Page 10 of Vicious Vows

I suck in a breath as I see the code string itself together. “I’m in!” I mumble, and my fingers go back to work, flying over the keys. It’s the only distraction I have from the way he makes me feel. He’s a monster, and I don’t know why I’m letting him get to me like this. I don’t want to have sex with a monster, no matter how attractive he is. But his breath continues to dust my skin, and his hand traces lazy figure-eights on my bicep. And for some reason, I don’t want him to stop doing it.

8

LUKE

When the car arrives at our destination—an old Polish restaurant in neutral territory which has always been the venue for our yearly meeting—my guests climb out first. The festivities aside, today has been full on. Arrangements for our annual gentlemen’s meeting are typically handled by my mother, but in her state, I’ve taken over everything. The meal, the time and date, all of it was set up by me and my staff, and I see the line of cars that stretches several blocks indicating all of my friends and enemies alike are here.

“Remember to leave your weapons,” Franco tells the boys, and a few of them disarm themselves, stashing their guns in my back seat.

This meeting has gone on for years. For one night of the year, we put aside our differences and feuds and join together to dine and discuss the city and our organizations. Given the time of peace we’ve been enjoying, tonight should go well. Though, with Micah’s work earlier today, it will be interesting to see if there’s any reaction to it or if it has gone completely unnoticed so far.

I walk toward the door, following the wedding guests who’ve joined me for the meeting. They chat openly about how my father died and it being a shame. I’ve heard that line enough times to sicken me, but I say nothing. I’m more interested in getting this meeting over with and getting home to see what else Micah has accomplished. She seems to bury herself in her work.

After pictures, she ditched the dress, put her jeans and shirt back on, and sat back at the computer to tackle the list of tasks I had for her. It’s amazing watching her work. Later, I’ll see how she performs outside the office.

The venue is tucked away in the heart of the city. The wooden floors creak underfoot as we enter, the scents of garlic and sour cream wafting through the air mixed with the polka music playing softly in the background. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its crystals reflecting warm light on the red- and white-checkered tablecloths stretched across long tables. Vibrant murals of the Polish countryside adorn the walls, depicting farmers tilling fields and flying pigs. I'm immediately transported to a different time and place.

The old restaurant is a hidden gem in the bustling city, nestled between towering skyscrapers and modern buildings. A bartender is busy polishing glasses with a rag behind the wooden bar while an old radio plays nostalgic tunes from the ’50s. As I stroll toward one of the long tables, each step echoes memories of past meetings. I recall stern faces, their eyes reflecting the weight of decisions that had consequences far beyond this quaint establishment. The murmur of discussion, negotiation, and an occasional robust laugh—all echoes from a different era.

Near the end of the room, I see familiar faces gathered around a table. They rise as I approach, a mixture of respect and apprehension in their eyes. My father's seat at the head is empty—a stark reminder of his sudden demise. As the newly appointed head, it falls on my shoulders to fill that void.

“Mr. Santoro, so good of you to organize this.” Dimitri Zaslovsky—son of the Russian Pakhan—reaches out to shake my hand, and I extend mine in return. His father and mine have been at odds over the line between our Families’ territories for years. I’m sure he just wants to put some weight on me, the new guy, with the idea that I’ll kowtow to him and back my line up a bit.

“Dimitri, it’s good to see you again this year.” I’m seven years older than him, though his father is younger than my father was before his death. The entire Russian family is younger, having fought just to stay alive here in New York with the feuds that happened in our grandparents’ days.

“I’m sure, I’m sure.” His sly yet sardonic expression is nothing new, but here in this place, we are all at rest. Territory skirmishes and disputes mean nothing in the long run. Even the scorekeeping is put on hold for one night.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have a few people to catch up with.” I excuse myself without much more than a hello because if I’m around, Zaslovsky won’t talk about his little issue, which I know he has and which I don’t know if he knows about yet. His money is sitting in my account, his and his father’s.

My guests and I walk a few steps away. Vic and Tony are here to stand with me, though even their weapons are left outside. I’m certain there are yet a few guns in this building. It’s hard to break an old habit, and for men like those in this room, it’s even harder than most. If a fight broke out, we’d soon see who honors the time-tested tradition of disarmament during a gentlemen’s meeting.

“Keep your ears open, boys,” I tell Vic and Tony, who begin to mingle. Though it isn’t long before my own ears pick up some chatter.

Standing by the bar where I order a whiskey on the rocks, I hear a few men speaking. Judging by their accents, they’re Russian, though I don’t know either of them by name or face. But I tune my ear to the conversation they’re having and keep my eyes trained on my men who wander about the milling crowd. People are enjoying their drinks and hors d’oeuvres, but soon, the meal will be served and we’ll be relegated to our tables. For now, I take advantage of what I can.

“It’s like quarter of a million,” one says to the other, and the man whistles through his teeth.

“And Mr. Zaslovsky knows this?” The second man leans in, raising his eyebrows, but he doesn’t see me looking at him. I know they’re talking about Micah’s work now. That’s exactly how much she lifted from them without leaving a trace. I’m no computer expert, but Dale told me she was clean and I believe him.

“He knows and he’s not happy. Why do you think he’s not here tonight? He’s at home with the techs trying to determine where it went.” The two men exchange furtive glances, and I turn away. It’s enough to listen. I don’t need to see their expressions. I know how it feels to log in to a bank account to see the money that is supposed to be there is missing.

“That money is gone. No way he’s getting it back now.”

“Depends on whether he’s getting that kid to help him or not. You know the one…”

My ears perk up when they mention a “kid”, though I’m not sure to whom they’re referring. Micah isn’t a kid, and she’s mine, anyway. They’ll never trace her or be able to take her from my home even if they did trace her. I want to know more, like what they know and what they’re doing about it, but Tony gestures to me, and I see him standing with yet another Russian I know. His name is Gar Brackovich. I’m sure that’s not his real name, but it’s what he goes by.

I leave my perch by the bar and join my men, who have captured the attention of a few more Russians. They all look eager to speak with me, and I think I know why. Before I even get to where they’re standing, I hear more talk about money. Tony has a stern expression, and Vic joins us as I arrive.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” I gesture with my hands as I join the group, offering an open posture, inviting them to question me. I’m an open book to them, with some redacted portions, obviously. They can ask, but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer honestly.

“We heard you’ve had some… money issues.” Gar sips his glass of liquor and looks down his aquiline nose at me. He very much resembles the stereotypical Russian mobster, so I find it comical and have to stifle my chuckles.

“Interesting… Where did you hear that?” I ask them, eyeing my men, who know better than to divulge information. I may have a leak, or perhaps they offered tidbits to cast a net and see what might swim into it. Tony narrows his eyes at me and looks down, an indication that he’s the culprit. I’ll deal with that later. For now, the information I crave is here, waiting to be divulged.

“Hmm, the walls have ears, Mr. Santoro. I’m interested to know if you’re suffering the same thing we are. Or if we have acommon enemy.” He sips his drink again, slyly, and sniffles. His eyes never leave mine, and I never look away. You can never be too careful when dealing with a snake. Always keep your eyes on them because they strike when you blink.

“Well, perhaps if you share your woes, I can tell you if I’ve suffered similar effects.” I’m not easily persuaded to give up information, and he isn’t going to coax it out of me.

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