Broken Vow: A Dark Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 5)

While I’m working, Nero is fucking around with his switchblade.

I used to think that he played with it to try to look tough, but watching him now, I realize it’s almost like meditation for him. The blade moves through his fingers with incredible speed and fluidity. He zones out, his eyes becoming calm and focused, and his breathing slows down until his chest is barely rising and falling.

It’s funny to think that he and Dante are brothers, when Dante is so rough and brutal-looking, and Nero is, for lack of a better word, simply beautiful. In temperament they’re opposites, too—Dante deliberate and disciplined, and Nero impulsive and ferocious.

Or at least, that’s how he used to be. Today he seems more relaxed, and in a better mood than I’ve seen before.

Dante told me that Nero’s head over heels for a girl he knew in high school—Camille. I thought Nero would be the last person in the world to ever fall in love, but I guess that’s me instead.

Seeing Nero transformed into an almost reasonable human makes me believe that miracles can happen after all.

Maybe that’s what it takes: an unexpected pairing. Cal fell in love with the daughter of our worst enemy. Nessa is married to her own goddamned kidnapper. Nero got his heart stolen by a girl he barely noticed in high school. And Dante is back together with the woman who ripped out his heart.

In that case, maybe Dean and I are doomed. He’s exactly my usual type. Exactly what I always pick for myself.

And we’re barely getting along at all now.

We had one rather awkward coffee date earlier in the week. This time Raylan kept a respectful distance at a different table—pretending he had some emails to answer, but I suspect just trying to give Dean and me some space for ourselves.

It didn’t really help. Dean was sulky. He kept asking me how long this whole ridiculous bodyguard thing was going to go on.

“I don’t know,” I said testily. “If we can’t find the person who tried to murder me, I guess the alternative is that he succeeds in offing me. Either way, you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“Oh, come on Riona,” Dean said, rolling his eyes at my melodrama. “You know I don’t want you to get hurt.” He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I just miss you. And I’m tired of these Victorian-era chaperoned dates.”

I pulled my hand back. “I know,” I said. “But there’s not a whole lot else I can do about it.”

The truth is, I could tell Raylan to drive me over to Dean’s house for a proper date. Raylan could monitor the house while Dean and I ate dinner on our own, then went upstairs for a little private time. That’s how you’d treat a normal security guard.

But Raylan isn’t a normal security guard. And not just because he’s friends with Dante.

There’s something about Raylan that doesn’t let you keep him at arm’s length. He’s too perceptive and too goddamned personal. Too honest and too . . . himself. There’s no layer of professional distance between him and me. There never has been.

Even Nero sees it.

He looks up from his switchblade, fixing me with his cool gray eyes, and says, “So, are you and the cowboy fucking yet?”

That’s a classic cross-examination tactic. Ask a question bluntly and abruptly to try to shock the defendant into answering honestly.

“No,” I say, without giving Nero the pleasure of an emotional response. “I have a boyfriend.”

“But you would otherwise.”

“No,” I say calmly. “I wouldn’t.”

Nero snorts, obviously thinking I’m full of shit.

“I know this will come as a shock to you, but most people don’t fuck every single person they meet,” I inform Nero.

“They do if they’re hot,” Nero says.

“Oh, so you think Raylan’s hot?” I say innocently.

To my surprise, Nero grins. “Yeah,” he says. “Real dreamy.”

Wonders never cease. Nero Gallo showing an ounce of self-deprecation. He really must be in love.

To test that theory, and to shift the focus off myself, I say, “Dante told me you’re dating someone.”

“I am,” Nero says, unembarrassed.

“Is it serious?”

“Yes,” he says with simple finality.

This is so bizarre to me. Nero was the epitome of a Lothario. He didn’t seem to give a fuck about anyone or anything.

“What’s different about her?” I ask.

“It’s got nothing to do with being different,” Nero says, in his cryptic way. Nero sometimes reminds me of the Cheshire Cat—he’ll respond to questions, but he doesn’t give a damn if you understand his answers.

Usually, I’d just ignore him. But I’m genuinely curious about this. I want to know how he could change so drastically. I used to think people didn’t change at all.

“Explain it to me,” I say, putting down my pen and giving him my full attention. “I really want to know.”

Nero closes his knife and slips it back in his pocket. He sits forward, elbows on his knees.

“Camille and I are the same,” he says simply. “Not in circumstances or experiences. Not on the outside. But in the things that matter, we’re aligned. What we care about. What we want. What we feel.”

I really don’t understand love. I was just thinking that opposites attract. Now Nero’s saying it’s all about finding someone the most like yourself internally.

“So . . . you’re just really similar,” I say.

“It’s more than that,” Nero says. ”There’s the parts that are the same, and the parts that fill up the holes in each other. You don’t know what’s missing inside of you, until you find it in someone else.”

I never thought I’d be discussing love with Nero. This month has been utterly bizarre. I have more questions I want to ask him, but Raylan and Dante interrupt.

“Any luck?” I ask them.

