Page 107 of Brutal Vows

The knife is now on my pec, circling my nipple, and fuck my body for its reaction, for hardening. This type of kink has never been in my playbook. The moment the blade pierces my skin, I hiss in a breath and freeze. I close my eyes, not wanting to see how deep or far this fucker is going to slice into me. The pain is there, but I bite down on my jaw, refusing to let Milana know things are going downhill fast on this side of the cabin.

“Pretty fuck boy. Fuck lot of woman,” he teases, the blade piercing, his voice like syrup. “You make good porn? Fuck hard? You fuck men, too?”

Jesus. I might even get it up the ass tonight. These guys might just be out here, living a romantic fantasy of their own while on the job. As they say, what happens at the cabin stays at the cabin.

“Not sure how this is relevant?” I say, keeping my cool. “I’m Italian. The rumor is true. Italians do it best. Now fuck off with the knife, man. I’m booked on three shoots next week.”

The man chuckles, lifts the knife away, and warm blood runs down my stomach. Two wounds down, both bleeding. How many until I bleed out? Dominic would know. It’s science.

The blade is on my chin as he tilts my head up with it. “This Italian business. Explain how American-Italian porn star come to Russia with Russian girlfriend who ‘nanny’ this bitch baby? Hmm?”

“I hired her. She’s only the nanny,” Masha cuts in. “He came with for the ride.”

And what a ride it’s been.

But they ignore her. She’s been dismissed as only a woman, weak and useless. I’m starting to suspect Masha is the master chess player out of the lot of us, except these folks have a game plan she didn’t see coming. Once things are back on track though, she’s going to surprise us all.

The other Russian, who has been on standby, pours himself another vodka and says, without looking up, “Too many Italians lately. Here. There. Everywhere. Irritating little fucks.”

I quirk a brow. This is news. Who knew there was a locust infestation of Italians on this side of Russia.

My tormenter walks to the table, takes a deep swallow of his drink, then shoves the heavy table toward me. That vodka bottle would make a nice weapon once I bashed off the bottom. It’s no gun, but to a protruding gut protected only by the thin cotton of a T-shirt, it’s lethal.

“Where in America you from?” my man asks, putting down his tumbler.

“Boston.” I see no point in lying.

They shoot glances at each other. The knife is back, in my peripheral vision, and chills flood through me. Dominic has lived through this. Survived this. Again and again. At the hand of the fucking Don—our father.

If he can do it, so can I.

The man doesn’t touch me but lifts my jacket and slices it away, a mad tailor destroying the work on a mannequin. He cuts all the fabric away from my body, tossing the shreds to the floor. It was a down jacket, and now dainty feathers float around like dust motes, irrelevant. I’m left in my jeans and boots, vulnerable skin exposed, the fire light playing over it with a lover’s quiet caress.

I know what’s coming next. I can read the room.

The man homes in on my inner arm, making me twist my hand to reveal my tattoo.

“What does mean?” he asks.

The gothic script is hard to read for an untrained eye. “It’s in your blood.”

“What?”

I shrug. “My father. He’s in my blood. I’m from his blood.”

But I’m also my mother, and I’d like to think I’m more a product of her nurture than his nature.

“Dumb.” The man dismisses my comment and with it my whole fucked-up heritage.

Well, it isn’t exactly something you explain in words to a fucker like this; it’s more something you demonstrate.

The other Russian speaks, and I breathe out, glad we’re not quite at the branding phase of this session yet. They’re arguing again, and the only word I catch is Chertnikov, again and again.

Masha tracks though, and mouths to me, “They’re looking for an Italian with snake tattoos that cover his whole body. Everywhere except his face, apparently. A guy in the Mafia with connections to Sicily.”

My poker face is still in place, but my mind is reeling. I know an Italian with that description. I did, after all, in my capacity as undertaker, see his body—all of it, without hands and his face beaten to a pulp—go into our promession site. His skin a picture book for adults. A shrine to one man’s tattoo addiction.

Franco Fiore.