Chapter 41: Brutal Vows: Chapter 41

“What the fuckedy-fuck is thing?”

“It’s called haute couture, Riley.”

“If ‘haute couture’ is code for garish and ridiculous, then I get it, Hollywood. Seriously, where in the world could you go out in public wearing a giant balloon dress? Unless there’s a flood, then I suppose that hideous plastic polka-dot concoction could be super great as a floatation device.”

Sloane sighs. “I see living in the wilds of a Russian forest has done nothing to elevate your sense of style.”

Riley snorts and looks down at Sloane’s skirt. “This from a woman who thinks hot-pink tulle miniskirts covered in sequins and bows is the height of fashion.”

“Don’t you dare diss Betsey Johnson! And couture is magical, Smalls. It’s wearable art.”

“It’s lame is what it is. Can we leave now? I’m starving.”

We’re sitting in the second row of seats at the Fendi runway show, right behind Victoria Beckham. To my left is Nat, the black-haired beauty engaged to the head of the Bratva in the US. To my right are Sloane and her younger sister Riley, arguing the merits, or lack thereof, of French couture.

They bicker constantly, but the love between them is obvious. Over the past three days since we arrived in Paris, they’ve fought as much as they’ve hugged each other.

We watch the final model strut down the runway, then stand and clap with the rest of the audience when the show is over and the designer walks out to thunderous applause. Then we make our way through the crowd, headed to the after-party at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs.

We’re followed by no fewer than two dozen bodyguards.

Armed and eagle-eyed, they’re spread out across the room, moving through the well-dressed patrons like sharks through water. The protection was a nonnegotiable condition all our men insisted upon, though not the only one. The list was long.

A girls’ trip to Paris is much more than a simple getaway when the “girls” belong to four of the most powerful, dangerous men in organized crime.

Men who hate each other.

They probably hate it even more that there’s no stopping us once our minds are made up.

But all it took was a single conference call between the four of us to convince us that a girls’ trip was exactly what we needed. If these men of ours are going to be at each other’s throats for the next forty years, we’ll be the glue that holds this shit show together.

And we’re bonding the glue in Paris, buying haute couture and eating haute cuisine.

Nobody ever said politics had to be conducted in dreary surroundings.

Chatting about the show, we travel to the museum in a convoy of armored SUVs with blacked-out windows. We enter through a private elevator in the back of the building. Once we’re inside, the bodyguards spread out again, keeping their predatory gazes trained for any hint of danger.

The after-party is held in the nave of the museum, an elegant three-story space of carved arches, white marble columns, and glossy marble floors. Displays of mannequins clad in designer frocks are clustered on raised platforms. The walls glow with purple washes of light. Uniformed waiters pass champagne and canapés on silver trays. I spot four celebrities within the first five minutes of our arrival.

We gather around a tall cocktail table draped in linen at one end of the room and talk, eat, and people watch as more guests arrive.

Until Riley says suddenly, “Uh-oh.”

Chewing on a pear-and-gouda tartlet, Nat says, “What’s wrong?”

I’ve already spotted the problem. “Oh, just a little ticking time bomb over there.”

Nat and Sloane follow the direction Riley and I are looking.

On either side of the opposite end of the room, two pairs of men stand glaring at each other. On one side are Declan and Quinn. On the other are Kage, Nat’s fiancé and head of the US Bratva, and Malek, Riley’s fiancé and head of the Bratva in Moscow.

All four of them have their arms crossed over their chests and expressions of murderous rage on their faces as they stare at each other over everyone’s heads.

Sloane laughs. “Oh, look. The boys are here!”

Nat says crossly, “I knew they wouldn’t stay at the hotel like they agreed to. I think they’ve been following us around every time we go out.”

I say, “Of course they have. They can’t help themselves. All that big-dick energy comes with some serious caveman side effects.”

“Should we intervene?” asks Riley nervously. “I don’t like that look on Mal’s face.”

The look she’s referring to is directed at Quinn, who’s glaring right back at Malek with his teeth bared.

It’s no worse, however, than the look Kage and Declan are sharing, a glower of blistering hatred which could peel the paint right off the walls.

I say, “Don’t worry about them. It’s just saber rattling. They know better than to go at it with the four of us as witnesses.”

Sloane laughs again. “Right? They know what they’d be in for when they got home, the poor bastards.”

