Broken Vows

by Nicole Fox

  He nods. “I understand. You took an impressive step by coming to the funeral at all.”

  “You think so?” I ask, not entirely sure what he means.

  “Absolutely.” He grips my shoulder and lowers his eyebrows in sincerity. “This was your first real experience with the kind of violence that exists in our world, and I know it has been difficult for you.”

  My throat constricts, and I don’t entirely understand why. I’m fine. It hasn’t been difficult. I mean, I haven’t exactly been jumping for joy the past few days, but that is mostly because of the nightmares. When I close my eyes, I see Luka’s face. I see him wiping the blood from his knife on the hitman’s shirt. I see him leaping over the man’s body and landing in front of me like the trained assassin he is.

  The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether I’m might be having a difficult time after all. I’ve been too tired and overwhelmed to give it much thought, but maybe I am taking Cal’s death harder than I thought.

  “With everything that is going on right now,” Samuel continues, “the marriage proposal and the feuds and these unfortunate losses, I know it can be hard to find someone to talk to. Everyone has opinions about what you should do and how you should respond.”

  “You most of all, right?” I joke, though I can’t manage a smile. “You’re an advisor.”

  He smiles kindly. “Well, my advice to you is to find someone you can be honest with.”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and hands it to me. On it is the name of a doctor with a number scribbled underneath. “She’s a therapist who is married to a Furino member. She knows this life better than anyone and will keep your secrets, but she can also help. I don’t want to pressure you or make you feel—”

  “No,” I say, waving away his concern and tucking the number into my pocket. “It is really nice of you. I appreciate it. Thanks.”

  Samuel smiles and pats my arm once before dropping his hand to his side. Then, he leans in, voice low. “And if you want my opinion, I think you were right to turn down Luka’s marriage offer.”

  “Really?” I ask, something like relief filling my chest.

  He nods. “I’m working on slowly convincing your father it was the right choice, too. He isn’t there yet, but I’ll keep trying.”

  I’m so relieved to know at least one other person understands my decision to refuse Luka that I could cry. My father catches Samuel’s attention and tips his head towards the back of the room where Chiara is chatting up one of the mourners, a handsome red-haired man who is dabbing at his red eyes and backing away from Chiara’s obvious advances like she is a rabid dog. Samuel rolls his eyes and hustles across the chapel to pry her away.

  It seems like a good time to leave. The chapel is beginning to clear out, and clearly Chiara can’t be trusted on her own, so I grab my purse from under the pew and begin sliding towards the center aisle. As I do, I look up and see Cal Higgs’ mother making her way towards the aisle at the same time. A heavyset woman with mascara tracks down her cheeks stands beside her. I recognize her as Cal Higgs’ wife. He had a photo of her in his office, and I looked at every time I walked in because I couldn’t believe he was actually married.

  I wait in the pew for them to pass, not wanting to get in their way or draw attention to myself, but it doesn’t matter. Cal’s wife looks up at me, and her forehead wrinkles. Then, she turns to Cal’s mother, whispers something in her ear, and both women are looking at me.

  My heart begins to beat faster. I look at the ground, adjust my purse on my shoulder, and generally fidget to try and look like I haven’t noticed them talking about me. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t know what to say, and I have no idea what Cal may have told them about me. Did he tell his wife he welcomed mob members into his restaurant? Did she know I was only on his staff because my father forced him to hire me? And if they do know those things, will they connect the dots and realize that my violent connections are the reason Cal is dead? I don’t think I can handle that kind of confrontation, but I also can’t run away. That will make me look even more guilty.

  I hope the women will walk past me, but they don’t. In fact, they change their course and head straight for me. I have no choice but to look up at them and offer a sympathetic smile.

  “Beautiful service,” I say.

  His wife nods. “It was. Cal would have liked it.”

  “He would have loved it,” his mother blubbers, pressing a very damp handkerchief to her nose. Then, she looks up at me, her lips trembling. “He also would have loved that you came.”

