Broken Vows

by Nicole Fox

  “I didn’t do anything!” Benedetto shouts. “You framed me. Made it look like I went back on the deal so you could kill me.”

  They are getting closer, and I know once my father reaches Benedetto, his soldiers will fight. People will die. And while I wouldn’t be especially sad to see Benedetto beaten, I know it would ruin Eve’s day.

  “Wait!” I call, squeezing Eve’s hand before letting it go and marching down the center aisle. My father and Benedetto turn to watch as I walk towards the last living shooter.

  His face is bloody from where he was kicked in the nose, and his cheeks are red and puffy from lack of air. I nod to the soldier, and he removes his foot from the man’s neck and steps aside. The shooter moves like he is going to sit up, but I press a foot into his chest, pinning him back to the ground.

  “Who do you work for?”

  The man snarls up at me and then spits. Because he is lying down, the bloody spit just lands back on his face and dribbles down his chin.

  I press my foot harder into his chest until he rasps for air. “Who do you work for?”

  He doesn’t answer, but when he tries to roll out from under my foot, his shirt lifts, and I catch a flash of something across his side. I bend down and lift the hem of his black shirt to reveal a large tattoo. A Celtic Cross.

  I rear back and kick the man hard in the side. Ribs crack under my leather heel. “Irish piece of shit.”

  “Irish?” my father asks, looking at Benedetto, doubt and suspicion still in his eyes.

  “Check the other bodies,” I say. Immediately, Volkov soldiers rush to the bodies of the photographer and the cellist and find the same tattoos inked on their bodies.

  “This wasn’t my family or the Furinos,” I say, waving for the soldiers still aiming their weapons at Benedetto to lower them. “It was the Irish. Apparently, they wanted to stop this deal from going through.”

  I walk up the aisle, eyes pinned on Eve. Even after everything, she still looks flawless. She saved my life by beating a man over the head with a chair, and there isn’t a single hair out of place. When I reach her, I grip her waist and cup my hand under her chin. “Are you okay?”

  She bites her lip and then nods. “I think so.”

  I run my hands down her harms, checking for any scratch or wound, but she is perfect. Smooth and golden tan and beautiful.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, lifting a shaky hand to press her palm against my chest.

  “They interrupted our kiss.”

  She nods. “They did, but I don’t think the kiss makes it official. We still have the license, so—”

  “Better safe than sorry.” I curl my hand around the back of her neck, stopping her words at once. Her eyes widen and her lips part. Her body goes fluid in my arms, and I lean forward.

  “What should we do with this one?” a soldier shouts from where three men are trying to restrain the final Irish shooter.

  I groan and roll my eyes, annoyed by all the interruptions. “Kill him.”

  I stare at Eve, studying the pouty shape of her lips, her pointed nose, and her round eyes until there is a final gunshot and then silence.

  “Finally,” I mumble, pulling her close to me. “I may kiss my bride.”

  Before anyone else can say anything or more shooters can show up, I tip Eve back and press my lips to hers. Her mouth opens for me, her breath a sigh against my lips, and my body turns into heat and desire and need. I planned for this to be a simple kiss. A church-appropriate kiss. But suddenly, I grab her waist and pull her hips against mine. Minister or no minister, I’m ready to consummate right here, right now.

  Eve’s hand slips shyly from my chest to my shoulder, and then her fingers are scraping against the hair at the base of my neck. She is drawing me closer and lifting herself up, and we are both lost in the feeling of each other’s bodies.

  Faintly, I hear a cough somewhere, but I don’t pay attention to it. Then, I hear it again. And a third time. Finally, my father’s voice breaks through the steamy haze. “Luka.”

  I reluctantly extract myself from Eve, pressing my forehead to hers for a moment before stepping away fully and turning to face my father. His face is all business, and I know mine should be, too. We have to deal with this. Now.

  I turn back to Eve. “I have to go.”

  She looks around at the ruined state of our wedding, chairs toppled over and blood staining the grass. “Now?”

