Page 52 of Brutal Vows

“Fuck off.”

We’re both still chuckling as I make my way to our elevator and ride up to the penthouse floor. As soon as I open the door, I sense something is wrong before I even hear the crying. “Milana?” I stride in, listening for where the sounds are coming from.

Her room.

I rush in, not bothering to knock. She’s curled up on her bed, body shaking with sobs. “Princess…fuck, Milana. What’s wrong?”

She sobs into her hand, holding out the other to me, and I take it, letting her squeeze my fingers.

“It’s my Papa,” she chokes out. “He’s—he’s dying.”

“Oh, hell. Shit, baby—” Fuck. I don’t know what to say, so I sink down on my knees beside the bed, pulling her hand in for a kiss, wanting to comfort her. “Is this what’s been eating you?”

At last, I have a logical reason for her to be so distant.

But wait…her dad is retired, lives in Hawaiʻi somewhere, apparently in excellent health, playing golf or padel or whatever the fuck you do when you live to that age. We didn’t even dig too deep there. Jesus.

She shakes her head, tears streaming. “It’s like he’s dying all over again.”

“What do you mean?”

She lets go of my hand and struggles up, her face flushed. “Ivan phoned me. It’s the end.”

Our gazes lock, and the look in hers breaks me—the amount of love she has for her dad is reflected in the pain in her eyes. When my dad died, I was filled with a cold-stone relief only my brothers would understand.

“What happened?”

“He’s been bedridden for so long. He had two strokes, one after the other. And now, his organs have packed up. His suffering is finally coming to an end.” She cups her face in her hands, grief raking through her body.

“Where is he, Milana? Do you want to go see him?” I ask, suppressing my shock at her revelation. The Petrovs keep their secrets well-guarded. “We can go⁠—”

“No. He’s at home with Ivan on Long Island. I’ve said goodbye a hundred times. Besides, we’d be too late.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, trying to reassure her as I do the logistics in my head. Long Island isn’t that far, but our jet has been in Italy for days, waiting for Matteo to convince The Mole to board with Mara and fly them to Boston. I’ll have to charter a plane or helicopter or drive⁠—

“No, he wouldn’t even know I was there. He was already comatose before we got married,” she chokes, hand gesturing between us. “I just…I just⁠—”

It’s grief, and it surges with a need I’ve experienced. It floods back to me as if I’m seven years old again and Mom has died in childbirth. And then it’s Alex and the night he died, Matteo clinging to our brother, refusing to let him go. The memory is so intense, I’m not sure if I need to be held or if Milana needs to be held, yet it doesn’t matter. In this moment, I might need her as much as she needs me, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“You’re not alone,” I murmur as I toe off my shoes. I clamber onto the bed, laying down next to her, and pull her into my arms. “Just be here, for as long as you need to. I’m not leaving you.”

25

MILANA

I’m in his arms and pressed to his chest as he wraps me close, safe, no judgement, just understanding that this is exactly what I need. Somehow, our legs weave together, and we’re the perfect fit, my head on his shoulder, our chests flush, his strong arms protective.

I sob into his shirt, and it’s so many things. My heart is breaking in layers, knowing I’ll never see Papa again, that he’ll never smile at me, or hug me close, guide me with wise words again, randomly quote Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, or be a grandfather to my children as he’s been to Ivan’s girls.

I’ve been mourning him ever since his first stroke, but now there’s also the intense relief that his suffering is finally coming to an end.

It’s the fear for the loneliness I experienced when Mama died, Ivan and I separated for months.

But now…Luca is here.

He strokes my back, his lips pressed to my hair, and I feel his steady heartbeat under my palm. It’s calming, but it’s also the knowledge he isn’t leaving. I’m not alone.

I’ve cried a wet patch on his black T-shirt by the time I’m calmer, and I nuzzle closer, sobs now reduced to hiccups. I breathe in the intoxicating scent of his skin beyond the fabric, trace a line over his pec as I sink deeper into his embrace.