  “Me?” I ask, too shocked to try and pretend otherwise.

  “He loved that restaurant,” his wife says. “He enjoyed working with all of you so much, and it would mean a lot to him to know that you cared.”

  Clearly, Cal did not tell his wife about what actually happened at the restaurant. If he did, she would know he spent more of his time getting high than talking to the employees.

  His wife steps forward, voice low. “And do you happen to know who found his body? We know it was someone at the restaurant, but aren’t sure who. We would love to talk to them…thank them.”

  My throat closes up, and I feel like I might fall over. What do I say? I can’t lie. They might find out later that it was me, and lying would look suspicious. But I also feel incapable of speaking the truth.

  I did this. I killed Cal Higgs.

  Not technically, of course, but in spirit. If I’d just left the restaurant and agreed to marry Luka, none of this would have happened.

  Her eyebrows raise, waiting for me to answer, and the word slips out like an accidental squeak. “Me.”

  Her mouth falls open, and then she is hugging me. Unlike Cal, his wife smells nice, floral, and surprisingly, I find myself returning her hug. When she pulls away, her eyes are wet.

  “Thank you for being there with him at the end,” she says, voice cracking. “It is nice to know he left this world with a friend by his side.”

  I decide I’ve shared enough of the truth with them. They don’t need to know he was dead when I found him. That his lips were blue and that blood and all manner of other bodily fluids were dripping down his chest.

  “Did you know the other man who died?” his mother asks.

  The hitman. I see Luka’s blade cutting into his neck. And the blood.

  “No, I didn’t,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

  She purses her lips and nods, disappointed. I’m sure they have so many questions about what happened and why, and I want to spill the truth at their feet. I want to get it out of my head and my heart and my memory and pass the guilt on to someone else, but I can’t. Telling the truth won’t relieve me of my guilt, and it won’t make the loss of Cal any easier for them to bear. So, I just smile, compliment the ceremony once again, and wave as they leave.

  Stepping outside into the humid day feels like a reprieve. The air is damp, but the sun feels like a warm blanket on my skin, and I take a deep breath of fresh air.

  “I saw you talking to Cal’s family.” Samuel is beside me, his hands folded behind his back. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “Surprisingly, yes.”

  “Good,” he smiles. “You can put this behind you now. Move forward. You’ve paid your respects, and that is all you can do.”

  “Thanks, Samuel.” I mean it. Even if I don’t really believe I can move on so easily, it feels nice to hear him outline the steps in such a simple way. Move forward. It’s as simple as that.

  He pulls his keys from his coat. “I know you came with your dad, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I gave you a ride home.”

  For a moment, I’m tempted. I don’t want to get back in the car with Chiara. And though my dad has held his tongue for the last week, I know he still wants me to marry Luka, and I’m not ready to discuss it. Not after the devastation I’ve seen Luka cause. However, my father is still sensitive from me telling him he didn’t really love me, and avoiding hi
m would only make that wound fester.

  “Thanks, but I better stick with my dad. He is worried, and I want to let him know I’m fine or he’ll never let me out of his sight.”

  Samuel nods and then waves, walking to his car. It is in the front of the parking lot with handicapped spaces on one side and empty spaces to the other. Half of the funeral attendees have left already, but the parking lot is still buzzing. My dad and Chiara are talking with the pastor near the stairs and the rest of the cars are lining up around the side of the church to follow the hearse to the cemetery. I watch Samuel get in his car and shut the door before I turn around to catch up with my dad and Chiara, but I don’t take more than two steps before the earth falls out from under me.

  My ears ring, my knees buckle, and a massive gust of hot air pushes me flat on my face.

  I lift myself on shaky arms and look towards the church. The sunny day has turned gray, dust and smoke billowing everywhere, and I can’t see my dad or Chiara or Cal’s family or the pastor. I can’t see anyone. I turn around to look for Samuel, but where his car was moments ago, there is only smoke and flames. I try to call out his name, but I cough on the acrid air.