“They might be bastards, but poor they’re definitely not,” says Nat, turning to smile at me. “How many carats is that diamond necklace, anyway? Fifty?”

“Close, but no. And look who’s talking. How many carats is that ring?”

“Ten.” Nat beams down at her engagement ring, a huge chunk of ice that must’ve set Kage back millions of dollars. “But he thinks I need something bigger. When he saw Sloane’s ring, he got really mad.”

“Speaking of engagement rings,” Sloane says, elbowing Riley with a smile. “When are you and your giant Russian assassin going to tie the knot?”

“Probably not until after the baby’s born,” Riley says, caressing her stomach. In comparison to the rest of her petite frame, the small bump she’s growing looks big. “Though if it were up to him, it would be tonight. I’m not in such a hurry.”

“Why wait?”

She snorts. “Because gangster weddings are such calm and simple affairs, maybe?”

I smile. “Amen.”

Sloane waves that off and sips her champagne. “Then go to a justice of the peace or something. They do have those in Russia, I presume?”

“Don’t be a snob. Russia isn’t the middle of nowhere.”

“Except that cabin you live in with your man and his pet crow is literally in the middle of nowhere.”

“Pet crow?” I say, interested.

Riley smiles at me. “His name’s Poe.”

“Ah. After Edgar Allan. Very clever.”

“So’s the bird. I swear that thing is smarter than most of the guys Sloane’s dated.”

Nat deadpans, “Wouldn’t be hard.”

“Very funny, assholes,” says Sloane breezily. “I’ll have you know I once dated a Rhodes scholar.”

“Once being the important word in that sentence,” says Nat, laughing.

“Besides, nobody’s smarter than I am, so why bother dating a smart guy?”

“I’m sure Declan would have something to say about you thinking you’re smarter than he is.”

“Oh, he knows. I tell him so all the time.”

Nat rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”

Inside her cute little blingy handbag, Sloane’s phone rings. She unzips the bag, takes out the phone, and sighs when she sees the number on the readout. “Oh, Stavi. Give it up already.”

“Stavi?”

Sloane smiles at me. “My ex, Stavros. He wants me to text him a pic of my shoes.”

I lift my brows. “He’s into women’s footwear?”

Her chuckle is dry. “Sis, like you wouldn’t believe.”

I haven’t said a thing to her about the section regarding her ex Stavros in the contract Declan and I negotiated, and I never will. It’s enough that he agreed to take it out. And as long as Stavros stays alive, I’ll keep my promise to Declan that the whole incident will remain between the two of us.

Politics is tricky, but like I once told her, I’m an excellent politician.

Sloane looks up from her phone at me. “Hey, do you know any single Mafia girls? I promised him I’d set him up with someone. He’s super sweet. Cute, too. And very rich.”

“And he has a thing for women’s shoes.”

She scrunches up her nose. “I mean, nobody’s perfect.”

Riley says to me, “I’ve been meaning to ask you how Kieran’s doing.”

“He’s doing great!”

Sloane says, “Madly in love with Aria, from what Declan tells me.”

That makes me laugh. “Yes, our Irishmen fall fast and hard, don’t they?”

Nat says, “Probably not as fast or hard as our Russians do, right, Riley?”

Riley looks pointedly at her sister. “Which isn’t as fast or hard as the Keller sisters do.”

Sloane nods, sipping more champagne. “But Stockholm Syndrome runs in the family, so we really couldn’t help ourselves.”

I’ve already gotten the full backstory about how kidnapping was the inciting event that had both Sloane and Riley falling in love with their captors, Declan and Mal. And honestly, after all I’ve been through in my life, it makes as much sense as anything else does.

Except for Nat’s story about how she fell in love with Kage.

I don’t think I’d ever be able to love a man who was sent to kill me, no matter how handsome he was.

I guess that’s the funny thing about love, though.

Its fire can forge soul mates from even the most bitter of enemies.

My own cell phone buzzes in my handbag. When I look to see who it is, I’ve got a text from Mamma.

bastardo I send her the code, hoping she’s not hosting a party in her suite. When I invited her to come with us to Paris, she said she’d only go on the condition she have her own room. With a view of the Eiffel Tower. And a butler. Who was over six feet and under thirty-five.

She was granted all her demands, naturally. I’m not the only Caruso female Quinn can’t say no to.

