Page 23 of Savage Vows
“You don’t have to say them. Just tell me if she’s safe.”
A beat passes, too long. She doesn’t answer.
Her fingers tighten around her cup. “You should not have come back, Adi.”
The bell over the door rings. Two men speak to the hostess in low voices. My mother’s chin dips, her shoulders drawing in as if she could make herself smaller. I see the black sedan idling at the curb and the wheelchair turned a fraction toward the window.
She doesn’t look at me when she whispers, “I’m sorry.”
The first man reaches for my arm and I pull back hard enough that the chair legs scrape the tile. The second takes my other elbow, polite smile fixed in place, and I twist out of his grip. My mother stands fast, her cup tipping, tea sliding across the saucer. I plant my feet and make them work for it. One of them mutters that there’s no need for a scene. I give him one anyway.
“Let go,” I say, louder than I meant to. Heads turn. The hostess hesitates with the door in her hand.
“Adriana,” my mother says softly. “Please.”
They don’t yell. They don’t even look angry. They just angle their bodies so I’m boxed in, and with a practiced shove forward, I’m out the door and into the cold. The sedan waits at the curb.
“Get in the car,” one of the men says. My mother pleads silently.
I stop fighting. It’s not giving in. It’s biding my time.
The ride is silent except for the hum of the engine and the sound of my mother’s hands wringing in her lap. She doesn’t look at me once. By the time the car turns through the iron gates, I already know exactly where we’re going.
The house hasn’t changed much. The hedges are still clipped within an inch of their lives, the lights in the entry glowing like nothing bad has ever happened here. Inside, the air smells of lemon polish and old wood. Staff pass without looking at me, quick and silent.
Misha is on the landing when we walk in, one hand on the railing. He’s taller, leaner, but with the same wary look in his eyes.
“Adi,” he says.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, though I doubt I sound convincing.
“He’s in the study,” Misha says, and his mouth tightens.
The men walk me down the hall but stop outside the door, letting me go in alone. My mother lingers in the hallway with Misha, her hands balled at her sides.
My father sits behind the desk, a cane propped against it. The lamplight catches in his hair, the same easy, handsome features that have always drawn people in. He doesn’t stand.
“What did you do to her?” I ask.
He doesn’t flinch. “Your sister made her own choices.”
“What choices?”
His gaze is steady, his tone even. “For what she did, she has to pay with death.”
My stomach drops. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your sister is supposed to be married in two days. She ran off.”
“Married to who?”
“You don’t need the name,” he says. “You need to understand the agreement.”
“I’m not going to stand here and act like this is normal. Where is she?”
“Gone,” he says, leaning back. “Hiding. Thinking she can walk away without consequence.”
“You sent men after her.”