  “I have to,” I say. I turn and wave for Gabriel to step forward. “There will be soldiers with you the entire time I’m away. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  She opens her mouth to protest, but I drop her hand and walk away. I don’t want to go. I want to stay with her, and I’m afraid if she argues, I will stay. I’m afraid I’ll shirk my duties to my family and be with her because she is scared and she needs me. So, I leave before she can convince me.

  It takes every ounce of my willpower not to look back at her.

  14

  Eve

  The house is eerily silent. All morning there were people buzzing around me, fixing my hair and makeup and asking me about last minute decorations and menu problems. And now, none of it matters. There won’t be a reception. There was barely even a wedding. It’s just me, alone, in my room, still wearing my wedding dress.

  I felt bad that, after Luka and my father, my first thought once the shooting stopped was for my dress. Blood was puddled in the grass, splashes of it across the white tulle hanging between the chairs. Luka’s sleeve was dipped in it from when he’d pierced the photographer through the chest. But somehow, my dress made it out unscathed. It is as perfectly white and unsoiled as it was this morning when I put it on. Which feels wrong. It should be covered in blood and dirt and grime. I want it to look as dirty as I feel.

  I feel the same way I did after seeing Cal Higgs dead in his car in the parking lot. The same way I did when Samuel’s car exploded and the parking lot of the church filled with smoke. I feel sooty and in desperate need of a shower, but I can’t imagine standing still long enough to let the water wash over me. Plus, I’ve checked my reflection in the mirror one hundred times. I’m fine. Not a hair out of place.

  It makes sense, considering Luka pushed me out of the melee the moment it started. I can still feel his arms around me when the first shot rang out. It was immediate, the way he positioned himself in front of me, ready to shield me from whatever threat existed. Why had he done that? I wanted to believe it was because he cared about me, but that went against everything I knew about Luka. More than likely, he was shielding me because without me there would be no deal with the Furinos.

  I wish I could ask him what his motivations were, but he left as soon as the shooters were dead. He and his father rushed away to meet with the head of the Irish mob.

  I hope he is okay.

  My dress rustles across the floor as I pace across my room, anxious for Luka and angry that I’m anxious for Luka. I have to kick the train out of my way every time I turn and pace back across the room. After a few hours of mindless pacing, my legs are getting tired, and I finally decide to peel myself out of my dress. I’d imagined Luka would unbutton the back and slide the material over my skin, and even facing that fantasy makes my cheeks flush.

  I shouldn’t want him.

  I shouldn’t care that he is safe. If the Irish don decides to kill Luka and Ivan, so much the better. I can go back to my apartment and my old life. I can forget this last week with him ever happened.

  Except, I don’t want to forget.

  I throw the dress back on the bed, not bothering to refasten the buttons or hang it up the way the designer instructed me to, and put on the white slip I had on earlier in the day. Then, I take a silk robe off a wooden hanger in the armoire. It is one of the few things Luka bought for me that I actually like. The delicate material gaps pretty severely around the collar, showing off more of my chest than I’d usually care to show while walking around the house, but it hangs down past my knees, making it one of the
more modest pajama options available to me. I shrug it on over my white slip, tie the knot around my waist, and pad barefoot out of my room and down to the kitchen.

  I want to cook, but the thought of eating anything makes me feel sick. I’m too worked up for food. So, I open the oak liquor cabinet. Just like the rest of the kitchen, it is well stocked. Bottles of gin, vodka, tequila, and more are spread across three different shelves. Off to the right, there is a cache of supplies: mixing glass, spoons, shaker and strainer, and a baton for mashing or muddling ingredients. I took a class in culinary school on drinks, and Luka’s liquor cabinet is more impressive than my professor’s. I decide to start simple and go for a cocktail.

