Page 35 of Brutal Vows

Chance of escape: below zero. Fucked levels: rising by the minute.

A bodyguard holds the door open for me, and I slide in, shoes drenched, my jeans soaked to mid-calf.

“I didn’t see this downpour coming,” I say as Luca scoots in after me.

“Neither did I. I haven’t had my eyes on the weather lately.” He shoots me a smile. “I was too busy preparing for your arrival.”

“And you had months for that,” I joke, but sensing this man has something up his sleeve. He was on a call with his brother earlier, talking in rapid Italian, his back to me, and the only words I understood were ben and piano. The Italian musical terms for ‘well’ and ‘softly’.

Now he has that distinct naughty-boy grin tilting the corners of his mouth, a certain glint in his eyes. It only makes me want to see this side more, to get to know him like this, because I need ease and lightless in my life right now.

“You know Boston?” he asks, back to small talk.

“No, not really. I was here once before to check out universities, but in the end, I went to Juilliard.”

“One day, we’ll do some sightseeing.” His phone vibrates with a message, and he glances at it. “The stage is set, princess. We’re good to go.”

The driver nods and drives off. It takes us less than half an hour to enter a high-rise parking garage. I’ve lost track of where I am, staring out of the window and just taking in the city. The tires screech as we circle deeper underground and go through two extra security gates.

If feels as if I’m descending into the nine circles of Hell, my throat clamping tight as each gate shudders closed behind us. Luca is busy on his phone, oblivious to my mental spiral as I fist my hands, the only light coming from his phone where it beams up to his face.

Eventually, the driver stops, and Luca says, “This is us.”

If he opens a trapdoor to an underground torture chamber, I’d just nod and say, let’s do this. Make it quick.

Instead, he guides me to an elevator, shooting the shit with his security staff along the way. I can’t register anything except that I’m seriously screwed. Climbing over Ivan’s compound wall seems like a walk in the park now.

We ride the elevator in one go to the top floor; there aren’t any other options for stops. Luca rolls on his heels, seeming buzzed. He looks like a kid about to burst out with the best news ever. Who knows what it is. Lately, I’m not a fan of surprises and I hope he hasn’t gone and done something…I don’t know, romantic? As long as I can react appropriately, it should be fine, right?

The elevator doors swoosh open, and we enter a beautiful foyer with corridors going in opposite directions lined with several doors.

“Gym, swimming pool, and so on through there. Benedict is on that side, and we’re here.”

I breathe a bit, what with the console table and fresh flowers standing ceremoniously against the wall, giving off an air of care, but these are bachelor’s digs. I watch on as Luca goes through the security checks to get into his apartment. A fucking retina scan. I might not be getting out of this apartment, but I’m not getting back in, either. These men are more security neurotic that Ivan.

Luca sweeps open the door and stands aside for me to go in first. I stroll inside, taking in the vast space beyond the foyer. Natural light floods the open-concept living area through the floor-to-ceiling windows, The dark hardwood floors, the grey granite kitchen with steel accents, and the massive black leather sectional are all stark and masculine, but beyond it, in a space seemingly made for it, stands the biggest concert piano you can buy. Black gloss finish, striking in its elegance. Even from here, I can tell by just looking at its silhouette and the sweeping curve guiding the eye to the keyboard that it’s a Steinway concert grand. Almost nine feet of pure instrument perfection.

The piano has a thick garish red ribbon wrapped around it, culminating in a massive perm of elaborate curls on top, so in contrast with the instrument itself, I start to giggle.

Luca has me at the small of my back, leading me to it. “I got you a wedding present, princess,” he says, a happy smile in his voice. “Thought you would hate to be bored here while we sit this out.”

A piano. My go-to distraction, getting me through every hardship as a child being swept to and fro between Russia and the States, never knowing my place. It helped me through Mom’s illness, through the inevitable isolation of being a woman in the Bratva. A career not carved out of talent, but out of desperation.

And now, all I can see is Dimitri’s blood as it seeps between the keys of Papa’s antique Steinway.

I cup my hands to my face and burst into tears.

18

LUCA

A punch in the gut would have been more welcome.

“Ah, fuck, princess. Should I have gotten the Bösendorfer? Or the Fazioli?”

Milana’s tears are sudden and sharp, a floodgate that’s opened. I bet she’s wanted to release this tension ever since she walked down the aisle. This is the last reaction I expected, but I get it. Any woman flung into a stranger’s home and life like this through a fucking arranged marriage would be tense, dreading the worst, as if every single step toward her groom could be leading to some version of the gallows.

This is the last thing I wanted for her, so I reach out, a soft touch to her arm, not sure how to comfort her. It’s possible this could be about so much more than a stupid piano, a fucked-up arranged marriage, or her being here with me, a wife on paper, a bird in a cage. She’s Bratva, after all.