Page 25 of Dangerous Vows

I can’t leave the city because I can’t bear the thought of leaving her. She’s the only good thing in my life. I want to call her, but I’m afraid to. I know she’s fine, but I’d love to hear her voice because I’m overwhelmed being alone, and it’s lonely.

My eyes sweep over the small groups on the street. The women are dressed in slinky, gaudy dresses, and their sharp eyes are dialed into their surroundings. They don’t smile. They don’t need to. They linger in the shadows just off the corner, far enough from the club to stay unseen but close enough to strike. Something about them says trouble—and the kind you might not walk away from. They’re not difficult to read, but the others in the club?

The men in designer suits that cost thousands of dollars? I wonder who they are and what they do. And who are the Italian men in trainers with tattoos and expensive necklaces around their necks?

Who are the men who come to this club? How many of them have blood on their hands, and how much of that blood has been washed in the club’s champagne-soaked VIP booths?

I wrap my arms around myself as I stride toward the subway, the click of my boots muffled by the city’s constant pulse.

Then I feel it. Again.

A weighty stare presses against my spine, making my shoulders tighten with that creeping sensation that I’m not alone. That someone’s watching and waiting. It’s a scary city, and I wonder if someone is stalking me or if I am psyching myself out.

I shrug. It’s probably nothing.

But, as bad luck goes, just when I convince myself I’m fine, an ominous black SUV pulls up beside me, and the window glides down noisily.

I slow my walk, and my heart races. Every nerve in my body is on edge.

“Get in.” It’s not a suggestion, but I’m pissed.

Elio. One of my father’s men. His voice is the same as it has always been—calm but edged with the kind of authority that allows no room for disobedience.

“I’m not in the mood for a ride down memory lane,” I chirp, knowing if I said that to my father, he’d break my nose again.

“It’s not a request, Amara.”

I sigh, my stomach knotting. Maybe I should’ve run. Maybe I should’ve fought. But I don’t have the energy for either tonight, so I slip inside.

The SUV smells of smoke and quiet desperation. Elio’s sharp gaze flicks to me in the rearview mirror.

“You need to talk to your father,” he says. “Before someone else finds you first.”

“Like whom?” The question barely escapes my lips before the answer churns in my gut. I know the Serbians are leaning on my father to turn me over.

“You know who,” he says, his voice without emotion.

A shiver rakes through my spine. “Miloš?”

“Yes.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. I should’ve expected it, but hearing his name still sends ice through my veins. He won’t stop. He never stops.

“You’re father’s suffered losses over this. He’s lost men, and warehouses have burned with products in them. Do you really want to go down this road? Turn yourself in because you won’t be happy if the Serbs take matters into their own hands. We have more leverage if you do this with dignity.”

“That’s what I am? A favor to be bartered?” I mutter, my voice hollow.

“You know that’s all you are. Mafia princesses are a bargaining chip to end wars. Your mother let you run on with your foolish ideas of a life outside the family, which never works. You have the Moretti blood in your veins. It’s a part of you, whether you like it or not. You were born into it. There’s no getting out.”

Yeah, there’s no getting out of it unless it’s in a pine box.

“Fine, I’ll be by this week,” I grumble. It’s a temporary truce. A small concession and one that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, like wine that has turned to vinegar.

Elio nods, saying nothing else as he drives me back to my apartment building. I wonder why he didn’t pick me up here if he knew where I lived. And how did he find me? If my father knew where I was, he’d probably take me. Elio must be protecting me.

And how do the Serbs know where our product is? That’s never happened before.

Elio pulls to a stop, and I stare at the familiar entrance of my dilapidated apartment building. Realizing that I have no control over my life hits like a brick. How long has he known my whereabouts?

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