Page 18 of Bound Vows
Before I can respond, Katarina is on her feet, and her chair scrapes against the hardwood floor. For a moment, I think she might attack me, but then the living room door opens, and Andrei enters with someone I never expected to see again.
“Father Bianchi,” I breathe when I recognize the elderly priest who baptized me twenty-five years ago, the priest at my family’s church.
What the hell is he doing here?
“Maya, my child.” Father Bianchi’s weathered face creases into a genuine smile as he walks toward me with arms outstretched. “How unexpected to see you here.”
I stand and accept his embrace as I inhale the familiar scent of incense and old books that always surrounded him during my childhood. Father Bianchi officiated at family christenings, confirmations, and funerals for as long as I can remember. Seeing him in Andrei’s penthouse feels like worlds colliding in impossible ways.
“Father, what are you doing here?”
“I asked him to come,” Andrei announces. “We need someone to perform the blessing ceremony for our upcoming marriage.”
“And I was delighted to accept,” Father Bianchi adds, though his eyes study my face with the kind of concern that suggests he understands more about my situation than his pleasant demeanor indicates. “Though I must admit, I was surprised to learn of your engagement.”
“Surprised doesn’t begin to cover it,” I reply dryly.
Katarina excuses herself with barely concealed irritation as she gathers her portfolio and promises to finalize wedding arrangements by the end of the week. She kisses Andrei’s cheek before leaving, and I note how the gesture lingers just long enough to mark territory.
“Charming woman,” I comment once she’s gone.
“Katarina has been invaluable since Elena’s death,” Andrei says. “She handles many aspects of our operations that require… delicate attention.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see Katarina out and rejoin you in a moment.”
As Andrei leaves, Father Bianchi settles into the chair Katarina vacated and folds his rheumatic hands in his lap. “Perhaps we could discuss the blessing ceremony? Though I must say, Maya, you seem somewhat… reluctant… about these proceedings.”
“Reluctant is one word for it.” I glance at Andrei’s retreating back. It’s probably best I play this right, for my family’s sake. “Though I suppose we all have our obligations.”
“Indeed, we do.” Father Bianchi reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a small, unremarkable cell phone. “Speaking of obligations, I wanted to give you this. It’s programmed with only one number—mine. Should you ever need spiritual guidance or… counsel… please don’t hesitate to call. It’s probably best if we keep this between us, yes?”
The priest’s eyes meet mine as he places the phone in my hand, and I understand the subtext immediately. He’s giving me a lifeline to the outside world.
“Thank you, Father. I’m sure I’ll find it very… comforting.”
“Wonderful.” Father Bianchi claps his hands and asks, “Now then, shall we discuss the ceremony details? I have several traditional blessings that might be appropriate for such a… unique… union.”
When Andrei returns, he and the priest begin planning my wedding blessing, and I discreetly slip the phone into my pocket while listening to them talk. As the conversation continues, I learn that Father Bianchi helped Andrei escape captivity years ago.
It seems the priest who taught me about mercy and forgiveness was also the man who cut Andrei’s restraints in some warehouse sixteen years ago. The same hands that blessed my infant head also picked locks to free a half-dead teenager bent on revenge. Father Bianchi gave Andrei the freedom to build this empire of violence.
The man who preached about redemption helped create the monster who’s now forcing me into marriage. Every Sunday sermon about turning the other cheek, every lesson about compassion and grace, was delivered by someone who actively participated in unleashing Andrei Volkov on the world.
I’m sitting between two men who’ve spent decades perfecting the art of making terrible things sound holy.
Chapter 8
Andrei
Blood on my knuckles tends to make negotiations more productive, though I prefer starting with charm before moving to violence.
“Mr. Torrino, please, sit down.” I gesture toward the leather chair across from my desk while noting how the restaurant owner’s hands shake as he fumbles with his fedora. “Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Water? Something stronger?”
“Just water, thank you.” His voice carries the tremor of a man who knows he’s entering a lion’s den but has no choice except to keep walking.
Maya is sitting in the corner of my office, ostensibly reading a book but actually paying attention to every word and gesture that passes between us. She’s wearing a cream silk blouse and dark slacks that make her look like she belongs in a boardroom rather than watching criminal negotiations unfold.
