Broken Vows

by Nicole Fox

  My father is lounging back in the booth, hands on his stomach, and a smile on his face. To anyone not attuned to his body language, he looks at ease, but I can see the impatience in him. He is not accustomed to being disrespected, and he is eager to enact his revenge.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, not looking at me.

  I run my hand down the back of my chair and feel the switchblade hidden in the pocket of my coat I’ve draped there. “Yes.”

  I won’t kill her in the restaurant. Many people in the building know who we are, but we do not need to show those who do not. The reason our tactic of hiding in plain sight works so well is because we do not let people see us with our claws out. We do not let them see the trail of blood and bodies behind us.

  No, I’ll wait until she is in the parking lot. It will be easy enough to walk up behind her in the dark, slice her throat, and leave. It will be another unsolved violent crime, pointing to a need for more security cameras or better lighting, but those things won’t be able to help Benedetto’s daughter. She’ll be gone, and he will mourn the way any father would mourn for his child. The way my father would mourn for me.

  Our family has always been centered around the business. Around connections, accumulating power and keeping it. But there was love there, too. My father guided me. He saw my strengths and provided an outlet for me to use them and be successful. So, as long as I am able, I will follow his orders happily.

  A passing waiter catches his foot on my chair, and water splashes over the lip of the glass in my hand, falling on my pants.

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” the waiter says. “Would you like a towel?”

  “No,” I snap, wiping the wetness from my leg. “Basic competence would suffice.”

  His face pales. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

  I wave a hand to dismiss him, and he scurries away into the kitchen. No sooner has the door swung shut behind him, it opens again. This time, a woman steps out, a large plate held in her hands, but I can’t focus on anything but her legs. Long, lean, tan. The skirt she is wearing is white and barely covers her most intimate area. I’m not the only one who notices.

  Every man in the room seems to sense her approach, and turns to see her pass. Her brown hair is long, tumbling over her shoulders in large waves, and her body is tight. The belt of the skirt is wrapped around her waist tightly like a bandage, leaving little to the imagination. As she passes more and more tables, I realize she is headed in our direction. This must be Benedetto Furino’s daughter.

  Eve.

  Her name comes back to me suddenly. I’ve heard of her before, but I never paid her any mind. There didn’t seem to be a need to. Until now.

  “There she is,” my father says excitedly, sitting up in his seat like the entertainment has arrived. He admires her approach like every other warm-blooded male in the room, and I suddenly wish she would cover up. It is inappropriate. She is at work. Surely, that can’t be the uniform.

  Eve stops at the edge of our table, her eyes locked on the tabletop, refusing to look in our eyes. “Hello again. I’m sure you remember me from last night, Mr. Volkov. I’m here to apologize for my behavior. I acted unprofessionally, and I am here to seek your forgiveness.”

  The words are stilted and rehearsed, and as soon as she is done speaking, she slides the plate of food across the table. It smells delicious, and I lean forward to get a better look. Finally, she looks at me.

  Her eyes are a rich brown like melted milk chocolate and caramel. They widen as she takes me in, and then just as quickly, she snaps her attention back to the table and lowers her head.

  “I told you last night,” my father drawls. “I do not want more of your cooking. Not after being so disappointed last evening.”

  “In my defense, sir,” she says, dropping her head even lower so she is talking into her chest. It’s a good chest, too. Noteworthy even under her plain gray t-shirt. “I was not cooking last night. This meal, however, I made myself from start to finish.”

  I raise my eyebrows for a moment, surprised by her courage to talk back to my father now that she knows who he is. But I regain my composure quickly. Her courage is foolish. My father already wants her dead, but she does not know that. She should be groveling, actually begging for forgiveness rather than just moving through the motions. Anyone can tell her apology is insincere.

  My father slaps the table, and Eve jumps. Her arms are by her side, hands pressed to her smooth thighs, and I wonder how it would feel to touch her.

  “You are not here to defend yourself,” he says. “You are here to gain my favor. So far, my dear, you are off to a bad start.”

  Eve blinks and her fingers itch against her skin nervously. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

  “Of course not,” my father says, turning to me and rolling her eyes. “Because the girl is an idiot. A beautiful idiot. You have probably never had need for smarts, have you, girl?” Eve doesn’t say anything, and my father waits, head tilted to the side. “Are you mute, as well as dumb?”

  “Can you repeat the question?”

  I almost laugh. Her voice trembles, but there is enough fire in her words to inspire me. My targets are nothing to me. Just bullets on a to-do list. Yet, something about Eve catches my attention. More than the remarkable amount of skin she is showing, she is glowing with personality and fight, and as much as I want to ignore it, I can’t.

  “You must be stupid to talk to me like that,” my father says, sitting forward in his chair. “You know who I am and what I could do to you, and yet you treat me with disrespect. I would have thought your father would have taught you better. Though, your mother was a useless whore, as well. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Her eyes widen at the mention of her mother, and I feel bad. I don’t know or care enough about her family to know for certain what happened to her mother, but Benedetto has been single for years. Since I was a child.