  It doesn’t matter. He isn’t there, anyway. Nothing is there. The bomb blew the car to bits.

  The CT scan shows no signs of head trauma and aside from a few scrapes and bruises, I’m fine. The doctor says the ringing in my ears will subside in a few hours or as long as a week or more. If it doesn’t, I should come back.

  I nod numbly, too overwhelmed to ask any questions. Too overwhelmed to care about my own wellbeing.

  Samuel is dead.

  I’d been talking to him, grateful for his concern when no one else seemed to care what I wanted, and now he is gone. And why?

  “You know why, Eve,” my father says when we are back in the car. He speaks gently, but his words are sharp. “The Volkov family is ruthless. Sociopathic, even. They aren’t going to stop until we give them what they want.”

  The police interviewed me at the hospital since I was closest to the bomb. They wanted to know if I knew anything, but I didn’t. I do, of course. My dad is right about that. I know exactly why this happened. But I don’t tell them, and my clean record comforts the detectives into believing me.

  “You could have died,” my dad says, shaking his head. “You could have been killed, Eve. Do you understand that?”

  My father pulled me from the smoke after the bomb. Too stunned to move, I just laid there, staring open-mouthed at the hole in the ground that had once been Samuel and his car. Even if I’d wanted to crawl away, my arms and legs were jelly. My father wrapped an arm around my waist and tried to walk me away, but he ended up having to carry me to the ambulance.

  I’ve never been close to the violence of my father’s life. He kept me away from it in my childhood, and unlike Chiara, I had no interest in being involved with it in my teenage years. I focused on school and my future. I set my sights on getting away from the Bratva life even if I knew it wasn’t possible to entirely escape. I wanted distance, but that hard-earned distance had been cut away and blown to pieces in the past week. Whether I wanted it or not, the violence had found me, and now I had no choice but to face it.

  “This won’t stop until they get what they want, Eve.” My father turns to look at me, his eyes pleading. I know what he wants me to do, but I can’t. “They will kill our family one by one for no reason other than they can. They do not need a motive for attack. I strike for profit or territory or revenge, but the Volkovs are ruthless. They kill because they enjoy it, and right now, we are their targets.”

  I remember Luka’s words from the night at the restaurant. He told me my father was responsible for the deaths of some of the Volkov family members. I don’t know if it is true, though it probably is. I want to ask him about it. I want to know what the reason behind that attack was, but I know it won’t make a difference, either way. The truth remains that the Volkov family have their eyes set on me and my father is inclined to give them what they want.

  “First, Cal Higgs,” he says, lifting one finger from the steering wheel. “His death was a warm-up. Not a Furino, but close enough to the family to scare you. Now, Samuel Notarianni.” He lifts a second finger and shakes his head, his lower lip puckering with emotion. “There is no way to know who will be next, Eve. But we do know how to end this.”

  Guilt presses on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Samuel died because of me. Cal died because of me. Who else? How many more deaths can hang over my head before I’m crushed beneath the weight? How much more bloodshed can I handle before I crack?

  “I marry Luka,” I say numbly.

  My father nods. “That is the only way.”

  We fall into silence, and I stare out the window as he drives. My head pounds from the bombing and my vision is blurry from smoke and fatigue. I’m weary to my bones. Weary of running and fighting. Weary of resisting the path in front of me, the path that I’ve been pushed down since I was born.

  “Will you do it?” my father asks quietly. “To end this feud and save your family? Will you marry Luka Volkov?”

  My eyes burn with the desire to cry, but there are no tears left. I’m used up. Spent. So, I clear the thickness from my throat and look through the windshield at the road in front of me, facing it head on.

  “I will.”

  8

  Luka

  I’ve attended too many funerals. Bratva life is violent, and death comes with the territory. The dead men knew that. So why do their families sob and cry so much? I’ve never understood.

