Page 7 of His Savage Vow
The mob boss should feel guilty and carry the burden. And I won’t feel bad about reminding him as much.
Annoyed and unsettled, I decide to take a warm shower to remove the chill from my bones.
The attached bathroom is a depressing black marble that I approve of, with plush towels and toiletries. There’s a soaking tub as well as a walk-in shower stall.
I kick off my shoes, strip off the soaked blazer, and stand in front of the mirror over the double sink. I don’t recognize thewoman staring back at me. My mascara’s half-smeared down my cheeks, and my dark hair is stringy with rain. I’m filled with emotions I don’t know how to express or even articulate.
I’m exhausted and absolutely disheveled. That, at least, is one thing I can control. I head into the shower to begin putting myself back together.
I scrub myself raw in the steam, but nothing touches the grief. The water turns cold before I finally feel clean.
By the time I’m dressed in the soft, white robe hanging on the back of the door, it’s nearly eight. I’m tempted to skip the dinner invitation and throw myself into the massive bed that dominates the room.
But I’m not stupid.
Maximo Luciani isn’t a man who makes idle threats or promises.
And I didn’t come here to play games or just to insult him. I came here for answers. For justice. For revenge.
So, just as a clock somewhere in the house begins tolling the hour, I leave to go search for the dining room.
A young man, barely old enough to shave by the looks of his smooth cheeks, is standing just outside my room. He’s wearing a suit that’s slightly too large for him, and I can see the butt of a gun peeking out from under the jacket. I don’t miss his double-take at my choice of attire before his eyes quickly lower to the floor. But the dry robe is better than the soggy clothes I was wearing.
“Maximo instructed me to escort you to dinner,” he says, then walks away, leaving me to trail along behind him.
The dining room is on the main floor. It’s the kind of space meant to impress or intimidate guests. A long mahogany table dominates the space with twenty high-backed chairs, each one carved like a throne. There’s only one place setting at either end. And at the far head of the table sits the devil himself.
Maximo looks like he stepped out of aVoguespread—black suit, cufflinks, a wristwatch that probably costs more than my car. He’s sipping a glass of wine, eyes steady on mine as I enter.
“You’re late,” he says. “And underdressed.” I don’t miss the way his heated gaze lowers to where the robe crosses my chest.
Pulling it together tighter, I remind him, “Everything I owned went up in the flames, including my clothes. The suit I bought for the funeral was new and still soaking wet.”
“I’ll have the closet in the guest bedroom full by tomorrow afternoon. Luca, call my tailor and take care of it,” he says to the young man who escorted me down.
“That’s not necessary.”
“It's the least I can do, since you blame me for the fire.” Maximo then gestures to the opposite end of the table, and I take a seat.
A plate of food is already laid out—roasted lamb, saffron rice, broccoli. Everything smells incredible. I don’t touch a thing.
Maximo cuts into his meal with surgical precision. “You’re not hungry?”
“I’m not here for the five-star cuisine.”
“That’s too bad. My chef is excellent.”
I presume the man who appears from a nearby hallway is the chef, judging by his all-white uniform. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Luciani?”
“As always, Francis. Thank you for preparing extra servings for my guest at the last minute.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir. If that’s all, then I’ll bid you good evening.”
As Chef Francis gives a small bow and leaves, I fold my arms over my chest. “Can we just discuss the real reason I’m here?”
Maximo doesn’t look up from his plate when he responds. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“I don’t have time to waste. Every moment my father’s killer or killers draw breath without consequences infuriates me. Can you, or can you not, help me track them down?”
