Page 38 of Brutal Vows

“Yeah, well, turns out this friend, Chiara Bellini, has the same profile as the four women killed. But she isn’t dead. She’s missing.”

They didn’t find a body then. “Profile?”

“Into porn, for one. Probably prostitution. We’re figuring that part out.”

“Jesus. What was she doing in a convent?”

“I don’t know? Confession? While fucking the priest?”

We chuckle, but it’s dry.

“What does this all mean?”

“That Gabi really is being hunted. Dominic had his suspicions, but now, we know for sure.”

A cold flush spreads over my skin. “You mean to say, this fucking Russian is on Gabi’s scent, to the point that he is killing her old convent connections to find out where she is?”

“Yep. It’s the same Russian. Probably looking to cash in now that Randazzo is dead and Gabi is his only known heiress…well, in those circles.”

But we know better. Three of Randazzo’s offspring floated to the surface over the summer: Matteo, Ariana, and Gabriella, the ‘real daughter’ who doesn’t have a single biological connection with Randazzo. Who knows how many kids that fucker had. These are tough secrets to keep buried.

“Randazzo got in bed with the Russian Bratva,” I say. “Milana explained some of it to me earlier. She spent a lot of time in Russia as a kid.” I digest all of this, recalling how my sixth sense told me she was lying when she said she had no clue about the Bratva marking on Gabi that got Petrov into a fit. “What if Milana knows this guy? What if he was behind the coup that happened in July at Petrov’s place?” The coup we’re not supposed to know about.

“The world is a small place. Everybody knows everybody through six degrees. And in our circles, you can cut that in half.” The look in his eyes grows serious. “You’re going to have to make her talk. Crack her code. Break her until she tells you everything she knows.”

“I’m not Dominic, and you know that,” I say, inwardly recoiling at everything he is suggesting. “In any case, I don’t know if you can break someone who’s already broken.”

19

MILANA

As soon as Luca leaves and the front door clicks closed, I sink down on the bed. My emotions have been ripping through me like a hurricane this morning, and I don’t even know where to start assessing the debris.

Gabi. Pierced. I should phone her, but she won’t answer because nobody calls her. Yuri screens her calls to the point that she never has her phone with her, fully focused on the girls. I didn’t even bother to get her number.

I drop back and stare at the ceiling, my hand sliding down my stomach, hovering, recalling with a squeeze to my heart the day I got pierced.

Now you’re mine. Only mine. As I am only yours.

Liar. Fucking Bratva asshole.

Even these memories don’t stop me from sliding my hand between my legs. Through the jeans’ thicker seams you can’t feel much, unless you know how to feel for it. I circle my fingers slowly, with just a bit of pressure, and inhale a sharp hiss as the piercing tugs at my clit, at the deep singe of pleasure that comes with it. I haven’t craved release in such a long time, but the need has been building ever since Luca Scalera waited for me at the end of the aisle. A kiss. A ride on his bike. A warm hug on the yacht.

My hands on his body. Hard. Muscled. That twinkle in his eye basically the bad-boy promise of how good he’d make it for me.

In the burning glare of all my other problems, I’ve been reduced to a shriveled-up woman, but now…idle time makes for idle hands. In this apartment, there will be nothing but that godforsaken piano to keep me sane. Just another day, maybe a different location, but the same shit.

Except this time, Luca Scalera—my husband—will be around, basically a walking, talking aphrodisiac, that sinfully sexy voice of his just a prelude to his body.

But it’s more than that. God, I’m so weak, but Luca makes me feel safe, and that’s even more dangerous. Women who feel safe let their guard down.

I glance at the nightstand and retract my hand. I can’t be too careful. As I sit up, my gaze sweeps to the light fittings, then lower to all the electrical sockets, everywhere secret cameras could be installed. I try not to make a show of bending down to look for them, in case I’m already being monitored. Big Brother—no, Big Husband—is watching you. And I bet he’s big. And knows what to do with it.

So not helping.

I reach for my purse and my phone. No news from Masha. I have so much to tell her, and so little hope. It didn’t take much to conclude that this apartment is an impenetrable fort. There must be a fire escape, but I have no idea of the building’s layout. I bet Luca is going to keep me in the dark.

His bedroom is spacious, with a king-size bed and a reading nook with a budding library in one corner. I pad over and take a moment to glance through the stack of magazines and new paperbacks from every genre imaginable. Covering the bases and then some more. He plans for me to read a lot, which means only one thing: I’m staying put. The view over the other city high-rises traps me, walled in on all sides. Like Ivan’s house, these floor-to-ceiling windows will have privacy film on them, because nobody gets to see what goes on in a Scalera household.