Page 56 of Savage Vows
“Adriana.” Dante’s mother appears at my side, light as a whisper. Her fingers graze my elbow. “Come. There are people I would like you to meet.”
The first group is three women, all in understated jewels, sharp eyes glancing from me to each other. “This is Mrs. Petrovsky,” Dante’s mother says. “Her son is on the city council.”
Mrs. Petrovsky shakes my hand. “Your wedding was the event of the season. Everyone wondered how it all happened so quickly.” Her tone is soft, but her gaze is searching. “You’re adjusting well?”
“As well as anyone could,” I reply. “Still finding my way.”
She nods.
I keep my expression soft, but inside I shake my head. Of course the mafia is in bed with the city council, the bar council, anyone who matters. These women don’t even hear themselves.
I let my gaze settle on Mrs. Petrovsky, who’s just finished boasting about her son’s new promotion. “Your son must hear all kinds of things, working with the council. Has he said anything about the girls going missing lately?”
They all laugh—a brittle, practiced sound. “It’s New York,” one trills. “People vanish every week! Most of them are just running off to chase a man or get out of trouble.”
Dante’s mother shifts, the smile on her face a little forced. She doesn’t like this subject, but none of the others notice.
Another woman, with big gold earrings and even bigger opinions, leans in, lowering her voice. “I heard half those girls got mixed up with people they shouldn’t have. Dangerous men, you know.”
Mrs. Petrovsky waves a hand. “My son says the police can barely keep up. No evidence, no patterns, and the papers will print anything. It’s all nonsense.”
I bristle inside, but only nod. “Still, one of them was my sister’s friend,” I say, carefully. “She went to church at Saint Michael’s in Brighton Beach. Maybe you know it?”
I glance around the group, watching for a flicker of recognition—waiting for someone to bite.
The youngest woman, Polina, pipes up. “Oh, Saint Michael’s. My grandmother drags me there every Easter.” She glances at me, a bit uncertain. “Who was your sister’s friend?”
“Anya Kozlova,” I say.
Polina nods slowly. “I remember her. She always had this little gold cross she wore, even when the priest said no jewelry at practice.” Her voice lowers. “She disappeared after Lent. It was like she just evaporated.”
The others trade awkward glances, but it’s clear this hits closer to home than any rumor.
Dante’s mother squeezes my arm, her voice gentle. “I’m so sorry, dear. No mother should have to worry like that. My sisters have daughters. Dante has so many cousins. I shudder to think if anything like that happened in our family…”
The other women all nod, murmuring their agreement, touching their pearls or crosses as if that could ward off the world’s dangers.
But I just listen, my smile polite and distant. Inside, something cold settles beneath my ribs. Nothing like that will ever happen to my family, I think—at least not to the ones who matter. Not to the daughters of old money, not to the golden children with uncles on the city council and fathers in the union halls.
Anya was a nobody. That’s why she was taken.
The women’s gossip swirls around me—church festivals, missing girls, old family scandals—when I catch sight of Bella across the room. She’s standing just inside the doorway, shoulders stiff, eyes darting over the crowd as if she’s searching for an escape.
I touch Dante’s mother’s arm. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
She nods with understanding, and I weave my way to Bella, who looks like she’s holding her breath.
“What’s wrong?” I ask quietly, searching her face.
Bella exhales, cheeks flushed. “I just met the most infuriating man. Arrogant, impossible—he thinks he owns the whole block.”
I stifle a smile. “Who?”
Before she can answer, the air in the ballroom changes. A tall man walks in, every inch of him confidence and expensive tailoring. He has hair so black it almost shines blue in thechandelier light, strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that sweep the room like he’s already claimed it. He moves with an easy arrogance—relaxed, but you know he notices everything.
Bella falls silent beside me, her lips parting just a bit. We both stare.
“Please tell me that’s not him,” I whisper.
