Page 90 of Savage Vows
When the elevator doors open on the penthouse floor I hear voices drifting down the hallway. Dante and Liam. I slow my steps, Oleg hanging back as he fishes for his phone.
“…I don’t love her. Drop it,” Dante is saying.
I push the front door open just enough to slip inside. Their conversation cuts off. I step out of my shoes, keep my head down, and move straight to the hall that leads to my room.
The mirror above the dresser catches me in a slice of light. I stare at the reflection, hair flattened from the wind, eyes still rimmed with worry, the plain sweater that never quite fits right. I think of the women who glide through Dante’s world, all flawless confidence and polished edges. I trace my own features, seeing only the things that never measure up.
I tug the sweater off, fold it once, then let it drop on the chair. The room feels too silent. Too bright. In the mirror, I press a hand to my cheek, willing the sting behind my eyes to fade.
Why do I keep wanting more from him? Why does it matter that he can’t love me? I touch my lips, remembering how easily he can make me forget everything but his hands, his voice. Heat flares, quickly followed by shame. I wrap my arms around myself and turn away from the mirror, wishing I could step out of my own skin, wishing I could forget the sound of his voice saying those words.
A wave of dizziness hits so quickly I have to steady myself against the dresser. The room tilts, narrow and bright. A sour rush climbs the back of my throat.
I sprint to the bathroom, knees hitting tile as I barely make it to the toilet. The nausea surges and I vomit, sharp and painful. When it passes I sit back on the cold floor, breathing through my mouth, forehead damp with sweat.
Another cramp rolls through my stomach. I grip the edge of the sink, pull myself up, and run cool water over my wrists until the trembling eases. My reflection in the mirror is pale, eyes too wide.
I rinse my mouth and grip the sink with both hands, the porcelain cool beneath my fingers. The dizziness lingers in the edges of my vision. I force myself to think.
When was my last period?
I trace back through the weeks. The estate. The move to the penthouse. The night in the library. I count the days again. Four weeks, five, almost six. I shake my head as if the numbers might rearrange themselves, but the math stays the same.
Almost six weeks. I am late.
My phone rings, breaking through the heavy silence. I answer without checking the screen, my voice thin. “Hello?”
“Adriana, it’s Alex.” His tone is all business, but I can hear the worry underneath. “I did what you asked. I pulled up everything I could on the missing girls. You were right. It’s not random—it’s a pattern. Someone is targeting them.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed tight to my ear. “You’re sure?”
“I cross-checked old police files and social posts. There are two more girls—Eliška Marek and Kayla Young. Both went missing in the last three months. Not a word in the news, but I found that both girls tagged Portello in their stories at least three times in the last month.”
I press a hand to my belly, still numb from the test result. “You can tie them to the club for sure?”
“Not fully. I can place them there on the right nights, but I can’t prove they left with the same person. Yet.”
“Send me everything,” I breathe. The bathroom tiles blur. “I’ll keep digging.”
“Adriana,” he warns, “this is bigger than a missing-persons piece. Whoever is doing this knows how to hide in plain sight. Be careful.”
“I will,” I say, though I don’t believe it.
I end the call and the room tilts. My pulse rages in my ears.
Deep down, I already know what Alex’s data means. I’ve seen the pattern forming for weeks, felt it tightening around me every time another girl’s face appeared in my notes. I just didn’t want to believe it. Believing means facing the fact that someone—someone with power, someone who moves easily through the same velvet-rope rooms I’ve stood in—has been hunting women like Anya. Like Samie. Like me, if I keep pushing.
I press a hand to my abdomen. There’s life inside me now, fragile and new, and still I can’t let go of the story. I wish the truth were simpler, that the killer were a ghost I could outrun, but he isn’t. He’s flesh and blood, hiding right in front of us.
My stomach clenches, though this time it’s not nausea. It’s the weight of a single, undeniable possibility. I drop onto the closed lid of the toilet, one palm pressed flat to my abdomen as if I could feel an answer there.
A baby. Dante’s child.
I picture his face, hard and careful, the words he just told Liam still ringing in my ears.I don’t love her.
I breathe through the ache in my chest, trying to focus. I need confirmation. A test. A plan. Behind the bathroom door, the apartment is quiet, but the silence feels fragile, ready to crack.
I turn off the light and step back into my room, the realization following me like a shadow I can’t escape.
