Page 15 of Savage Vows

I sit there, phone clutched tight, something cold moving through my chest. Not panic. Not yet. But it’s close.

I stand, grab my bag from the floor, and start throwing things into it. Charger. Notebook. My backup recorder. A sweater. I check the train times out of habit.

I don’t even lock the door behind me.

It’s time to go home.

4

DANTE

The TV’son in the corner of the room, volume low, just enough for the words to bleed through.

“…arrested late last night in connection with an ongoing federal investigation…authorities confirmed multiple girls were found inside one of the shipping containers…”

I stop buttoning my cuff.

Serrano’s face flashes on the screen—sweaty, smug, eyes wide like he can’t believe they finally got him. He’s still in that overpriced suit, sleeves rumpled, mouth half-open like he’s about to argue with the camera.

The idiot.

I walk over and grab the remote, turn up the volume just enough.

“…charges include trafficking, unlawful transport, falsifying shipping documents…”

Of course they do.

He had one job. One simple, controlled delivery. All he had to do was follow the plan, keep the paperwork clean, move the product discreetly, and disappear. Instead, he shoved something into the container he wasn’t supposed to touch—girls, apparently—and now he’s on every news channel, making all of us look like amateurs.

I stare at the image of the container being rolled open, the blurred-out footage of what was inside. My jaw tightens.

That wasn’t part of the deal. And I didn’t know.

He acted on his own. Again.

He was a liability long before this. Sloppy. Loud. Obsessed with proving something no one cared about. And now he’s finished.

Still, it complicates things.

My phone buzzes once on the table. Unknown number. I don’t pick up. I watch footage of Serrano being shoved into the back of a squad car. He doesn’t fight it. He looks like a man who never saw this coming.

I shake my head once, quietly.

The door slams open without warning.

“Morning, sunshine.” Liam strides into the room like he owns it, tie half-knotted, jacket slung over his shoulder, energy bouncing off him like he’s already had three espressos and a victory lap.

I don’t look up from the screen.

He plops down onto the arm of the couch and kicks his heels against the side like a child. “You’re watching the news on your wedding day? You’re really committed to being dramatic.”

I finally look at him. “Get out.”

He grins. “Cheer up, brother. It’s your wedding day.”

I scowl. “You’re chirping like we’re heading to a picnic.”

“Well, we kind of are,” he says, standing again. “Except instead of sandwiches, there’s vodka, your future in-laws, and one very tense bride who may or may not be plotting your murder.”