not much further,” he assures me.

Vitali is true to his word because only a few moments later we are pulling up in front of one of the most luxurious hotels I have ever seen.

Seventeen

The LXR hotelsits with a majestic view overlooking the Seattle waterfront. Its exterior is a beautiful juxtaposition of old-world charm and modern grandeur, a landscape of towering obsidian glass and petrified mahogany wood. The facades are adorned with intricate gold filigree that glitter under the Pacific winter sun, creating an ever-changing display of shadows and shapes.

Vitali slides out of the car and turns back, holding his hand out for me to take. Not wanting to risk falling flat on my face after spending the last few hours asleep in various positions, I graciously accept and shimmy out the open door.

Brushing out the wrinkles in my shirt and adjusting my pants, my eyes widen when I take in the ultimate grandeur that stands before me. Vitali doesn’t waste any time in pulling me along behind him toward the entrance, muttering about finally getting some rest.

It is impossible not to marvel at the architectural wet dream that stands before us. The men pay little attention to how unique the structure is, but I revel in its refined beauty.Italy is filled to the brim with the old world. Buildings that have managed to stand erect for hundreds of generations, but as beautiful as they are, they are still just a remnant of the past.

LXR’s imposing doors of flawless teak frame the grand entrance, which is marked by an immense marble arch, is a monument of the future. Lush green ferns and manicured hedges flank both sides of the entranceway, giving off a floral freshness-–a blissful contrast to the usual city odors. Above them, ornate wrought-iron balconies offset polished windows that stretch from floor to ceiling on all floors giving near panoramic views of the city.

The uniformed men at the front, clad in colors of burgundy and gold, nod their heads respectively as we make our way through the automatic doors. The air smells like jasmine and spice. It is quiet in the lobby. Only the sounds of our footsteps and the muted cascade of a water falling reach my ears. Looking around, I notice that there isn’t a location for check-in or any kind of desk at all, in fact.

Instead, there are sections of plush sofas and oversized chairs facing roaring fireplaces topped with enormous flat screens. There is a large bar area in the back and a few signs pointing toward restaurants further into the hotel.

“Welcome back, sirs,” a voice purrs. Sliding my gaze from the scenery, I take in the woman who is approaching us. She isn’t wearing the uniform of a traditional concierge. The burgundy dress she is wearing clings to her like a second skin, the neckline dipping down between her breasts. Jesus, one wrong move and she’s going to be flashing everyone her nipples.

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