  Eve looks at me. She lowers her head, her wide brown eyes peering from behind thick black lashes, and I hate her. She is a trap. Big eyes, lean limbs, and delicate features. She was made to lure men in. Like sugar mixed with poison, she’ll taste sweet, but kill you in the end. I refuse to let her make a weak fool of me.

  “Do you know much about your father’s business?” I ask. My father looks at me, surprised at my intrusion in the conversation, but my eyes are pinned on Eve. I want her to feel the force of my gaze. I want her to feel it like a physical touch. To know I am watching her and, more importantly, I see her.

  She lifts her chin and meets my gaze. Her lips are pouty and pink, and I stare at her chin so as not to lose my focus. “Not much, no.”

  “Do you know your father is responsible for the deaths of several of my friends?” ‘Friends’ is a generous word, but it hardly matters. “My father and I are very upset about their deaths. It is quite a blow to our organization.”

  Her mouth pinches into a tight line. “No, I did not know that.”

  “It seems there is a lot you do not know,” my father says, raising an eyebrow.

  “Not knowing does not excuse you from responsibility,” I continue. “You are Benedetto Furino’s daughter, and your family has wronged us, and now I ask: what you are willing to do to repay us?”

  Eve shifts from one foot to another, the muscles in her legs moving beneath the skin. She does not look like someone who has spent her life studying food. She is tight and toned and curvy, and as much as there is anger and rage boiling beneath my skin, there is something else, too. Something hot and hungry.

  “I can get you money,” she says. “My father has plenty of it. Whatever price you feel is right, I’m sure we can—”

  My father barks out a sharp laugh, and Eve’s voice cuts off. She blinks quickly, her eyes darting from the floor to the table to my face and back to the floor. I wish she would stop looking at me.

  “My father is right. People are dead,” I say. “Money hardly covers that.”

  “Then I can’t i
magine what I could offer to cover your losses,” she says.

  My father’s head tips back and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I can imagine a few things.”

  The hunger inside of me comes alive, growling at what he is suggesting. Protective of this woman I don’t know or care about.

  “Come here.” My father curls a finger, beckoning Eve forward, and pats his lap with his other hand. “Sit and we can discuss the options.”

  Eve’s face flushes, heat rising in her neck and cheeks, and I know she knows what he means. What he has in mind. She looks away. “We are in public.”

  “Does it seem as though I care?” my father snarls.

  Eve is so full of fire. It is troublesome, but much like my own violent tendencies, hers could be tamed and shaped into something useful. Something constructive. She just needs a strong hand to guide her.

  Why not me?

  No, no. My father has pushed me towards the idea of marriage before, if only to continue the family line, but I am not built for it. I’ve never had a close relationship with anyone besides him. I’ve never trusted anyone else. Never depended on anyone else. Because I am incapable. Marriage requires trust and respect and love, and I can’t offer any of those things.

  And yet, I respect Eve. Despite the trouble her family has caused me, I have found myself in awe of her courage. That is something, right?

  Eve takes a step towards my father, and questions and ideas and thoughts swirl around my head, fighting for priority. But the thing that continually rises to the surface is one word: no.

  My father is patting his lap, opening his arms for Eve to settle into them, and I want to flip the table over and use it like a barrier to keep them apart. She is bending down to slide her legs beneath the table and do as he commands, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. I can’t watch another second.

  “I have another idea.”

  Eve, I’m sure, is desperate for any reason to not sit on my father’s lap, and she stands up at once. My father turns to me, top lip curled. “What idea would that be?”

  He is frustrated with me, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I don’t care. I turn away from him and look at Eve. “We will offer peace in exchange for your hand in marriage.”

  A look of horror crosses her face, and her eyes glance to my father before looking back at me.

  “To me,” I clarify.

  She looks slightly less disturbed by the offer, but not much.

  “What?” she asks, lips parting in shock.

  My father echoes her sentiment. “You realize you are offering peace to our biggest rivals? Offering to join our families? It is unheard of.”

  “Perhaps that is a good thing,” I say, not taking my eyes off Eve. “We all want peace, do we not?”

  I don’t. I’ve never wanted peace. Even now, I feel lethal. My hands itch to clench and pummel someone or something. It has always been my outlet. The way I could express myself that still served my family’s purpose. Marriage is as far from killing as possible. And yet, I’ve offered it.

  “There are other ways,” my father says.

  I shake my head, openly disobeying him. “This is the only way. It is the best outcome for everyone.”

  My father opens his mouth to argue, but before he can, Eve speaks. She backs away from the table. Her face is pale, making her lips look even more pink. “It is not the best outcome for me. Or for you either, I suspect. I will not make you happy and any man who thinks I am a chip to be bartered could never make me happy.”

  “Are you refusing?” my father asks, sounding offended even though he’d been protesting the idea only moments before.

  Eve nods. “I am. I will not marry you.”

  Then, she turns and leaves. As I watch her go, her skirt perhaps even shorter in the back than in the front, I wonder whether she was right. Because from this point of view, it seems like she might be able to make me happy.

  When she is gone, my father whirls to face me. “Please inform me when you overthrew me,” he says, his chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Because that is the only way it would be appropriate for you to interrupt me and offer any kind of business proposal without consulting me first.”