  Until now.

  Artur Karlovsky was the closest thing I ever had to a friend. I didn’t even know he was at the cocaine lab that night until we uncovered his body later. I’d walked in with the goal of speaking to Simon and intimidating him into revealing his true allegiances, and I didn’t see anything else beyond that. Had I known Artur was there, I may have tried to protect him. I may have done my best to cover his back. As it was, I looked out for myself and myself alone. Something like guilt claws at my stomach.

  “God, these songs are endless,” my father says, shifting in his seat. “Luckily, this is the last one we have to attend for a while.”

  The other two funerals were the day before—the same day as the funeral for Cal Higgs. I wonder if Eve felt a similar kind of guilt at the loss of her boss. She mourned after she found him dead in his car. Did she cry again at the funeral? Part of me wanted to attend and see for myself, but it would have been an unnecessary risk.

  “I don’t even remember who is in the casket,” my father says. “They all begin to blur together after so many.”

  “Artur Karlovsky.”

  I feel him turn to look at me, but I don’t meet his eyes.

  “A friend of yours?”

  I nod.

  I think, for a moment, he might reach out and comfort me the way other members of the family are comforting one another. Between songs, other soldiers have been getting up and sharing stories about Artur, remembering him fondly. I wish I had a particular memory of him to share. I liked him, but nothing specific comes to mind.

  Instead of offering comfort, my father chuckles under his breath. “Don’t tell me you are grieving this soldier.”

  My jaw clenches. “He died defending our family.”

  “You defended our family and lived. Perhaps, if he had been better prepared, he wouldn’t be dead,” he says, as if it were truly that simple. “Don’t forget your role, Luka. Grief is for the weak. If you want to run things one day, you can’t mourn every man lost or you’d have time for nothing else.”

  He’s right. It feels callous, but callousness is merely another job requirement for a don. I can’t show weakness. I can’t fall on my face and weep in front of the dead. The moment I do is the moment my enemies know how to strike me, how to wound me.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I say. “And I’m not grieving.”

  The song finally ends and another soldier stands up, making
his way towards the podium to tell a story about his lost friend, but when he reaches the stage and looks out over the audience, his eyes focus on the back of the church and his brows lower. Slowly, the crowd begins to turn, and when I finally follow suit, I realize what he is looking at.

  Eve.

  She is walking through the double doors of the church dressed in a tight white dress wholly inappropriate for a funeral, but sexy as hell. The fabric clings to her ample chest, tapering around her waist and flaring around her hips. I’m so entranced by the cut of her body that I don’t immediately see the men behind her. But when I do, I stand up, hand on my gun.

  Benedetto Furino is walking behind his daughter, half-hidden behind her like she is some kind of shield.

  “You do not belong here.” My father’s voice surprises me, but I shift from one foot to another to hide my jolt. “You caused these deaths, and unless you want to bring about your own, I must ask you to leave.”

  His words are level, diplomatic, and they are juxtaposed against the action of every Volkov member in the room drawing their weapons and aiming them at the approaching Furinos.

  My eyes immediately move to Eve. She is blinking rapidly, face pale, eyes trained on the floor. She looks like she would blow away in a stiff wind. Behind her, Benedetto raises his hands in surrender.

  “We have come to accept your offer,” he says, projecting his voice across the room. “We want an end to the rivalry and the deaths, so Eve has come to accept Luka’s hand in marriage.”

  There is a curious clenching in my chest, and I roll my shoulder to dispel it. She is going to marry me. She accepted my offer.

  I turn to my father, and he is looking at me, eyes narrowed in annoyance. A union between our family and the Furinos is not his first choice, but he cannot admit to that here. Doing so would be admitting that his own son went behind his back and arranged this deal. It would be a sign of failed leadership, and the only thing worse for a don’s control than an excess of emotions is an obvious lack of control.