Page 133 of Twisted Vows

Two black SUVs idle at the curb, engines running.

A man emerges from the passenger side of one. Russian, by the accent.

“Miss Martinelli,” he says, smiling without warmth. “We need a moment of your time.”

The glinting pin on his lapel—a Bratva crest—causes my stomach to knot. Every instinct screams run. But they could easily go after my mother here. They could reach anything.

“What do you want?” In a small victory, my voice doesn’t shake.

“Just a conversation.” He gestures toward the car. “About your father. About unfinished business.”

He dresses his lies up as courtesy. I nod once. “No harm to my mother.”

“Of course not.” He opens the door like a gentleman at a funeral.

The leather seats are cold against my palms.

The driver doesn’t speak. The man beside me watches, amused by my stoic response. He’s waiting for signs of fear, but I manage to keep my emotions veiled. The rain picks up again, drumming on the roof. City lights smear across the tinted glass, a watercolor of golds and grays. Out there, the world keeps moving, while mine contracts into this thin little space.

Time stops making sense. My thoughts fragment around Enzo as I wonder where he is and what he’s doing. Whether he really pulled the trigger.

I’m scared to ask. Even breathing petrifies me right now as the vehicle rolls on. They turn off the road, and barely a minute later, a building appears like a set piece from a bad dream. The SUV’s tires crunch over popping gravel when we approach.

Doors swing open, and cold wind smacks me in the face like a rude awakening I didn’t ask for, carrying the smell of oil and wet metal that churns my stomach.

Somewhere nearby, water drips in a rhythmic countdown. Or maybe that’s just my sanity leaking away. It’s hard to tell at this point.

It feels like time is slipping away, like I’m watching my life happen to someone else while I stand here frozen and useless.

They lead me into a room lit by a single hanging bulb that swings slightly and casts shadows that dance and twist like living things. The walls sweat with condensation, and with each step, metal echoes underfoot, announcing my arrival like I’m walking to my own execution.

Two men wait near the far end, their silhouettes sharp against the dim light, their smiles colder than the air and about as welcoming as a knife to the throat. Volkov lieutenants. Because of course my life has become a bad mob movie, and I’m the clueless protagonist who drops into the warehouse alone without calling for protection.

One man wears a navy coat, the fabric too fine for this place, too expensive for conducting business in abandoned buildings. The other guy smokes lazily, his eyes glinting through the haze like a cat watching a mouse.

“Miss Martinelli,” the smoker says, his voice smooth. “You’ve caused quite a stir.” His languid accent wraps around the words like smoke.

“I didn’t cause anything. You people did.”

That earns me a chuckle. “Feisty. Like your father. Though less clever.”

The insult rolls off me. The terror sits deeper now, a cold stone lodged behind my ribs. My pulse hammers. Sweat pricks my palms but doesn’t show. Not yet.

“What do you want?”

The one in the navy coat strolls closer. The other younger, leaner one hangs back, his hand resting near his belt as he observes. “Information. About Enzo Ricci. About his plans.”

My breath falters. “I don’t know anything.”

“Everyone knows something.” He brushes invisible dust from his sleeve. “Your father spoke of you often. Said you were smarter than you looked.”

A lie meant to hook me. It doesn’t.

“Funny,” I shrug, “he never mentioned you.”

The smoker’s grin widens. “You should be careful, Sophia. The Benedettis are not your friends. You’re not protected anymore. No one’s coming to save you.”

The cold truth of his statements slithers under my skin.