Page 106 of Savage Vows
Two days pass in a blur of restless sleep and anxious pacing. I try not to think about Dante, but I feel his absence like another shadow, pressing in on me every time I walk past a window. I wonder where he is, if he’s looking for me, if he’s angry or if he’s simply relieved I’m gone.
Curiosity finally wins. I switch my phone back on and flinch at the flood of notifications. I scroll through the missed calls and unread texts.
Where are you, Adriana?
Come home. Now.
Don’t make me turn the city upside down for you.
You think you can just disappear from me? You can’t.
No one else gets to keep you, do you understand that?
Come back. You’re mine.
I won’t let you walk away.
The words send a thrill through me, my stomach somersaulting, cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and longing and something that feels dangerously close to hope. I almost type a reply, almost call him back, but instead I power off the phone and toss it onto the bed, breathing hard.
Before I can dwell on it, Alex calls. I stare at the screen, confused for a second, but then pick up. “Alex?”
“Yeah. I found Moe,” he says. “She’s at a clinic on Fulton. I’m going there now. Do you want to come?”
I nod, suddenly focused. “Text me the address. I’ll meet you there.”
Bella’s already gone to work, so I scribble a note with the address—Gone out for a bit, don’t worry—and leave it on the kitchen table before I hurry out the door, Dante’s messages still burning in my pocket.
The clinic squats at the edge of a nearly deserted Brooklyn block, its brick façade sagging under decades of rain and salt air. Inside, fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a bleached glow on scuffed linoleum. The woman at reception barely glances up when Alex leans across the desk, all easy confidence.
“We’re final-year criminology students,” he says, flashing a smile. “We’re gathering impact statements for a victims’ outreach project.”
She pushes a visitor log toward him. He signs for both of us, adds a phony case number, then guides me down a maze of beige corridors until the hush of the building gives way to birdsong. A steel door opens onto a walled garden dotted with battered café tables. Fallen petals from a flowering magnolia drift across cracked pavers like scraps of pink paper.
At the far table sits Moe. She’s very thin, bundled in a gray blanket despite the mild air. Old scars ladder her forearms; fresher bruises bloom at her throat. A dusty chessboard rests between her elbows, pieces arranged for a game long abandoned. She stares at nothing, her eyes gone somewhere far behind the walls.
Alex strides over, sets a small digital recorder on the table, and speaks in the coaxing voice reporters use when a deadline is breathing down their necks. “Moe? My name is Alex. This is Adriana. We’re here to help. Can you tell us who hurt you?”
No reaction. He tries again, mentioning Luka’s name, describing Portello, dropping phrases like “putting men behind bars.” Nothing. Moe keeps her gaze fixed on the chessboard.
Frustration flashes across his face. He flips his notebook shut with a sigh. “This is useless. I’m on a deadline and my editor needs a name stat.”
“I didn’t know you were running a story already,” I say.
“I have you to thank for that. You just gave me the biggest story of my life,” he says.
“Let’s focus on Moe first,” I say, not liking the greed in his voice.
I kneel beside the woman, studying the chessboard. A white pawn stands a single square forward from its line, as if someonemade the first move and walked away. An idea sparks. I slide a black knight out onto the board, the piece scraping softly.
Moe’s eyes flick toward the square. She reaches out and nudges the white pawn another space. My breath catches. She’s not mute, just waiting for the right language.
I move a bishop. Moe counters with her rook. Each small click of wood on wood draws a little more life into her face. When our quiet game reaches the midpoint, Alex leans forward with renewed impatience.
“This should help,” he mutters.
“What is this?”
Alex doesn’t reply. He pulls a manila envelope from his bag, shaking out a dozen glossy photographs: Luka, several mid-level soldiers, and—my heart jolts—one grainy zoom-lens shot of Dante outside Portello. I snatch for it, but Alex lays the pictures in a neat row beside the board.