  I still can’t believe I even said it. Had Eve accepted the offer, I’m not sure what I would have done. But I can’t let my father see my uncertainly. I can’t let him know that somehow, despite my attempts to minimize her effects, Eve managed to get under my skin.

  “I’m sorry,” I say shortly. “I thought you would agree with the idea.”

  He grumbles under his breath, but I’m still too distracted to pay attention. One of my father’s men walks out of the kitchen and over to our table. He leans down to whisper in my father’s ear. My father nods, gives him a message, and then sends him back to the kitchen.

  “The girl will be our waitress for the evening,” he says, pushing aside the plate of pasta Eve brought to him. It is still steaming. “We will stick to the original plan. We play with our food, and then we eat it. No leftovers, no crumbs. Do you understand?”

  Usually, I would nod in agreement immediately, but I hesitate. Not long, but enough for my father to notice and turn to me, eyebrow raised.

  “Isn’t marriage worse than murder in this case?” I ask. “Benedetto would hate to see his daughter married to his rival’s son. He would hate to see her pregnant with his enemies’ seed. Marrying Eve could be a punishment worse than murdering her. It would cause lasting, long-term grief.”

  My father shakes his head. “Since when do you advocate for the nonviolent route, son? Perhaps you should stick to what you know and let me handle the finer details.”

  When Eve comes back into the dining room, notepad in hand, she looks defeated. She is a fighter, but she is getting tired. I can see it in the downturn of her eyes and the sag of her shoulders. My father barks orders at her, insults her with every other breath, and throws pointed glances at me to join in, but I also feel weary.

  “What is wrong with you?” my father asks when she leaves. “Where is your head?”

  “Marrying Eve gives us control over Benedetto and the Furino family,” I continue, lobbying for the idea I still can’t believe was my own. “If he dares to challenge us again, we have his daughter in our hold. We can punish her, harm her, even kill her if we want. Killing her now will anger him and cause a war. Holding her hostage gives us time to formulate a better plan.”

  “When are you going to let this go?” He smooths his gray-speckled hair down with one hand and straightens his tie. “The woman did not agree to the offer. She wants war, and it is war we will give them. Enough.”

  The meal is tense and awkward, broken by moments of even more tension when Eve appears to deliver courses or refill our drinks. When she bends across the table to refill my glass, my father practically drools at the sight of her cleavage. He reaches out for his own glass, his hand brushing against the side of her chest. My hand moves inexplicably to the blade in my pocket. It is comforting and familiar in my hand, and holding it feels like grabbing onto the control I’ve been craving all evening.

  Eve pulls out of his reach and begins to silently clear dishes. As she does, she gathers used cutlery in one hand and drops everything onto a stack of dirty plates. Except, I notice, one serrated knife. It is in her right hand, blade pointed forward, her hand curled around the handle in the same way my hand is gripping the switchblade in my pocket. The dinner knife isn’t enough to kill me, but it could do some damage, especially if she slashed it across the exposed skin of my face. Eve works her way around the table, shuffling dishes to the ever-growing stack, but the knife stays in her hand as she inches her way closer to me.

  My heart is already racing from her nearness, adrenaline thrumming through my veins, and then she and the knife are right in front of me. Eve turns to grab a water glass on my side of the table, and I react the way I’ve been trained to. Like a dog hearing a dinner bell, I salivate. I flinch. The switchblade slips from the pocket of
my jacket and Eve follows my movements. I can tell by the sudden slackness in her face that she sees it, and she thinks she knows what it means. She jumps back, taking the dirty dishes and the serrated knife with her, and practically runs to the relative safety of the kitchen.

  My father looks down and sees the blade in my hand and smiles approvingly. “There you go, son. Stick to the plan. Torment her, kill her, and be done with her.”

  I nod at him and drop the blade back into my jacket pocket.

  I know this feeling well. The puffed-up pride of being the scariest, most dominant man in the room. The man who people cower in front of. And yet, it is tinged with something else. Something bitter.

  I think I feel bad for Eve Furino.

  5

  Eve

  After everything that happened at The Floating Crown in the past two days, I’m not sure if Makayla will show up for our regular happy hour before dinner shift. I wouldn’t even blame her for blowing me off. I don’t suspect many people know the full extent of my familial connection to the Bratva, but the tension in the kitchen was palpable. It is clear I’m on Cal Higgs’ shit list, and Makayla would be smart to stay away from me. She must be a kind dummy, though, because she walks through the door of the café combo bar one minute early.

  The Lounge is a bit too hip for my taste, but it is close to the restaurant, which means we can drink slightly more than we should and then leave our cars in the lot and walk to work. The booths are made from reclaimed car seats, none of the chairs match, and instead of windows, there are floor to ceiling glass garage doors that can open up when the weather is nice, allowing you to feel the breeze and be attacked by flies indoors. The cocktails are all things I’ve never heard of that cost twice as much as anywhere else and the barista looks at me like I’ve just murdered his cat every time I ask for half and half in my coffee.

  “Eve!” Makayla says, the excitement in her voice substituting for an actual hello. She wraps her purse around the back of her chair and then peeks in my cup to see what I’ve ordered. She winces. “Did the barista shame you?”