“No.” Dante shakes his head. “Barker is an asshole, but a broke and unmotivated asshole, as far as we could tell.”

I glance over at Raylan, who looks strangely guilty. Nero, ever eagle-eyed, notices the same thing.

“What happened to your hand?” he demands.

“Nothing.” Raylan stuffs his hands in his jeans pockets, but not before I see what Nero was referring to—the knuckles of his right hand are definitely swollen.

“Did he attack you?” I ask Raylan. Barker is an asshole alright, but I can’t imagine him having the balls to take a swing at Raylan—especially not with Dante right there, backing him up.

“No,” Raylan says. He’s not looking at me, and he seems irritated by the questions.

“We talked to John Hartford as well,” Dante says to me quickly, changing the subject. “Victoria’s older brother. He’s pretty pissed at my family—he knows we helped Bosco Bianchi. Which I fucking wish we hadn’t. But I don’t think he knows you were involved at all. So if he wants revenge, I don’t think it would be pointed in your direction.”

“So we learned . . . nothing whatsoever,” I say.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Raylan nods.

“Great.” Nero pushes himself up from the chair. “Sounds like an afternoon well spent.”

“I’m sure you had way more important things to do,” Dante snorts, shaking his head at his little brother.

“Oh, I’m not complaining.” Nero shoots a glance in my direction. “Riona and I were having a real nice chat.”

Dante raises his eyebrows at me, clearly having as much trouble imagining what that would look like as I would have trying to explain it to him.

Dante and Nero head out, and Raylan takes his customary chair in the corner. But he’s not in his usual good mood. Actually, he looks pretty wound up about something.

“What?” I say to him. “Are you mad because you didn’t find what you were looking for?”

“No,” Raylan says shortly.

“What, then?”

“Nothing.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t want to have to guess what he’s annoyed about.

After a few minutes of silence, Raylan says, “What did Nero mean?”

“Oh. We were just talking about him and Camille.”

“Is that all?” Raylan says suspiciously.

“Yes . . . ” I reply.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Raylan was jealous of Nero. He’s acting very odd.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to your hand?” I ask him.

“No,” Raylan says.

I make an irritated sound and go back to my work.

When it’s finally time to leave, Raylan seems to have relaxed a little. He grabs my coat and holds it so I can slip my arms into the sleeves. Then he opens the door for me.

Usually I don’t like when men go over the top with chivalrous gestures, but Raylan does it naturally, not making a fuss about it. Everything he does with his hands is smooth and easy: cooking, driving, getting the door. He probably is great at chopping wood just like he said.

I can see Oran’s light still burning in his office, so I make a detour down the hall to say goodnight to him.

He’s bent over a stack of papers, looking intent and exhausted.

“ ‘Night, Uncle Oran,” I say. “I’m headed out.”

“Goodnight,” he says distractedly.

Uncle Oran is as well-dressed as ever, but there’s more gray than black in his hair now, and he’s got bags under his eyes. I sometimes forget he’s almost ten years older than my father.

“Your uncle never got married or had kids?” Raylan asks me as we get into the elevator.

“No.” I shake my head. “He’s had girlfriends—one for six or seven years. She was nice. Her name was Lorelei. She worked at a gallery in River West—it was for self-taught artists. ‘Outsider Art’ they called it. But they split up. I don’t know why.”

“You’re close to him,” Raylan says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah.” I nod. “He got me interested in law. Cal was always the heir to the empire, and Nessa was the baby. You know she’s such a sweetheart, everybody loves her. So I guess . . . there wasn’t anything special about me. Uncle Oran made me feel special.”

“Classic middle child,” Raylan says with a little smile.

“You’re probably the oldest.” I sniff. He reminds me of Callum and Dante—competent and responsible.

“Yeah,” Raylan admits. “But I’m not the biggest. My little brother Grady’s got me beat. He was six foot in seventh grade, and he hasn’t stopped growing since.”

I’ve heard Raylan mention his siblings before. Always with a tone of affection.

“What’s he like?” I ask.

“A lot like me, but with worse judgment. He was always getting into trouble growing up, and not much has changed. His wife settled him down a bit—they’ve got a couple kids now. He’s the hardest worker I know. Does the job of four men on the ranch.”

“What about your sister?”

“She’s smart as hell, and good with the horses. But she gets bored easy. And she’s got a temper. Not with animals, just people.”

I like listening to Raylan’s description. His voice is so warm and animated, anything he says comes alive.

“And your mom?” I ask.

“She’s kind,” Raylan says simply. “She always made us feel like we were the most important thing in the world. But she made us work our asses off too, so that was good for us. If we ever quit a job before the last little bit of it was done . . . that was the one way to really piss her off.”

I want to ask about Raylan’s father, too, but I know from comments he made in passing that his dad is dead. It doesn’t seem right to bring him up. Especially since Raylan hasn’t mentioned any specifics. I don’t know if they were close or estranged, or what killed him.

“What’s the ranch like?” I ask instead.

“Depends. You like horses?” Raylan says.

