Broken Vows

by Nicole Fox

  “Is that so?” he says, looking from me to Eve, a small smile pulling on his lips. “What joyous news.”

  Eve looks anything but joyous. She is in white, but shadows seem to cling to her, hollowing her cheeks and the skin around her collarbone. She looks ten pounds lighter than when I saw her a week before.

  My father clears his throat, and everyone lowers their weapons in unison. He has trained them well. Benedetto sighs in relief and then pushes Eve further in front of him. Coward. Standing behind his own daughter, forcing her to walk first into the room. I want to slit his throat, but I also know he is the only reason Eve is agreeing to our arrangement. And I’m surprised to find this bothers me. I don’t think there is a universe in which Eve would agree to marry me of her own free will, but I wish there were.

  “Luka,” my father clips, nodding his head forward. “Search her.”

  It could be a trap, and we would be fools to not consider it otherwise. I step into the aisle and walk towards her. For the first time, Eve looks up at me, and I see her cowering in front of me that night in the parking lot. I see her trembling and fearful of what I will do to her.

  Our marriage is not for love, but for business. She has agreed to the arrangement and that is enough for me. It has to be.

  As soon as I’m within arm’s reach of her, I grab her elbow and pull her forward. Her father, to his credit, narrows his eyes at me, but is quickly distracted by one of my soldiers patting him down, as well. They all must be searched.

  “It would be a little difficult to hide anything under this dress,” Eve says.

  She is right. The dress is skin tight. I can see every dip of her ribs and the downward slope of her stomach beneath her belly button.

  “I prefer an abundance of caution,” I say, curling my hands around her sides and stroking downwards. Her body feels better than I would have imagined. Soft and warm and delicate. I adjust my stance to hide what our nearness is doing to me. It’s embarrassing. I’ve been around plenty of women. Beautiful women have danced for me and done every unspeakable thing to bring me pleasure, yet running my hands down Eve’s body feels better than anything.

  I slowly move down her ribs, my hands gripping her small waist, and Eve sucks in a breath when my hand rests on her hip and then shifts around to her lower back. Her body arches, her chest straining against the already tight fabric of her dress, and I can’t help but admire her curves. I imagine running my hands over her chest, feeling the weight of her breasts in my palm.

  She stands tall and leans forward, her pouty lips barely moving as she whispers, “Unless you think I have a blade wedged between them, I’d suggest you keep moving.”

  I narrow my eyes, but she meets my gaze, unflinching. The fight in her will need to be broken. But not now. I continue down her backside, my fingers digging into the soft flesh until she gasps. When I look at her again, her cheeks are pink.

  There is no need to continue further. Her legs are exposed from mid-thigh down, and her shoes are strappy heels. She is clean, and all of the soldiers step back moments after I do, so I know the Furinos with her are clean, as well. It isn’t a trap. She is actually agreeing to marry me.

  I look past her to her father, not bothering to hide my disdain. “Leave.”

  Eve spins around, eyes wide, but her father doesn’t comfort her. He offers no parting words or words of warning to me to take care of her. He just looks at her and then motions for his men to leave, following them through the doors and out of the church.

  Eve is still watching them when I press a firm hand to her lower back and push her forward down the aisle. She is reluctant for a moment before she gives in to the inevitable. The church around us is eerily silent, everyone watching to see what will happen. I walk Eve all the way up the aisle, and she begins to turn like she is going to sit in a pew, but I keep pushing her. When she realizes where we are going, she digs in her heels, but I don’t let her. I want her to see what her father did. I want her to see why we are joining together. What our marriage will stop.

  When we reach Artur’s casket, Eve looks away, but I grip the back of her neck and turn her forward. “Bullets ripped through his neck, chest, and right cheek.”

  The mortician had done a decent job of piecing Artur back together, but his skin looked plastic, the coloring slightly off. I knew, beneath restoration clay and makeup done for the funeral, his face was shredded.

  She winces and her eyes flutter closed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Blood filled his lungs. He suffocated, drowning on his own blood.”

  Eve shakes her head, stepping away from the coffin. “I didn’t know about this. I didn’t ask for this to happen.”

  “Your father did.” I finally let her turn away, but I keep a hand on her back, reminding her of who is in control. “Your father killed him, Eve.”

  She is blinking back tears as I lead her to our pew, and every eye in the room is on us. When we sit, my father has to wave his hand in the air, directing people to continue the ceremony. One by one, the people who had planned words get up and speak. Many of them glance at Eve as they talk about Artur, unable to fight their own curiosity, but it serves to drive home the point I’d been trying to make. She shrinks in on herself with shame. She tries to scoot away from me towards the edge of the pew, but I grip her knee in my hand, holding her in place.

  Finally, when the last person speaks and the funeral is over, I remove my hand and Eve bolts upright, ready to escape. But I lay a hand on her shoulder, and she once again sags under the weight. She can’t escape. She agreed to this deal, and now she can’t run away from me. Eve stays by my side as we walk out of the church and into the parking lot.

  I need to talk to my father about where Eve will be staying. I went against his wishes by arranging the deal, and I don’t want to anger him further by assuming she can stay in the Volkov mansion with us.

