Page 79 of Hateful Vows
“Call your team, I’ll gather my men. And get Lucie’s ass here. I want her on twenty-four hours watch, and there’s no safer place. It’s better if she and Mariella are at the same location.”
I don’t miss how she talks about the Italians as “her” men. She’s never felt safe within the Bratva, and I’m grateful Dante gave her something I couldn’t. A place to reign and the loyalty she deserves.
It’s almost six am when Lucie and I park in the driveway of the Ventura’s mansion. The place is crawling with soldiers. I only recognise Lorenzo, Dante’s underboss, and a few soldiers I have seen guarding the place before. In three vans following us, Ilia, Mikhail, Boris, Ian, Dan and a dozen highly-trained men enter the place. The meeting we’re about to have will be tense, but honour dictates that every single man in the room will obey orders.
Lucie’s blonde hair is piled at the top of her head and she rubs her eyes, unfazed by the display of weapons and the barely contained rage filling up the meeting room. She goes straight for Irina and wraps her arms around her.
“We need him home, Irina,” she says like a plea.
Irina has to physically untangle herself from Lucie’s embrace and I almost smile. I have found that my fake wife has a sunny disposition, very at odds with her upbringing or circumstances. It’s unsettling. No one can be that happy to marry someonethey don’t know, live almost as a prisoner and have their lives controlled by others. But I haven’t taken the time to dig into her psyche. I’ve been too consumed with Irina and Dante. She cheered and made celebratory cupcakes when I confessed that I had sex with both of them. It was confusing.
“I know,” Irina says, voice stripped of emotions. “Thank you for joining us, Lucie.”
She swats at my step-sister like following orders is nothing, then leans in and whispers conspiratorially so only Irina and I can hear. “Maybe once you get your husband back, you can rid me of mine. I’ve heard he cheats on me.”
She winks, though her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, before sauntering to a chair and plopping herself down.
“I don’t have time for this,” Irina shakes her head. Then, she addresses the men in the room, Capaldi Security Company on the line to help us locate Dante.
“Right, let’s get on with it. As you all know, someone killed the late Don Ventura and has been out for Dante’s life ever since. We suspect it’s someone close to the family, someone who has been here before since it was poison, probably from the garden outside, that took the Don’s life. Last night, Dante was in Dublin to confront one of our men, Signore Casio, who’s been travelling there without express permission. The man isn’t the one we are looking for. Unfortunately, the person who wants my husband dead has managed to track him and capture him. Tino died protecting our Don.”
She pauses gravely, letting the news settle. A few soldiers swear and do the sign of the cross. I’ve never believed in God but I join them as a sign of respect.
“We need to locate Dante and bring him home as soon as possible,” she continues. “I want the person responsible’s head on a fucking pike and all his accomplices in pieces scattered around the country.”
“How do you know he’s not dead?” Someone asks and I hiss. Lorenzo steps next to Irina protectively but she holds out a hand up.
“Because if he were, his body would have been on our doorstep with the morning newspaper. You all hate each other, and probably me but I don’t give a shit. I don’t need your allegiance or even your respect, I need you to find your Don and bring him homealive.”
The savage look of rage and determination she gives each man has them shifting every so slightly and pride blooms inside me. Dan is the first one to beat his closed fist against his chest and bow his head to her. All my men follow, as do I.
Someone whistles and we turn to the lithe blonde girl. “Sheesh, you all are intense. Sis, you got this covered, I’m gonna go sleep this energy away.” And with that, she disappears. Knowing she will be here while we hunt eases the anxiety and guilt I feel. I know she approves of whatever Irina, Dante and I share but I still wish for her to find true happiness, not be restricted to the gilded cage we made for her to protect Irina.
“Capaldi, I need a change in our security here and at the penthouse. All devices must be replaced. Whoever took Dante knew exactly where he was and for that, I hold you accountable. I’m not paying a dime for your failures.”
“Consider it done,” the man answers simply, face grave.
“We need to consider outside groups,” I tell the group. “Right now, our one true enemy is Misha Petrov, and the Moscow Bratva and his allies. But he never had it out for one person, specifically, so it’s unlikely that we’re after Russians. Toma, I know it’s a lot to ask but contact your brother in Croatia. Get a feel for what Petrov and his cronies are up to.” The man simply nods and holds up his phone, disappearing in the corridor. “We’ll start in Ireland, then come back to sift through the entirecity. I want ears on every port, every business, here and in the rest of Europe. And keep it discreet.”
We form groups of three men, Irina, Ilia, Lorenzo and I flying to Ireland that same morning to trace the last steps Dante took before disappearing. We find nothing, but we bring Tino’s body back, giving him the funeral he deserves, surrounded by all the important families and men of our organisations.
THIRTY-TWO
DANTE
Igroan and try to blink my eyes open but the lids are heavy and burn with salty tears. My nostrils flare with the effort of regulating my breathing. Head pounding and mouth full of cotton, I take stock of what I can feel. I wiggle my toes, my fingers. I seem to be strapped to a table, the metal cold underneath my back. I’m not naked, but the freezing temperature in the room is hard to ignore.
I force myself to blink some more and instantly regret it when a harsh overhead lamp assaults my abused eyes. Turning my head to the sides isn’t a much better option. The room I’m in is devoid of anything but dirty walls and a closed metal door, giving the place a foreboding atmosphere.
The silence is eerie.
I don’t know how long I stay like this, staring at that fucking lamp that’s too bright, the electricity crackling inside the bulb. Minutes, hours? My stomach rumbling tells me it’s been maybe a day but not more. It doesn’t yet cramp with the need for food. But my throat is parched, and I feel like I’ve been run down by a freight train.
Alone in the too cold room, strapped to a table for what might be days or weeks, maybe even until my death, the imageof Tino slumping to the floor and his unseeing eyes looking at the night sky assaults me. The tears mount and fall on their own accord. My father would have whipped me bloody for the sign of weakness but fuck, Tino was my brother in everything but blood. We grew up together, got into trouble together, and he died without honour, shot through the skull by a coward who couldn’t even face us.
I’ve always been good at feeling my emotions. My mother taught me not to be scared of them, that’s when they’d control me. Unlike my father who wanted to crush any sign of them, she said if I could face them, learn to soothe them, I’d be the master of my life. Grief, rage, denial and a bone-deep exhaustion take me over all at once and I yell into the empty space for the man I lost.
I yell his name, threaten whoever wants to hear with retribution even as I’m prone and bound.
