Page 39 of Savage Vows
She pours a second cup and sets it on the table. Mint steam rises. Dawn is a thin line beyond the glass, the lawn wet and pale. Iwrap my fingers around the mug and try to think about anything but the tea in front of me.
My mother watches me over the rim of her mug. “How is Adriana?”
I think of the pink sleep shirt, the way her curtain moved, the look on her face when she caught me putting my shirt on. “Settling,” I say.
“She is young,” my mother says. “Be patient.”
She turns to the window, then adds, “I met Julianne at church once. She is nothing like her.”
I raise a brow. “Is that supposed to be good or bad?”
“Neither,” she says. “Just true. The younger is made to be seen. The elder is made to endure. Men think they want the first until life happens. Then they learn the second is the one who does not break.”
My mother sits back down, her fingers curling around the mug. She’s quiet for a moment, then she says, “She’s innocent, you know. Adriana. I know your father says otherwise, but I disagree.”
I keep my gaze on the window.
“We don’t have to hurt her because of what happened,” she continues, softer.
My jaw tightens. That word—innocent.I almost laugh. None of us are innocent in this world, not really. But she means something different. She meansnot guilty. Not responsible for her blood, her name.
That’s the thing about families like ours. You never get to be just yourself. You’re always your father’s son, your mother’s shame, your grandfather’s debt.
I don’t answer right away, because I’m somewhere else for a moment. Somewhere colder. My hands tighten on the mug, and the memory comes up fast, sour as bile.
I was seven. My father stood in the rain in the Petrov courtyard, beaten and bruised, his suit muddy, his pride in shreds. Adriana’s grandfather sat in a carved chair on the steps, silver hair slicked with drizzle, face set in contempt. He ordered my father—ordered him—to his knees. Made him crawl. Made him kiss the wet stone at his feet, then laughed and told him to lick the mud from his shoe.
I can still hear that laughter echoing against the marble. My mother cried silent tears behind me. The men in Petrov colors watched with flat eyes, as if it was nothing more than the weather changing.
I see my father’s face when he stood up—something broken, something hollowed out. That day he swore to make the Petrovs pay, to never bow again. He taught me that lesson with his fists and his words, again and again.
Never forget. Never forgive. Never let them think you’re weak.
Now the world is turned upside down. The Petrovs don’t rule the city, not anymore, but their name still opens doors and poisons blood.
And Adriana sits in a room connected to mine, her presence humming through the walls, carrying the weight of everything her family did to mine. I know she’s not guilty. But that doesn’t make me want her any less, or trust her any more.
My mother watches me, her eyes full of a sadness I pretend not to see. “Don’t punish her for another man’s sins, Dante.”
I swallow, the words stuck in my throat. Rage sits heavy in my gut, familiar and alive. I want to crush it, but it burns. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and finish my tea in silence.
The sun breaks the horizon, gold spilling across the kitchen tile. But nothing in me feels light.
I climb the stairs, tea still burning in my chest, and push open the door to the upstairs hall. Her door is open a crack. I hear quiet movement—a drawer sliding shut, the sound of water running in the bathroom.
She’s already dressed when I see her. Her hair is pulled back loose, sleep shirt replaced with a faded blue sweater and jeans. She looks distracted, almost faraway, glancing at her phone, then out the window, then back at her phone.
I wait in the doorway until she senses me and glances up.
She doesn’t look afraid. Not the way most people do when they know I’m in the room. She doesn’t hide her gaze. She holds it, chin lifted a little, mouth set. There’s something electric in the air between us, like the memory of last night is a current we both keep touching by accident.
She doesn’t look nervous. She doesn’t look away. If anything, she looks like she’s waiting for me to say something dangerous.
I lean against the doorframe. “Did you sleep?”
“Not really,” she says, voice dry. “Hard to sleep in a new place.”
“Last night,” I say. “Did you want that?”