“Girls, I’ve got to visit the ladies’ room. Anybody else?”

I get a round of head shakes for an answer.

“Okay. I’ll be back in a sec. And keep an eye on the boys. If things look like they’re about to go sideways, I’m counting on you to get control of the situation, Sloane.”

She smiles as if she’s hoping gunfire will break out at any moment. “No problem, babe. They won’t know what hit ’em.”

I wind my way slowly through the elegant crowd toward an archway marked “Mesdames.” The restroom is down a corridor lined with potted palms lighted purple. I go inside, use the toilet, then wash my hands in the sink.

When I come out, the corridor is empty.

Except for my four bodyguards lying facedown and unmoving on the floor and the man leaning casually against the wall.

Wearing faded jeans, a tight white T-shirt, cowboy boots, and mirrored sunglasses, he has a foot propped up on the wall and his tattooed arms folded over his massive chest. His dark wavy hair brushes his shoulders. His angular jaw is covered in scruff.

He’s big, masculine, and exudes an air of danger so palpable, I can almost touch it.

He looks like a mashup of Wolverine, Dirty Harry, and James Bond. On steroids.

I say, “At least take off the sunglasses. It would add insult to injury to be murdered by a man wearing sunglasses. Indoors. At night.”

“Not gonna harm you, lass. Just want a word.”

His Irish accent is lilting and his tone is gentle, but I don’t trust him.

I know a killer when I see one. And this guy’s a killer with a capital K.

He pushes off the wall, pulls a huge semiautomatic handgun out of the back of his waistband, and holds it out to me. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

“What would make me feel better is if I knew why an Irishman who thinks he’s Dirty Harry assaulted four of my bodyguards.”

He smiles. My reflection in his glasses looks very small.

“This conversation needs to be private.”

“Are they dead?”

“Do you see any blood?”

“There are so many ways to kill a man that don’t involve spilling his blood.”

His smile grows wider. Tucking the gun back in its place, he drawls, “Aye, there are. Which you know all about, don’t you?”

Someone is coming down the hallway. Two women, chattering, their heads together and their high heels clicking off the marble floor. They see us and the four men lying unconscious and pull up short. They look at each other. Then they turn around and run off without a word.

Dirty Harry strolls away and turns left around a corner, disappearing from sight. From around the corner he says, “C’mon, Reyna. If I wanted to kill you, I already would have.”

Whoever he is, this guy is very irritating.

“Who are you?”

A husky chuckle is my only answer.

“I really don’t appreciate the cloak-and-dagger routine.”

“Two minutes of your time. That’s all I need. Why don’t you pull that blade out of the sheath on your thigh and wave it around at me? Might make you feel better.”

I glance down at the front of my dress. The waist is cinched and the skirt is full, concealing any tell-tale lumps or bumps. There’s no way he could’ve known I’m carrying a knife.

“Don’t think too hard on it, lass. Clock’s ticking.”

Curiosity gets the best of me. I walk around the corner, stop a few feet away from him, and prop my hands on my hips. He’s leaning against the wall again, as if he thinks it’s his job to hold up the entire building.

“You’re a rival of Declan and Quinn’s, is that it? Am I about to be kidnapped and held for ransom?”

His laugh indicates he’s amused by the question.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a no. I’ve known Declan for more than twenty years. He’s a dear friend.”

I eye him warily. “Uh-huh. And does your dear friend know about this clandestine little chat? Because it makes a lot more sense that you’d just talk to me out in the other room with him instead of skulking around women’s bathrooms.”

He studies me for a moment in silence. I feel his gaze going over me, up and down. One corner of his mouth lifts.

“You remind me of my wife. She stole a truckload of diapers from me. That’s how we met.”

“Fascinating.”

“It was.”

“Is there a point you’ll be arriving at soon? Because if not, I’ve got some champagne to get back to.”

Ignoring my comment, he says, “You’ll meet her. Her name’s Juliet. I have a feeling the two of you will get along like gangbusters.”

I decide I’ve had enough. If he’s going to kidnap me, let’s get on with it. If he’s not, I’m bored.

I turn and start to walk away, but stop when he says, “Lili and Juan Pablo are doing well down in Mexico, don’t you think? Sweet love story, that.”

My heart starts to pound faster. I turn and peer at him, wondering what the fuck this guy really wants. I demand, “What do you know about them?”

