Page 71 of Hateful Vows
My legs are jelly as Dante steps back and holds his hand out for me to take. I follow him, not ready to burst this bubble we created. It’s too fragile, too thin. One word and it will break.
We step into the shower in the en-suite bathroom of their bedroom. Nerves prickle my skin and I’m more aware of my scars than I’ve ever been under the glow light of the bathroom mirror.
I shouldn’t be here, in their space. Irina’s shampoo bottle is open on the shelf, next to a shower oil and a bar of soap that smells just like Dante. It reminds me that I’m an interloper here. My place isn’t in between them, where everything smells like them and looks perfectly where it belongs.
Clouds form in my head but they quickly dissolve as Dante’s fingers knead my scalp, my nape and shoulders.
“You think too much,” he says.
“And you think too little.”
“What a perfect match.”
The smile in his words is unmistakable. How a man who’s been trained to kill all his life, who’s had it hard and has witnessed the worst in people can be so carefree is beyond me. All I’ve ever known is pain, and the consequences it reaped. I don’t believe for a second that Dante Ventura, sole heir to the Cosa Nostra in the U.K. has been so sheltered that he hasn’t known what it’s like to lose people he’s loved. Yet, he doesn’t seem affected by any of it.
I turn and watch him wash me, his movements sure and his face serene, like he’s doing what he’s meant to. And maybe that’s where we differ. He cares for people. He cares so deeply it makes the fabric of his being. Something unfurls inside me. I’ve never felt it but I know the emotion, having chased it all my life in the eyes of the monster who should have been my father and mentor.
I admire Dante Ventura. I admire the man I’m supposed to hate.
I let the hot water patter against my skin and wash away any doubt. If my enemy doesn’t have any about me or Irina, why would I bother with them? He said it better than I ever could but the truth of his words only hit me now.
We make our own rules.
Dante hands me a towel, then wraps one around his waist and disappears for just a minute. When he comes back, he holds out a pair of clean boxers and a soft black shirt for me to wear.
“What am I supposed to do with your clothes, Dante? Just because we fuck doesn’t mean I’ll let you dress me like you own me.”
He rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. “It’s for you to sleep in, pretty boy, but if you’d rather be naked, be my guest.”
He drops his own towel, naked without a care in the world, then leaves. I put on the clothes and follow him outside of his bedroom and into the corridor until he opens the guest bedroom.
Irina groans when he gathers her into his chest but makes no move to escape him. Have they been sleeping cosily like this for weeks? The thought would have made me green with envy just a few days ago, but now it just sends a little spark of happiness into my chest. I’m glad he took care of her. I’m glad they found each other.
I hang by the threshold, glancing back at the living room where my discarded clothes mock me, calling me a coward. But Dante’s voice is stronger.
“Get in, Aleksei.”
I step inside on silent feet, draw the covers back and slide into the bed, Irina’s back against my chest.
“What are you doing?” I ask Dante who’s typing something on his phone with one hand.
“Ordering a new couch for delivery tomorrow. As much as I loved making you come all over it,Lyosha, I won’t keep the damn thing.”
When he’s done, he snuggles against Irina, tucking her head under his chin, and petting Perceval, who’s sleeping soundly on the pillow above her. Before I can lay my head on my own pillow,he’s out. They both snore softly, and for the first time in more than thirty years, I sleep like my life isn’t threatened by anyone.
TWENTY-NINE
DANTE
The next few weeks are bliss, spent in my wife and lover’s arms, having dinner under the shade of the trees with Lucie, my mother, our men starting to all come to the table like a dysfunctional family.
We don’t hear from Misha Petrov, and there’s no attempt on my life. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
I observe everyone seated at the table for lunch today, exchanging tales of the past. Lucie and Aleksei are absent and it feels all wrong.
My brow dips when I see Tino hunched over his phone, not participating in the conversation. He’s never one to miss an opportunity to reminisce about our shenanigans.
“Something on your mind, Tino?” I ask, doubt a heavy rock in my stomach.