  I let my hand fall from her back and nod to the car. “Get in. I’ll meet you in a second.”

  Eve looks at the car and then back at me, her eyes gaping holes, her pupils swallowing the caramel brown of her irises.

  My heart lurches in her chest, looking around for what could be scaring her so much, but there is nothing. “What is wrong?”

  She takes a step closer to me, away from the car, her head shaking. “I don’t want to die. Not like that.”

  My brow furrows in confusion, and I barely resist the urge to wrap my arms around her in comfort.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She looks silently back at the car, and it clicks into place. I heard the news of Samuel’s death. His car exploded. Eve was noted as an eyewitness. And now that I really look at her, I can see poorly covered bruises along her neck and arms.

  Eve thinks I’m trying to kill her.

  The idea bothers me. It makes sense. After all, she watched me kill a man before her very eyes. But the idea that she believes I would go to the trouble of extending an olive branch in the form of marriage only to let her explode, that she thinks so little of me that I would kill her after offering peace, it is insulting. And worse than that, I still want to comfort her. I want to ease the worry lines across her forehead and massage the tension from her shoulders. She is insulting my character and disobeying my orders, and I still want to kiss the frown from her lips.

  This girl is wreaking havoc on my self-control. I need to re-establish the order of things.

  I grab her arm and spin her to face me, bringing her close until her chest is pressed against mine, our mouths only inches apart. She is too stunned to fight or speak.

  “I’m not in the habit of destroying what is mine,” I snap, gripping her arm tighter. “And you are mine. Don’t forget it.”

  When I let her go, she stumbles backwards, suddenly more afraid of me than the car, and I turn to bark at a nearby soldier. He rushes to stand in front of me, and I tell him to take Eve to the mansion to wait for me there. There isn’t time to get my father’s permission. I need Eve out of my sight imme
diately. I can’t think clearly when she is around.

  The soldier helps her into the car, and she doesn’t turn to look out her window at me as the car passes by. She just stares straight ahead, her pouty lips pressed together. I watch as the car turns out of the lot and disappears down the road.

  Even with her gone, my thoughts don’t clear.

  9

  Eve

  I expect the car to explode at every intersection. Every time we stop and the car is idling, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the end. When the driver takes a turn too sharply, I yelp, certain he upset the balance of whatever mechanism is strapped to the underside of the vehicle. It isn’t until we pull through a set of wrought iron gates and park in front of the Volkov mansion that I am able to think about anything other than dying a fiery death.

  The driver opens the door, and I scramble out of the car quickly, glad to be in the open air. I take a deep breath only to have it catch in my throat. The Volkov mansion is huge. Much bigger than I imagined.

  The central part of the house is a red brick rectangle with three clearly-defined floors. Double-hung windows with white shutters dot the façade at regular intervals, symmetrical around a grand entryway complete with a lifted porch and a balcony at the second-floor level, all of which is supported by columns that stretch the entire height of the house and are topped with a triangular pediment. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, two white-shingled wings extend from either side with even more identical windows. The wing on the left ends in a single-story, window-encased sun room. The wing on the right ends in another entrance facing the other side of the street, this one slightly less grand than the first with a comparatively simple brick porch and a one-story overhang. The roof is steeply pitched with gables designating what I imagine are private bedrooms on the third floor.

  It's ridiculous.

  I’m still gaping up at the mansion, trying to take it all in, when the soldier roughly grabs my arm and begins leading me to the entrance ahead of us. I jerk my arm out of his grip and take a few steps away. “I can manage on my own,” I snap.

  I am no one’s prisoner. I agreed to a marriage with Luka Volkov, but I will not let his men treat me like a captor. Especially not while walking into what will be my home for the first time.

  The soldier scowls at me, but doesn’t move to grab me again. Instead, he sticks close to my side, not allowing me out of his reach as we mount the steps and walk into the entryway.

  The colonial style of the mansion’s exterior did not at all prepare me for the modern features of the interior—white marble floors, dark wood stairs that curve up both sides of the rounded entryway, and black iron railings that curve up and then span the length of the second-floor landing. The walls are white, and the massive chandelier overhead is a series of concentric circles made of a stiff white linen. Everything looks so much…cleaner than I imagined. Nothing like the black dungeon I’d pictured.

  A finger in the middle of my back pushes me forward, and I once again move out of the soldier’s reach. He doesn’t seem phased this time, his young, clean-shaven face a neutral mask. He herds me through the door set between the two symmetrical staircases, past the dining room, and begins to unlock a glass door to what appears to be a meeting room. However, I am not paying attention to the soldier anymore. Instead, I’m drawn to the room at the end of the hall.

  The kitchen.

  The same white marble floors from the entrance hall are in the kitchen as well, covering the floors and the countertops. Stainless steel appliances nicer than anything The Floating Crown has ever had look brand new and unused, and a massive island with a large workspace on one end and an eating nook on the other fills the center of the room.

