Page 95 of Devil's Vows

“I’ll do your makeup,” she says as she studies the full extent of my dark circles and other flaws a sleepless night only accentuated. “You’ll be as pretty as a picture.”

I don’t know how to return the favor. Makeup wasn’t really a thing in the convent. It doesn’t matter. I’m getting married whether I have a full face on or not.

“What time are we leaving?” I ask, still in the dark about the arrangements.

Ivan has held his cards close, and I get it. Bratva, Mafia, and weddings? Sounds like the perfect opportunity to have a fun shootout and kill all the little birds with one stone.

“Change of plans,” he says as he walks over with a cappuccino for me. “Your brothers are flying to Republic Airport. It’s a twenty-minute drive, and the officiant is coming here.” He puts the cup down and squeezes my shoulder. “It’llbe over by three this afternoon. Ceremony, coffee, cake, done.”

Wow. Not any woman’s idea of the perfect wedding, but I knew it. This is just another transaction, and Ivan isn’t letting Milana go until she’s chained to my brother. I bet he’s going to make sure they are heading straight to Luca’s apartment after the fact, neatly tucking her into another Scalera stronghold, similar to Matteo’s.

Yuri walks into the room with Kostya, their arms bursting with blooms. Yuri is holding two beautiful bridal bouquets, both exquisite with delicate orchids. Between everything else, tiny pink daisies pop like sprinkles on white cake.

“For Katya and Irisha,” he says as he walks over, distributing the bridal bouquets to me and Milana en route, then hands the girls small bouquets of pink daisies with baby’s breath.

Joyous shrieks erupt, and breakfast is officially over.

I bite my lip. My own bouquet is beautiful with no expense spared.

Ivan is by my side as he takes the flowers from me, his fingers warm against my cold ones. “You need to eat,moya ptichka, and then you need to get ready.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Might as well be a polite lamb on my way to slaughter.

An hour later, I’m in Milana’s room, for once alone with her. It’s quiet between us, a last stretch to freedom for her we need to navigate with care, in case Ivan or Yuri get a whiff of her real plans. She’s busy with my makeup, giving me soft instructions to open my eyes, look up, close, turn that way, this way. I’ve never been pampered like this before, with face masks and scrubs that seem to be endless, and pointless, what with everything else happening under the surface.

I’ve become a lifeless doll, merely following my owner’s prompts.

“I met your Papa last night.”

Milana leans back to look me in the eye. “You did? Good. He’s been watching you, getting to know you.”

Yes. And that has been creepy as fuck. “I’m sorry for his situation…the tragedy. The hardship on him…on you and Ivan.”

Milana says nothing, but she pauses, the eye shadow she gathered on the tip of a delicate brush drizzling down like fairy dust with her hand’s trembling. “It’s cruel. He wasn’t such a terrible man to deserve such—” She breaks off. “I don’t know. It’s just cruel.”

I steel myself, having to know what I can before marrying Ivan. I might not have a chance to talk to her again. “He has tattoos on his hands. His arms.” Every part of him that was exposed above the covers. “Do you know what they mean?”

Milana sighs and puts the eyeshadow and brush down to reach for a glass of water. “You need to be more specific than that,” she says between sips. “There’s folklore, there’s fancy, and then there’s fact when it comes to tattoos in the Bratva.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, some tattoos are old traditions in our lineage, folklore basically, markings that identify people as thieves, rapists, gulag survivors, whatever. Then there are the ones people like and just get for the fancy, and then there’s fact. The tattoos you’re forced to get, identifying you as a member of an organization. It’s common in the Bratva.”

“I see. The ones on his fingers, on the middle knuckles?” Folklore, fact, or fancy?

“Good fucking Lord, he hated those. Walked around with gloves to hide them. Loved winter for it.”

“But what does it mean?” I push, running out of time for her to get to the point.

“He belonged to a crime ring when he was younger, in Russia, before he made the move to the States. Yuri had the same, but lasered them away. It’s such a giveaway here, and heneeded to be more…anonymous. It’s old history, and I don’t know Papa’s whole story, and now, we’ll never know. Some secrets, you take to the grave.”

“Do they mark women, like they mark men? These crime rings?”

She stills completely. “Similar, but not the same. Is it a thing in the Mafia?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t—” I break off. “Convent girl,” I say with a shrug, my ready explanation for everything. I haven’t lived in a Mafia circle before, and my stint in Italy with the Trapanis was short and never drilled down to this level of intimacy.

“Yeah. I see. Well, it depends on the ring, the men, how they want to mark…ownership.” She drops her gaze. “A lot of these things are dated now. They’ve learned not to walk with their secrets on their sleeves, so to say.”