Page 137 of Brutal Vows

Then the men excuse themselves to speak in Declan’s office while Sloane and I sit on the sofa in the living room with our wine.

Thank God she likes wine, or I’d already have jumped into the pond.

“So. Reyna. How are you?”

With her bare long legs stretched out and propped up on the coffee table, Sloane gazes at me with the intensity of a professional interrogator.

I smile. “I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

After a beat of silence in which she examines every minute expression on my face, she says bluntly, “Bullshit.”

“You’d be surprised. I’ve got many years’ experience compartmentalizing my feelings.”

“Swallowing them, you mean.”

I tilt my head in a gesture that’s neither a yes nor a no. “Anunexpected arranged marriage isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me. I’ll survive.”

“I bet you will.” She spends a while in thought, then says, “So it doesn’t bother you, the arranged marriage thing?”

“‘Bother’ is one of those words that can have many different meanings.”

After a moment watching me over the rim of her wineglass as she takes a swallow, she pronounces, “You would’ve made an excellent politician.”

That makes me laugh. “I’m the ranking female of one of the Five Families of New York. Iaman excellent politician.”

She pulls her legs off the table and leans over to peer more closely at me, propping her elbows on her thighs. “You like him, don’t you?”

I have to pause to decide how to answer. Then I go with the truth. I say softly, “For the most part, yes.”

When she grins, pleased, I add, “His mood changes are pretty rough, though.”

She waves a hand in the air. “He’s been through a lot lately.”

I can tell she regrets that instantly.

Sitting back against the sofa, she crosses her legs and drinks her wine, gazing up at an abstract painting on the wall that suddenly seems to fascinate her.

From someone so forthright and self-confident, this avoidant behavior tells me that whatever it is Quinn has been through lately, she doesn’t want to tell me about it.

Which, of course, makes me desperate to know.

I say, “I understand you’re his friend. I won’t ask you to put yourself in a position where you feel you’d be being disloyal by betraying his confidence. But if there’s anything you can tell me that might help me understand him, I would appreciate it.”

She slides her gaze in my direction. She takes a moment togather her thoughts. Then she says, “It’s his story to tell, but I can tell you this: he’s been hurt.”

I nod. “He told me that himself. It’s the reason he wanted an arranged marriage.”

Looking encouraged that I already know that, she uncrosses her legs and turns her body toward me.

“So he told you about my sister, Riley?”

I have a split second to decide how to answer.

I remember what Gianni told me the night of the home invasion about the sister of the wife of the Mob boss getting impregnated by her Russian kidnapper, and decide to walk the gray line between truth and lies.

Looking down at my hands, I say, “I know she’s pregnant by the boss of the Moscow Bratva.”

“Yes. Which Spider blames himself for.”