  I’ve never been turned on by design before, but this kitchen is like good foreplay. I can see myself kneading dough and shaping dinner rolls on the island, roasting a chicken dinner in one of the double ovens while dessert bakes in the other, and tossing fresh salad in the wooden mixing bowls stacked on the counter.

  I stumble into the room as if in a dream, running my hand along the island and trying not to drool at the set of stainless-steel knives that would weaken the knees of any professional chef. I don’t kid myself by thinking Luka did any of this for me, but I’m still weirdly grateful for him. If I have to live in this mansion with him, at least there will be one place I can escape. I can count on losing myself in my craft a few times every day.

  “In here,” the soldier behind me barks, making me jump.

  I turn around to see him gesturing to the meeting room, his foot tapping impatiently on the floor.

  “It’s past noon, and I haven’t eaten yet,” I say. This is true, but only because I’d been too nervous to eat before arriving at the funeral. Between the explosion that killed Samuel and signing my soul away to Luka Volkov, lunch kind of slipped my mind. “I can make us both something. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  A few minutes in a kitchen like this would never be enough, but it would be better than nothing. Plus, I really am hungry.

  “In. Here.” The words can barely slip between his clenched teeth, and I know there is no point in arguing.

  I lift my hands in surrender. “Fine. If you work for the kind of man who wants his guys to starve, who am I to question that?”

  The man says nothing as I walk past him and take a seat at the long wooden table. The chairs are stainless steel with white cushions and surprisingly comfortable. The man stands in the doorway, staring straight ahead like a robot waiting to be programmed.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  He looks at me but says nothing.

  I lean forward, forearms resting on the table, looking one hundred percent more comfortable than I feel, and tilt my head to the side. “Are we not even allowed to speak? If we have to wait, we could at least make it… pleasurable.”

  I speak the last word a little slower than necessary, and the soldier’s eyes flick to me before he catches himself and looks away again. I sigh and slump down in my chair. “I thought you Volkov soldiers would be more interesting. Word on the street is you guys are crazy. Don’t take orders from anyone.”

  It is a long shot, but I need one person on my side. Someone on the inside. Even this low-level soldier would be better than no one. I need someone who can tell me what to expect and help me navigate my first few days in the Volkov mansion.

  He raises an eyebrow and looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “It depends who is giving the order.”

  I smile, rewarding him for his answer. “What about Luka? Do you take orders from him?”

  At the mere mention of Luka’s name, the man stands straighter, his shoulders broadening. He nods. “He is the underboss. The son of the don. Of course.”

  “What is he like?” I purr. “He can’t be as scary as everyone says.”

  By the tightening in the man’s mouth, I know Luka, in fact, isn’t as scary as everyone says. He is worse.

  “Come on,” I beg. “Tell me about him. I’m going to marry him. I deserve to know what I’m getting into.”

  For the first time, the man turns to face me, his eyes clear and focused. “He is merciless and without remorse.”

  When he turns away, it is all I can do not to melt into a puddle on the floor. I don’t ask any more questions after that. Suddenly, I’m not in the mood to talk.

  While we wait in silence, escape is all I can think about. This was a mistake. Marrying Luka might save some of my father’s men, but it will kill me. The Volkov soldier’s words felt like a warning. Merciless and without remorse.

  I’ve seen that side of Luka. I’ve watched him kill an Irish assassin, and I’ve seen the aftermath of what he did to Cal Higgs. What happens when I make him angry? When I press back against his power? Because it will happen, I’m sure of it. Despite my father’s best efforts, I’ve never been one to follow orders. So, what happens when I talk back to Luka or fail to follow his distractions? Will he hit me? Punish me? Kill me?

 
; I could try to run, but the soldier is young and strong, and I won’t get far. Even if I did, Luka would come after me. Merciless and without remorse.

  There is no escape.

  The doorbell rings and without a word or glance in my direction, the soldier turns and leaves the room. I hear his steady march down the hallway and into the entrance hall. There is a hushed exchange of words, and then he returns with a box in hand. He drops it on the table and steps back.

  I wait for him to say something, but when he doesn’t, I stand up and move towards the box. “What is this?”

  “Open it.”

  Part of me worries it will be a bomb, but I doubt Luka would blow up his own mansion, so I push my fear aside, remove the tape, and pull back the lid. Inside are… wedding magazines.

  “What?” I mumble under my breath, pulling out one of the magazines and flipping through it to make sure it is what it looks like and isn’t just a cover for some secret kind of communication. But each page is filled with ideas for “Centerpieces that will make your guests jealous” and “How to pick a dress all of your bridesmaids will love.”

  I set the magazine aside and pull out two others before I find a binder with a stick note attached to it.

  Schedule as much as possible. Do it under my name.

  I look up at the soldier, my mouth hanging open. “He wants me to schedule our wedding? Now?”

  The man nods once. “Those are the orders.”

  I open the binder and see it is a huge list of every company or business the Volkov Bratva has ties to. Every company they either work with or have scared into doing their bidding. That is why Luka wants me to use his name. To use fear as a motivator.

  I close the binder and look at the soldier. “I don’t care what the wedding looks like. If Luka wants a blushing bride, he should try online dating. I’m not planning anything.”