Page 13 of Vows in Violence
“I wanted to tell you. I hated locking that door on you every day. You must understand that I was working for a bigger plan, and I had my instructions.”
“What plan? Instructions from whom? Who told you to let me go on believing my sister was dead?”
My voice cracks, and I lift the back of my hand to swipe at the tears streaking unchecked down my face. “Never mind.”
Brodie’s hands settle on my shoulders and squeeze. “It’ll be all right. Tonight, you are getting out. It's all been arranged. I just need to get you to the side garden. Vivi, you are going home tonight.”
“Home.”
“Yes, home.”
Home.A place where the world was stable, secure, the place where I could go into rooms without cages, where all of the locks had keys that belonged to me.
Even though it was never a place marked by a mother’s sweet softness or a father’s protective embrace, home was always Lulu and Angel and my piano and the garden and—
Something inside me loosens and unfurls, and a hoarse sob escapes. I press my fingers hard against my lips to keep it quiet, but Brodie has already heard.
Home won’t be the same place it once was; I know that. Angel had Mother sent to a rehab facility, and as far as I know, she’s still there. Or maybe she’s not; I don’t know. She has her escape.
Brodie could be telling the truth about Damon and Lulu, but seeing is believing. The last time I was in that house, Lulu's room was nothing but a dusty shrine. And Angel…?
I turn and shrug the robe away, stepping quickly toward the closet. Brodie keeps his eyes on the floor as I grab some pants and a dark shirt and hastily dress myself.
“What about Angel?” I ask, pitching my voice low.
His gaze flickers up, and he wrinkles his nose, as if processing a distasteful scent. “I'm sorry.”
I slip my feet into flat-heeled shoes with a brief nod. That makes sense. Angel messed up, big time. I’m not certain who is here to get me, but I have my suspicions. There is no way they would orchestrate a rescue that included him. Even if they could manage to get to the sitting room downstairs where Angel is being kept, there is no guarantee that Enzo, Cassidy, or Luca wouldn't put a bullet in his head when they saw him.
No, as painful as it is, I have to leave Angel behind tonight. After dressing, I pause in front of Brodie. “I’ll be coming back for him,” I say.
“I wouldn’t assume otherwise,” he says.
Brodie opens the door to the hallway, looks in both directions, and then pulls a dining cart into the room.
I tilt my head to the side. “Seriously? We are going to try the nineties family sitcom approach to this?”
“It’s just long enough to get you to the kitchen.”
Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “You have to be kidding me. You’ve been hiding for all of these years, and this is your big plan? Brodie…this is ridiculous. It’ll never work.”
Brodie breathes through his nose, clearly annoyed but just as clearly holding his irritation at bay. “Just to get you to the kitchen, yes. Come on.”
Muttering to myself, I climb onto the bottom of the cart, curling myself tightly into a ball and thanking God for all the morning Pilates sessions I endured. This has to be the single most cliche moment of my life, and I’ve had a few.
As the daughter of the Don of the most powerful mafia family in NYC, there have been plenty of other moments where I’ve thought to myself, "Yeah, this is exactly what would happen in a mafia movie."
As I got older, I figured out the reason for those déjà vumoments was because Hollywood used the mob to churn out their movies and television programs. Stories of ex-mafiosos who broke the Code of Omerta by siding with the Feds, stories of capos exacting revenge for their dons, stories of blood and honor. Some of their movies were based on real things that happened in our world.
But traveling down a hallway under the white tablecloth of a dining cart was usually reserved for slapstick comedies and primetime humor. I feel like a fool, curled into a ball while the cart strains under a weight it wasn't built to carry.
Brodie leads the cart to a servant's elevator, its wheels squeaking faintly against the low pill of the Oriental carpet. My stomachfeels the movement of the elevator as we get on and begin our descent, and then I hear the sound of the doors opening.
Brodie pushes the cart forward and stops so suddenly I have to stifle a gasp.
“What is all of this?”
I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s accompanied by the squawk of a radio, so it must belong to one of Ivan’s security personnel. When Brodie replies, his tone is unruffled.