Page 50 of Savage Vows
Something in me cracks. The anger dissolves, swallowed by something deeper and heavier. The tears come, sudden and fierce, and I hate myself for it, but I let them fall anyway. I press my face to my hands and cry until my shoulders shake and my throat aches.
They can have their games. They can lay out their costumes and pretend they control me.
But not tonight. Not if I can help it.
I wipe my face and shove the gown into the back of the closet, pushing it far enough that I can’t see the red shine anymore.
If they want me to show up, they’ll have to drag me there. Tonight, I’m not going. I’m done letting them decide who I am.
I reach for the stack of library books I borrowed earlier and open the first one, a green commercial directory that lists licenses and owners. I run a finger down the address I know for Serrano’s club. No “Serrano.” Instead:South Pier Entertainment LLC, cabaret license, manager of record K. Kostin.I copy the entry into my notebook. Have I heard that name before? I can’t remember.
The owner might have already sold his business, but there’s a reason Dante’s family has this book in the library. They like to keep tabs on people, and books like this are a treasure trove of information for people who know what they’re looking for.
Next is a worn fire and egress atlas. Outdated, still useful. I find the block and trace thin lines with a pencil. Front door to theavenue. A service corridor behind the main rooms. A gate that opens to a narrow lane. They could have taken the girls on that road. Or they could have changed the entire place already, front to back. I won’t know till I go there myself.
I gather the library books in my arms and slip out of my room, nerves tight. The sooner these are back in their place, the better—I don’t want anyone, especially Dante, wondering what I’ve been reading.
The hall is empty, but voices drift from the doorway to the den, Sergei’s low and clipped, his brother Viktor’s voice more casual. I pause just inside the library, shelving the first book, then freeze when I hear my name.
“…Dante and Adriana will be at Maksim’s dinner tonight,” Sergei is saying.
His brother grunts. “Does he even want to go?”
“He’ll go. Maksim expects it, so does his daddy. He wants to see the new bride. The last thing we need is questions about why she’s here instead of Julianne.”
“Anyone asks, what do you say?”
Sergei’s tone hardens. “We say nothing. Smile. Change the subject. The Petrovs don’t want a scandal any more than we do. Maksim’s event is neutral ground, but watch the girl. If she starts digging, if anyone brings up Julianne—shut it down.”
“Julianne won’t be a problem, we’re taking care of her,” Viktor says.
A chill goes through me. Is it true? What do they know about her?
My chest tightens. Maksim’s dinner. Both families. A room full of people who know more than they say. And I’ll be expected to play my part, arm in arm with Dante, a stand-in no one quite believes.
I was ready to lock myself in tonight, to let them gossip, but now I know—if there’s even a chance someone slips up, or if Maksim says something he shouldn’t, I need to be there. This might be the only time I can listen in, maybe even ask a question nobody wants to answer.
If I don’t go, I’ll miss whatever truths float to the surface when people drink too much and try too hard to act normal.
I slide the last book onto the shelf and wipe my palms on my skirt. The party tonight isn’t about celebration. It’s about secrets. And I need to hear every word.
14
DANTE
We’re gatheredin the front hall—my father in his chair, Irina and the uncles talking over last-minute details, Liam fussing with a cuff link that never quite lines up. Everyone is dressed for Maksim’s dinner, everyone except the woman who’s supposed to be on my arm.
My father glances at the stairs, then at me. “Isn’t your wife coming?”
I hesitate. Truth is, I’m not sure. She’s been quiet since breakfast, vanished up to her room, door closed, no sound. Part of me expects her to dig in, refuse the invitation just to prove she can. Part of me almost respects it.
Liam elbows me. “Don’t look so worried,” he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
I start to answer, but then I hear footsteps—measured, steady—on the staircase. I look up.
She’s there, coming down slow and composed, one hand on the rail. Silk, cut on a bias, clinging in all the places red is meant to,hair pinned back, eyes sharp as glass. For a moment, the whole room seems to pause.
Anyone who ever called her plain is blind. There’s nothing plain about the way she moves, or the way everyone turns to look like something’s shifted in the gravity of the house.
