Page 134 of Devil's Vows

She reaches behind her, and around the room, gazes volley between each other.

"Fottuta menopausa,”she mutters as she drags in a breath.“Pensavo di aver chiuso con ‘sta merda!Please excuse me. Don Scalera, may I use the washroom?”

“Of course,” Matteo says with a hitched brow and guides her to the guest toilet, located on the kitchen’s side of things but down a separate corridor. We couldn’t have staged this better for our benefit.

As Mara turns, she shrugs her jacket off but not fast enough, revealing a red splotch of blood on her white jeans in a most…unfortunate location. She wraps her jacket around her waist, and we all seem to register the situation at the same time. The others are averting their eyes and shuffling on their feet as only men who grew up without women around could when this happens.

“What did she say?” I mutter to Dominic as they disappear down the side passage.

“Fucking menopause, I thought I was done with this shit,” he translates.

It’s fucking awkward, that’s what it is.

Matteo has barely returned when The Mole’s phone rings.

“Excuse me,” he says. “It’s Mara.Sì. Sì. Certo. Mi dai dieci minuti?” He nods and rings off. “Mara asks if I can fetch some clean clothes for her. We left our suitcases with the driver. It will only take five minutes. Pants and underwear.”

“Sure,” Matteo says, indicating to The Mole to go back to the front door and elevator.

Because what the fuck else are you going to say? I have no idea what their plans are, but they are approaching this in a more poetic way than I would. Fucking Italians. Fuck her period and tie her to a chair and choke her until she tells us what she knows.

“Stan will meet you and escort you,” is the last I hear from Matteo, and then the front door clicks closed.

69

GABI

I can’t hear anything from my hideout in the passage, so when the washroom’s door sweeps open, I’m caught off-guard. I didn’t expect it to be so soon.

A woman steps into the room, pulling a case with her and closing the door. At first, I can’t see her face as her hair curtains it. But then she looks at the mirror and straight into my eyes. I rear back, adrenaline spiking my blood as my heart starts to gallop.

It’sher.

That horrible, horrible fucking bitch who told meto be glad it’s all they’re doing to you—for now, you little whore. Because trust me, one day, it’s all you’re going to be.

I’m trembling all over, but I can’t move, frozen in shock. I watch her watch me and realize she’s staring at herself in the mirror. With a shake, I remind myself she can’t see me. She closes her eyes, pulls her phone from her pocket, and dials someone. She’s allowed to have aphone? Inhere? When I got basically stripped of mine on arrival at Ivan’s place?

And then I notice she’s crying. Quietly, but tears are streaming down her cheeks. Whoever she’s calling answers.

I read her lips, trying to make out what she’s saying, and it comes easily as she speaks Italian, and it’s intentionally not as soundproof in here as in the rest of the apartment.

It’s him. Promise you will do as you told me you would. You must release her or I will fucking haunt you. I don’t know what they were expecting, but there’s no sign of Chertnikov’s girl.

She drops the phone beside the basin, then leans over it for a second, looking like she wants to vomit.

What the fuck?Chertnikov’s girl?

When she looks up, she crosses herself, swallows once, then nods to herself as she wipes her tears away.

She was praying.

Then she starts to move at speed. She hauls her case onto the vanity and opens it, then shrugs off the jacket around her waist and tosses it to the side. She gathers her hair to tie it in a ponytail and strips her scarf, revealing her neck and chest.

Already, a sheen of sweat glows on her forehead—she’s stressed. She’s not only much older than I remember, but she has new tattoos on her body, too. When I met her the first time, she had no tattoos visible like this. The low V-neck of her tight T-shirt dips low, showing off?—

I gasp. An eye, just like Ivan’s. Watching me, seeing everything.

Frantically, my gaze jumps to take it all in. The Russian writing under her collarbone disappearing underneath the shirt, the patterned rings around her wrists, the cross on her forearm. She’s Italian…but she hasRussiantattoos on her. From the skin peeling on the barbed wire tattoo around her neck, they’re recent. Good God. She’s a…she’s a mole. Undercover. Here?—