  Plucking the perfectly square cubes of ice out of the mini refrigerator built into the cabinet and pouring out the proper amounts of gin and vermouth feels like therapy. It gives my mind something to focus on that isn’t Luka standing at the end of the aisle in his tuxedo. That isn’t Luka’s warm hands around my waist when he tipped me back and kissed me. As I shake the cocktail, pour it into a martini glass, and garnish with a lemon twist, I’m finally able to think about something other than the pressure of his mouth on mine and the fire it stoked in my chest. I lean against the kitchen island and drink it back in sips, letting the alcohol warm my bones and muddle my thoughts.

  As soon as I’m done, I pull out more liquor and glasses and start with a new recipe. This time, an Americano. Equal parts Campari and sweet vermouth over ice and topped with soda. The bitter-sweet taste coats my tongue and slides down even easier than the cocktail. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear a voice telling me to eat something—to drink a glass of water and walk away from the liquor cabinet—but I go back to the cabinet again. The Milano Torino, as I learned in culinary school, is the predecessor to the Americano. It is the same drink without the added splash of soda at the end and the bitters hit a little harder, but my body is too warm and it tastes too good to care.

  By the time I hear the front door to the mansion open, the island is littered with bottles and glasses sticky from the remnants of my cocktails, shaker bottles and empty ice cube trays, and slices of lemon and orange and lime spread across a cutting board. I grab the glass in front of me, a cocktail from my own imagination with one of each citrus pressed to the rim of the glass, and spin around, holding it out just as Luka walks through the kitchen door.

  He stops and takes in the scene in front of him, his forehead wrinkling.

  “Welcome home, honey,” I say in my best approximation of a 1950s housewife.

  Luka’s eyebrows don’t lift or relax, but his eyes trail slowly down my body, clearly enjoying the robe, which has fallen open even more as I’ve flitted around the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Staying busy,” I say, stepping forward and pressing the glass into his hand. “I’ve been making drinks.”

  He takes the glass from me as uses his other hand to grip my chin, holding my face up to his so he can look in my eyes. “I see that. Are you drunk?”

  I shake my head, the room going a little blurry around the edges. “No.”

  “Yes, you are,” he says, dropping my chin.

  I stumble slightly before righting myself and pointing a finger at him. “Tipsy is not drunk. Tipsy is tipsy. I’m tipsy.”

  He rolls his eyes and takes a drink from the glass. Immediately, he spits the liquid back into the glass and wipes a hand across the back of his mouth.

  I pout out my lower lip. “You don’t like it?”

  “What the hell is that?” he asks, walking past me to drop the glass on the countertop like it might jump out and bite him.

  I pick up the glass and sniff it. “I don’t know. I made it up.”

  “It’s disgusting. Is that what you’ve been drinking?”

  “No,” I say defensively. “But what if I was? Why would you care?”

  He presses his palms into the corner of the island, his muscular shoulders shrugging up around his ears. He still has his tuxedo pants on, but he ditched the jacket somewhere. His shirt is still tucked in, but the tie is gone and the top few buttons are open, revealing a swath of dark chest hair. The sleeves are rolled up in the way that makes me wonder how one man’s forearms have the right to be so damn alluring. When he turns to look at me, his green eyes are stormy, narrowed and frustrated.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means what it sounds like. Why would you care? You don’t seem to care about me at all.” I remember the shadow of him standing in front of me as the bullets rang out. The warm smell of his cologne washing over me as I cowered behind his body, too afraid to look around to see what was going on. The feeling of his hands on my shoulders as he hid me behind the alter and ran into the melee to stop the madness.

  “I don’t care about you?” he asks, one dark eyebrow raised in a challenge. “I fucking saved your life this afternoon.”

  I snort. “Hardly. I could have found a hiding spot on my own.”

  He takes a step towards me, and I stumble back against the open liquor cabinet, the bottles inside rattling on the shelf. “I saved you with this proposal.”

  I’m not sure what this means, but I’m too angry to ask questions. “Oh, my hero. Locking me away in this mansion with this fucking tracker bracelet. I love spending all of my time alone. Especially on my wedding night. Thank you for saving me from my terrible apartment where all of my comfortable clothes are. Thank you for saving me from the restaurant job I spent years training for. How can I ever repay you?”

