Page 56 of Brutal Vows

Her conversation with her brother is short and in Russian. When she rings off, she gives me a nod, and I close the gap between us to hug her. She leans into me, crying quietly, but her hand is fisting my shirt, and then her whole body seems to collapse against mine.

“It’s okay, Milana,” I murmur, relief flooding through me too. “It’s over.” Maybe we could finally move on now.

We sit in the dark and I hold her as she weeps, in wonder that someone could shed so many tears for their father. Jesus, we basically popped the champagne when the Don died. Eventually, she stops, but I don’t let her go. She’s snuggled in so comfortably, cozy against me where I’m leaning back in the recliner, with the backrest lowered and the footrest raised.

Her hand relaxes on my chest, and after minutes of quiet breathing, I realize she’s fallen asleep. There’s no way to extricate myself now or get her to bed. I don’t want to. Instead, I reach for the blanket I gave her earlier and lift it to cover both of us.

My phone vibrates on the sofa’s armrest. I haven’t checked it since dinner and glance through the new messages from Matteo.

Fucking nightmare, but they took off. ETA for The Mole and Mara is 10am in Boston. You’re coming first thing?

Nothing is going as planned lately. I type with my thumb, my other hand resting on Milana’s back. There’s no chance I’m waking her up in the morning. Petrov can wait. She needs sleep more than anything.

We’ll come later. After you’ve dealt with The Mole. You’ve let Petrov know?

After all the strings Matteo pulled, he’ll be pissed if Petrov doesn’t head to Boston today, and Petrov won’t give the Don of Il Consiglio the real reason he has to delay. One thing I’ve learned lately is that these Russians are tough as nails, and their secrets stay secrets forever.

Matteo’s reply pops onto the screen.

Not yet. I’ll call him early tomorrow morning.

Cool. It’s not my problem to manage. I have enough on my plate, enough in my arms. I stop short of pressing my lips to the crown of Milana’s head where she’s cuddled against me.

Another message comes through.

Everything okay? Why’re you up? Getting it on there?

Jesus. If all my brothers could just fuck off already. They’re like Pavlov’s dog, drooling at the notion of me finally getting it on with my wife.

I type Fuck off but delete it. I can’t tell him about the old Pakhan’s passing. Rough night. I insert a few emojis to stress my point. This is so not me, and I smirk at the eggplant, water drops, one cheeky peach. Let him interpret it just as he pleases.

Before he has a chance to reply, I turn off my phone. I’m protecting my wife. I ignore the fact that, for the first time, I’ve lied to Matteo.

The next morning, I feel her stir. and wish we could stay like this. I’ve been awake a while, but didn’t want to wake her up. For once, she actually slept, the anxious waiting over.

“Luca?”

“Princess?”

“What time is it?” she murmurs as her hand slips from my chest.

I lowered the black-out blinds last night, so there’s no telling what time it is.

But now I should pull away, even if I don’t want to. I mean, we slept together for the first time. On a sofa, but together, her body against mine. I’ve never slept with a woman like this before. Somehow so casual, but so intimate. It’s novel, and I loved it.

She was calm, out stone-cold for the night. Being with her like this is a kind of torment I didn’t know existed. There’s no denying it—I want this woman on every level. Initially, it was only physical, but somehow, it’s morphed into more. I want her to open up to me, to trust me and share things with me. Allow me to comfort her like she did last night.

We’re still in the same clothes, and as she sits up, I move too, shifting away from each other. The intimacy slips away.

I reach for the remote to open the blinds then pick up my phone. I have to wait as it boots up since I powered it off last night. She stretches next to me and stifles a yawn.

“Jesus. It’s like eleven in the morning,” I say with a smirk. “Time for coffee.”

“You mean I actually slept for a change?” she replies with a shy smile.

I can’t stop myself. I rub a hand down her back. “We slept for a change, princess.” Ever since she hurtled into my life, sleep has been elusive.

She plants her face in her hands and rests her elbows on her knees. A tremor runs through her, a physical manifestation of everything coming back to her as she wakes up. Her father’s death. Masha. This marriage mess.