Page 30 of Savage Vows
I fold my arms across my ribs and hold myself small. It’s an old habit. It makes the world feel quieter.
He speaks to the driver in a low voice and the car settles into a steadier rhythm. He still doesn’t look.
I tell myself this is better. Easier to think if I’m invisible. Easier to plan.
The road curves and the light cuts across his face. The memory of his mouth pulls at me again. I press my palm to my knee and breathe until it fades.
“Can I see your phone?” I ask.
He turns his head a little, eyes flicking over my face as if there’s a trap in the question. He hesitates, then reaches into his jacket and hands it to me unlocked.
“Thank you,” I say, casual, like I only want to pass the time.
I open the browser and scroll the headlines. The car hums. The city thins to bare trees and wide lanes. Halfway down the page I see it.
Serrano. Arrested.
The photo is grainy, late-night flash burn on a face that always thought it was untouchable. My pulse jumps so hard I feel it in my throat. I keep my expression still. I angle the screen away, skim the copy, note the charges, the time stamp, the mention of a tip that “accelerated” the investigation.
I breathe once, slow, and lock the phone. “Thanks,” I say, and pass it back.
He studies me for a beat, then pockets it. “Find what you needed?”
“Enough.”
We ride in quiet after that. Hedges rise on either side of the road. The sky opens a little. A set of iron gates appears ahead, black and clean, a discreet V worked into the metal. The driver speaks into a mic clipped near the visor, the gates slide back, and we pull onto a long paved drive that curves through old trees and winter-brown lawns.
The Volkov house sits at the end like it has been there longer than the road. Stone, slate roof, tall windows that catch what light there is. Not ostentatious. Confident. The kind of place built to last, then wired later with cameras so small you only see them if you know where to look.
There’s a garden off to the left, squared with low boxwood and bare rose canes. A line of pines screens the property from whatever lies beyond. I count doors without meaning to. Front. Side. Terrace. Service. The driveway widens into a circle under a portico, and the car stops.
The front door opens before we reach it. His mother stands there with two women in dark dresses and a man in a suit who is not security but moves like he could be. She’s the only one who smiles. It’s small and real. Her hand lifts in greeting.
“Welcome,” she says as we step from the car. “Come inside. You must be cold.”
The entry is warm without being loud. Polished wood. A wide staircase. A runner soft enough to swallow footsteps. Somewhere deeper in the house, I hear quiet voices and the clinkof plates. A fire snaps in a room to the right and carries the clean smell of pine.
“You will want a room to breathe,” his mother says to me, gentle. She touches my palm, just a light press, then nods to a woman beside her. “Elena will show you upstairs. I will send tea.”
Dante answers for us both. “We will be in the east wing.”
I glance up the staircase and map the turn in my head. Windows along the landing. A gallery at the top. Hall long enough to hide in if you know how to move.
Liam appears from a side corridor, hair a little windblown, grin intact. “Home sweet home,” he says. “We made sure the heat works. That’s my wedding gift.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, and he actually looks pleased.
Dante rests a hand at my back. Not a push. Not even a guide. Just a point of contact that saysmoveand I do, because standing still in someone else’s house is a way to disappear.
As we start up the stairs I look back once through the open door. The drive curves out of sight between the trees. The gates are closed again. The estate feels quiet in a way that could be peaceful if you belonged to it.
I start to plan. Where the phones will be. Where the garden wall sits closest to the road. Which window faces the trees and which faces the gate.
“Tea in ten minutes,” his mother calls up to us.
“Thank you,” I answer, and keep climbing.
By the time we come back downstairs, the house feels settled. Lamps are on, the fire in the front room is low, and someone hasset out tea with lemon and a plate of small, perfect cakes. Dante walks beside me.