  His hands slam into the wood on either side of my head, the cabinet shaking. If I was completely sober, I’d be terrified, but the alcohol has made me loose enough that I don’t even flinch. I just glare up at him, putting as much fire behind my gaze as I can muster.

  “I was supposed to kill you,” he whispers, his breath hot on my skin. “My father wanted me to slit your throat and leave you on your father’s doorstep as payment for what he did to our lab and what you did to him in the restaurant.”

  Suddenly, I’m cold. My arms and legs feel weak and wobbly, and it is all I can do to stand up. “Kill me?”

  Luka nods slowly. “My proposal saved your life. So, again: you’re welcome.”

  I study his face, trying to find answers to the questions bouncing around in my head. Why would he save me? Why would Luka go against his father’s wishes and propose to me? Especially when he clearly had no problem killing other people? Cal Higgs and Samuel flash across my mind. What made me different?

  “Why?” I ask, managing to give voice to the root of my questions. “Why me?”

  He takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair. His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t move to answer the question.

  “Why me?” I ask, growing bold. I step forward and poke a finger into his chest. “You have no problem killing everyone else your father tells you to. You’ve been a good little soldier up until now, doing whatever your father wants you to. Why was the order to kill me any different?”

  There is a wild fury in his eyes, the green looking more yellow than anything else, but he just stares down at me, lips pressed together, hands shaking at his sides.

  “What made Ivan’s attack dog stand down?” I know I’m antagonizing him, but I’ve had too much to drink to care. I need answers.

  Luka grabs my finger and shoves it away, throwing my arm down to my side. “Don’t act like you don’t listen to whatever your daddy tells you to do. You aren’t different than me. Your father doesn’t even care about you, and you’re still here.”

  I let out a harsh laugh. He doesn’t know anything about my father or me or our relationship. Luka thinks he knows everything, but he doesn’t know the half of it. “Are you the expert on healthy relationships now? Your new wife has a tracking bracelet on her arm. I can only imagine what a therapist would have to say about those control issues. Don’t pretend to know me, Luka. You don’t know why I’m here or what I’ve done. You don’t know anything.”


  “Neither do you!” he roars back, stepping forward so our chests are pressed together, so I can feel his body brushing against mine with every wild inhale. “You talk a lot and it makes you seem brave, but you are a coward, Eve. You are afraid of everything. It is why you keep pushing me away. You think I don’t realize how much you want me? You think I don’t notice the way you bend your body towards me whenever we’re close?”

  I straighten my back, my cheeks flushing from the truth of his words.

  “You want me, and you’re afraid to admit it,” he continues, his face lowering down to mine until his green eyes are staring straight into mine.

  “You’re a murderer,” I growl. I don’t deny his allegations or defend myself. I just try to remind myself why I hate him. Why I’m supposed to be angry with him. Why I’m not supposed to want this.

  His eyebrow quirks up in either surprise or amusement—maybe both. “And you are a murderer’s wife.”

  I move to slam my hand into his chest and turn away, but just as I make contact with his hard body, his hand wraps around my wrist, the other one grabs my bicep, and he pulls me towards him. His lips are on mine before I can even yelp in surprise. His mouth slants across my lips, and I try to resist. I put up a fight like I’m going to hold him off, but in the next breath, my arms are around his neck, and my body is curling into his.

  Luka was right. No matter how much I deny it, my body wants him. My hips circle into his, my fingers curl in the hair at the base of his neck, and my mouth parts, tongue slipping between his soft lips and exploring the cinnamon taste of him. My body betrays me, but it feels too good to care.

  His hands are demanding, tugging at the fabric of my robe, gripping my body to him so hard I think I might break. He works lines down my spine and across my ribs. His palms cup my breasts through the fabric of my robe and my slip, and we stumble backwards towards the island. The marble cuts into my back, but it is a small price to pay for the heat of him blazing into me.