Page 67 of Savage Vows
The sister glances back, lips quirking. “So were you, Adriana. Soobservant. I always thought you were meant for more than…” Her eyes flick to the ring on my finger, then away, her words drifting off as if she’s said too much.
She starts to turn, but I reach out and catch her sleeve. “Wait—Sister. Can I ask you something about Anya Kozlova?”
At once, the softness fades from her face. Suspicion tightens her mouth. “Why are you asking about Anya? It’s been a long time since she was here.”
I try to sound casual, but desperation claws at my voice. “It’s just—people still talk about her. Jules…my sister always said Anyawas her best friend, like another sister. But no one ever told me what happened to her. Did she just…leave?”
The sister glances toward the darkened nave, making sure no one’s listening. “She was a sweet girl. Quiet, but kind. Always helping, always listening. Too curious for her own good.” Her voice drops lower, urgent. “Anya got involved with something she shouldn’t have. Some of the men who came around—strangers, not parishioners. She started asking questions, poking into things she should’ve left alone. And then—she was gone. Just gone. The police called it a runaway. But I never believed it.”
My heart thuds. “What kind of things was she asking about?”
The sister hesitates, lips pursing. “Anya wasn’t nosy about church matters. It was something outside—something she got caught up in with your sister’s crowd. She was worried about one of the men Jules was seeing. Said he was dangerous, that he and his friends were making girls ‘disappear.’ Anya told me she’d heard rumors about parties, drugs, girls from other towns who never went home.”
She lowers her voice even further. “She said someone was threatening her. That’s the last thing she confided. After that, she stopped coming around. A week later, she was gone.”
Before I can ask more, Oleg clears his throat from the back of the church, his presence suddenly loud in the quiet sanctuary. It’s the universal signal: time’s up. If I linger any longer, it’ll only draw more attention, more questions.
I nod, thanking the sister softly for her time, for her candor. She just squeezes my hand and offers a sad, meaningful smile before disappearing into the shadows of the pews.
I’m almost at the door, already thinking about how to piece together what I’ve learned, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Hello?” I say.
“Adi, is that you?” the voice at the other end says.
My pulse stutters. I step out into the sunlight, thumb trembling as I answer. “Jules?”
18
DANTE
The warehouse reeks of oil,dust, and salt—the river’s only a hundred yards away, and everything in this part of the city feels damp. I walk the length of the loading dock, checking the padlocks, eyeing the stacks of crates against the far wall. My guys work quietly, efficiently; they know the stakes next week, and they know I’m not in the mood for mistakes.
Outside, the sky’s the color of dirty steel, and the buzz of forklifts echoes off corrugated walls. I take a slow drag off my cigarette, exhale into the mid-morning chill, and wait.
I don’t let my mind wander to Adriana, not here. Not when the work demands all my attention.
The crates for next week’s run are lined up, every lock checked twice. My men do a head count of every truck that comes in, no exceptions.
Remik Sokolov’s car rolls up slow, his driver scanning for threats even after the gate’s been cleared. Remik’s not the kind of man who trusts easily, and in this business, that’s called survival.
He steps out—broad-shouldered, dark coat, face like he’s never learned to smile. “Dante Volkov,” he says, voice cold as January. “Always a pleasure to do real business.”
I grunt, leading him through the side door into my office.
“You’re early, Dante,” he says, accent as thick as ever. “Did I keep you waiting?”
“You’re late,” I reply, but without heat. We both know how this dance works.
We hole up in my temporary office—just a battered desk, two chairs, and an electric heater that barely works. We talk logistics first—port schedules, inspectors who need a little encouragement, cargo manifests with just enough truth in them to pass a casual look.
When the talk drifts to “side business,” I cut him off. “No girls, Remik. I don’t move flesh. If anyone tries to bring that shit through my docks, the deal is off. I’ll torch the whole shipment myself.”
Remik grins, almost admiring. “Your father never cared about those lines. Money was money.”
“I’m not Sergei Volkov,” I say, staring him down.
He just laughs, shrugs like he’s above being insulted. “You make your rules. Just don’t forget whose city you’re in.”
