Page 6 of Brutal Vows

LUCA

I stroll out of Matteo’s apartment, head straight for the elevator, ride it all the way down to the underground level, and walk out, my gaze glued to my phone so I don’t need to interact with anybody.

Benedict is going to have to wait. I’m still digesting this.

I continue to our section of the garage where, beyond the row of my motorcycles and Il Consiglio’s collection of vehicles for ‘every occasion,’ some properly banged up, some specimens from the prior century to use when needed, another private elevator takes me up to the other section of the building.

It just made sense: Matteo, Benedict, and I on the same floor of the high rise we own. Matteo in his apartment with the sea views on the one side, Benedict and I each with our own apartments on the other side, a gym with a steam room, sauna, and swimming pool between us to share. Stephano had to get out, Dominic ventured even farther away, the first to try cut the cord, though he never managed either.

Fuck. It hits me if Gabi stays married to Ivan Petrov, which the good Catholic girl in her would aspire to do, I’m never getting out of this marriage.

With a sigh, I unlock my front door with a code and fingerprint combo. Once inside, the vast open-concept space closes in on me. I hate it. Always have, always will. Windows line the one side with its shitty rooftop views. It’s not bad at night when city lights are on, but during the day, it’s uninspiring. The cold emptiness of it. The echoes. If I could sell it and get out, I wouldn’t even think twice.

With a few quick swipes on my phone, I activate the sound system—no Siri or Alexa here, we’re not that dumb—and start to play the album Matteo sent me. The notes start slow, soft, gradually louder, ominous, like a darkness descending, and then she hammers those keys so hard, I flinch. I pause the music with a grimace. Maybe she’s recorded something else? I don’t know, something less…Russian?

I glance around, imagining a woman in my space. A stranger. Two big bedrooms, but one I’m using as a gaming room and TV lounge, sometimes as office when I work from here. Three bathrooms, two en suite and a guest washroom that’s never been used, so that isn’t an issue. Massive kitchen. Dining area and living room. Everything is minimalistic, stark lines, architectural magazine worthy. Boring as fuck.

I press play again, and this time, I’m ready for the onslaught. The music is harsh, a Russian invasion, full orchestra and all, and fuck knows, I feel it to my bones. But Milana is good. I don’t know much about classical music, but that intricate flow of notes…she’s not good, she’s brilliant. To get to that level of performance speaks of dedication, talent…passion.

Fuck my life.

If we’re in this for the long haul, she’s going to need her own piano here. Funny that. The open space in the one corner of the living area begs to be filled with something big and imposing. Jesus. It’s as if someone knew I was going to need a grand piano.

My phone vibrates, and I grunt with relief—a reason to pause the music.

Matteo. A-fucking-gain.

“More bad news?” I ask, expecting another blow to my basic human rights.

“Yeah. I kinda forgot to tell you the most important part.”

I drop down to my leather sofa, bracing myself. What could top an arranged marriage in two days’ time? “Shoot, Matty. Aim for the head and take me out of my misery.”

He chuckles. “Petrov stressed that Milana isn’t allowed to ever, like in never-ever-ever, go back to Russia again.”

“Well, thank fuck for that. Can’t say I’m a fan of their music.”

“No jokes, Luca. It’s blood-oath stuff. Gabi hinted at a coup in their inner circle, and my gut feel is Milana will basically be eliminated, or worse, taken hostage, if she goes to Russia. So. Keep her close.”

What the actual— Eliminated? Or worse…taken hostage? “Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Jesus. How could he have skipped this part while we were battling it out in his office? There’s fucking fine print and then there’s this. If Petrov has this one blood-oath condition, it means Milana Petrova is hellbent on going back to Russia. “You didn’t tell me I’m going to babysit someone who’s a flight risk.”

“I don’t know more either.”

I drag a hand over my face. “So basically, I have to lock her up until whatever danger she’s in because of the Petrov Bratva has passed? How long⁠—”

“Fuck if I know, Luca,” Matteo grunts, his voice tired. “But yes, if I were you, I’d keep my Bratva wife locked up until we’ve figured it out.”

Jesus. My Bratva wife. Just the sound of the word wife easing off his tongue gives me shudders. For the last few months, I’ve been on the edge of the shit storm, looking in, but now, I’ve been swept right into it by gale-force winds. I have so much to say but push it all down. Nothing is going to change the situation, so I revert to my usual tactic and toss a joke into the conversation. “Best I go online and shop ‘grand piano with same day fucking delivery.’ Can’t have a bored wife now, can I? One I need to lock up indefinitely.”

“Attaboy.”

I kill the call and for a long time just stare at my phone, digesting the sudden turn my life has taken in a mere hour. If Milana Petrova is going to invade my space in two days’ time, I have a lot to do. It’s going to be fucking awkward. But marriage is a line in the sand. We’re not religious beyond posing as Catholics, but somehow, it makes marriage as an institution—one of the things I vowed to never enter into—more sacred.

Swearing off all other women is one thing, but it’s weird how I’ve been prepared for this in a way. Maybe the universe is just fucking with me. I press play again and let the music wash over me. Some sections are softer, almost feminine, and I lean into it as I open one folder on my phone nobody knows about.