“I know they’ve decided to make Mexico their permanent home. And I know you met with Juan Pablo’s uncle Alvaro last week to discuss a deal between the Mob, the Mafia, and the Jalisco cartel.”

“Did Declan tell you that?”

He chuckles again. He seems overly fond of doing that.

“No, lass. I’ve got my own sources of information. And I have to admit, I’m bloody impressed at the deal you negotiated. You were born to twist men around your pinky finger, weren’t you?”

“Enough with the rhetorical questions. I hate rhetorical questions. Who are you?”

Instead of giving me his name, he says cryptically, “An interested third party.”

At first, I think he wants to get in on the Jalisco deal. But then I remember something Declan said the day at his office when he showed me the evidence that Gianni set up the kidnapping attempt and home invasion himself.

When I asked how he came by all the information, he said the same thing this Irishman just said. “An interested third party.”

All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I say, “You were listening. That day in Declan’s office, you were listening in on our conversation.”

“Watching it over a hidden camera in the ceiling, actually. Don’t blame Declan for that. He didn’t know it was there. But your performance was impeccable. I’ve never seen a woman handle herself so well. Declan can be very intimidating.”

“Not much intimidates me.”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m extending you an invitation.”

He lets it hang there without explaining what he means.

I say sarcastically, “Here is where you’ll offer me riches beyond my wildest dreams or something, right?”

“There’s money involved, but that’s not why you’ll be interested.”

I’m about to explode with exasperation, but manage to remain calm. “Okay, I’ll play your silly game. Why will I be interested?”

After a moment, he removes his sunglasses. Without them, he’s even more handsome. He stares at me with dark eyes that drill straight through my skull.

“Because you’re a do-gooder, Reyna Caruso. You’ve got an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong.”

It’s official: he’s nuts.

“Since you obviously know so much about me, you must know that I’m the head of the Cosa Nostra. Tell me how being in charge of an organized crime empire makes me so ethical?”

“You sacrificed yourself to save the lives of your niece and her boyfriend. Do-gooding. You told the other Mafia families that at the upcoming annual Christmas Eve meeting of all the syndicates, the Chinese and the Armenians will be cut off if they continue their human-trafficking operations. Do-gooding.”

His faint, self-satisfied smile returns. “You ordered Declan not to kill Stavros because it offended your sense of fair play. Do-gooding.”

“That’s three things. Big deal. And it’s really creepy how much you know about me.”

“I know much more than that, but I’m trying to recruit you to join my organization, so I won’t creep you out any more by giving additional details.”

“What’s your organization?”

Stepping closer to me, he holds out a white business card.

I take it from him and look at it. “It’s blank.”

“Turn it over.”

When I do, I find nothing more on the back except a number printed in bold sans serif type in the middle of the card.

I glance up at him in confusion. “Thirteen? What’s that?”

“The name of my organization.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s weird.”

He sounds offended. “Why is it weird?”

“Thirteen is a feminine number. The number of blood, fertility, and lunar potency. The number of the Great Goddess.” I look him up and down. “You don’t exactly look like a Great Goddess to me.”

He sticks his sunglasses back onto his face, folds his arms over his chest, and sighs. “It’s also the number of the Death card in the Tarot.”

“So you organization has something to do with the Tarot?”

“No. Thirteen is just the number of members we have.”

I stare at him for a moment. “I feel like we could stand here until the end of time and go in circles while you avoid telling me anything at all about what this organization of yours does.”

His smile is mysterious. “I’ll be in touch. In the meantime, don’t tell anyone you’ve spoken to me. That’s your first test.”

“For the record, I hate tests. And considering I have no idea who you are, I’m not likely to tell anyone about you. I don’t even know your name.”

He lowers his head and gazes at me over the frame of his sunglasses. In a low voice, he says, “The name’s Killian Black, lass. And you’ll be hearing from me.”

Footsteps sound on the marble floor of the corridor. I glance down the corridor. When I turn around again, he’s gone.

Killian has disappeared into thin air.

I say loudly, “That’s even more creepy! And if I join your stupid organization, you’ll have to change the name to fourteen. You know that, right? Every time you recruit a new member, you’ll have to print up new business cards!”

I’m not sure, but I could swear I hear the sound of faint laughter echoing from somewhere far off in the distance.