Page 51 of Brutal Vows

I snort-laugh. Fucking story of my life. It’s already dinner time, and even though I’ve gone up several times during the day to check in on Milana, this stale air sitting stagnant around everything is becoming suffocating. Something needs to give.

My phone buzzes, and I glance at it. Matteo. That fucker.

“Yep, Matty, what’s up?” I ask, putting the phone on speaker.

“Looks like we’ve finally convinced The Mole to fly over with Mara. They’ll be on their way within the next twelve hours.”

Benedict and I shoot each other a glance. “Good. You’ve let Petrov know?”

“Not yet. It’s not a done deal until they’re strapped in tightly for take-off.”

Or once the plane has actually landed in Boston, but I hold back on that snarky remark. “Cool. Thanks for the heads up. Anything else?”

“Nope. How’s your wife?”

“Losing her mind. Slowly, as you would.”

“Is she playing her piano yet?”

I roll my eyes. My grand gesture has turned into the biggest joke between my brothers. Milana hasn’t played a single note on that piano. Not that I’ve heard. She’s unwrapped it, but beyond tossing the ribbons into a corner and staring at the piano from the sofa, or sitting on the bench and staring at the keys, she hasn’t played a single note.

“I’m sure you’ll hear her as soon as she does.” With that, I kill the call, not in the mood.

“Tell her she’ll see Ivan tomorrow,” Benedict suggests as soon as the silence becomes too heavy. “It will be good for her, and Matteo won’t deny her that.”

“Yeah. I’m still fucking pissed at him for forbidding Tasha and Ariana to meet her, to even talk to her. This is not how Italians do it. We’re supposedly all about family⁠—”

“Matty is looking after Il Consiglio⁠—”

“He doesn’t have to live with her. The apartment is starting to look like shit because Elena isn’t allowed in either and my wife grew up with staff. She hasn’t even asked where we keep the household cleaning shit.”

Benedict smirks. “Do you know where you keep the household cleaning shit?”

“It’s in the fucking walk-in pantry or linen cupboard. Whatever you call it.”

“I suppose you need to lead by example. Mop or something.”

“It’s not that desperate yet. It’s just the two of us.”

“Whatever, bro, you just need to get laid. You always get grumpy as fuck when you’re⁠—”

“Don’t fucking go there,” I grunt as I stand.

But Benedict is right. Milana and I have been circling each other for days, teasing, joking, playful, and then that shadow comes over her and it feels like I’m starting from scratch every time. It’s no longer about sex or this arranged marriage anymore. It’s just about wanting to see her smile, pretending to be happy for a few minutes.

Not being trapped will make her happy. Going to Russia will make her happy. Not being married to me will make her happy.

I’m never going to be enough, and this is my fucking life now.

“I’m done here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wish me luck,” Benedict says, waving at the papers.

I huff. “Wish me luck.”

“Ha. Maybe I’ll work on the Chiara Bellini case for a minute.”

Ha indeed. Time to give him shit in return, because I know what he means by working on the Chiara Bellini case. Essentially, watching porn, trying to find a needle in a haystack. “It only takes you a minute? To get off?”