“I’ve never touched a horse in my life,” I admit. “I’ve never even seen one up close. I guess that makes me a city slicker or whatever.”

“A greenhorn,” Raylan says, grinning. “Or a tenderfoot.”

“I don’t know if I like any of those.”

“Maybe just a girl who loves Chicago, then,” Raylan says.

We’ve gotten in the car and we’re back at my place before I realize it. Raylan is telling me stories about the ranch. He’s easy to talk to, and even easier to listen to.

Raylan starts cooking while we’re still chatting, and despite the fact that I hate cooking, he ropes me into chopping carrots for him.

“I’m shit at this,” I warn him.

“That’s because you’re holding the knife wrong.”

He comes around behind me and puts his hands over mine. His hand is slightly rough, and very warm.

“You gotta rock the blade like this,” he says, showing me how to rock the chef’s knife so it slices through the carrot in uniform discs, without sending the pieces rolling wildly in every direction.

Raylan smells nice—not like expensive cologne, like Josh. Just like soap and laundry detergent and clean cotton. There’s something natural about him that I like. He doesn’t put product in his hair—it’s soft and messy. He rarely shaves, and he’s got calluses on his hands. But all that seems exotic to me, compared to the tanned and coiffed men I usually date. Raylan is masculine in a different way—by not giving a damn about his clothes or his car or his social status.

As usual, when I notice something appealing about him, I feel an equal compulsion to pull away.

“I’ve got it,” I say, taking control of the knife myself.

“Alright.” Raylan goes back to browning meat, well-seasoned with salt, pepper, onion, and garlic.

He cooks us pasta with tomato sauce made from scratch. It doesn’t look that hard when he does it, though I doubt I could replicate any of it. It’s delicious as hell, though. The right blend of rich, spicy, tart, and fragrant.

“Who taught you to cook?” I ask him.

“Everybody,” he says. “My grandpa, grandma, mom, dad, people I’ve met on my travels . . . it’s the universal language. Everybody likes food that tastes good. You can bond with anybody over a good meal.”

I guess that’s true. Even Raylan and I seem to get along when we’re eating together.

Raylan probably gets along with everyone, though.

I thought he was just a typical cocky soldier-type when I first met him. But he actually has a very calming presence. He knows when to talk and when not to. When to just have a companionable silence. He’s not always trying to fill the air with nonsense.

After dinner, we go sit out on the balcony attached to my living room. We look out over the city lights—the other high rises, each with their individual boxes of light representing offices and apartments, each containing some other person living their life. The streams of cars on the roads below are the same—each one carrying a person to their own individual destination. To them, what they’re doing is the most important thing in the world. To us, it’s just another light bobbing down the road, the same as all the others.

Usually that thought would make me feel isolated and insignificant. But tonight I think most of those people are probably going home to somebody—maybe to make pasta or watch a movie. And even if those activities are mundane, they’re peaceful and happy.

“Do you see your little sister much?” Raylan asks me out of nowhere.

“Nessa?”

“Yeah.”

“I do, actually,” I tell him. “I meet her for lunch. Sometimes I go see what she’s working on at her dance studio—she’s a choreographer.”

“Dante told me what happened with her husband—with the Polish Mafia.”

Nessa met Mikolaj when he kidnapped her. We were in conflict with the Polish Mafia at the time. In what I first thought was Stockholm Syndrome, Nessa and Miko developed feelings for each other. He let her go, which almost cost him control of his men and his own life. Nessa went back to him and they married.

“Do you know what’s funny?” I say to Raylan.

“What?”

“I actually like Miko.”

Raylan laughs. “You do?”

“Yes. I mean, don’t get me wrong—he’s intense. But he’s smart and ruthless, and devoted to Nessa.”

“What’s Nessa like?” Raylan asks me.

“Everybody who meets her loves her. She’s kind—like your mom, I guess. She’s always been that way. Even when she was little, she couldn’t stand to see anybody sad. She’d share anything with you.”

I pause, thinking.

“Sometimes she used to annoy me, because she could be childish, too. Too passive, too gentle, too eager to please my parents. Maybe I was jealous. She’s so likable and I know I’m . . . ”

“What?” Raylan says.

“A lot,” I say.

Raylan laughs.

“But anyway, she grew up, moving out of my parents’ house, getting married. She’s always been creative, and she’s been making these ballets that are just wild and gorgeous. I don’t know shit about dance, but they really are beautiful. And I respect that. I don’t know—maybe it was just both of us getting older. But we seem to have more to talk about now.”

“I feel that way, too,” Raylan says. “With my siblings.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You get older, and when you get together, instead of talking about the people you know and the things you used to do, you can just talk about life, about books and movies and the world, and you’ve grown up and they’ve grown up and all the little petty shit you used to fight about as kids doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Right,” I say. “Exactly.”

We’ve been sitting out on the balcony for a long time now. I have a blanket wrapped around my shoulders to keep me from freezing, but Raylan is just wearing his normal button-up shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask him.

“Nah,” he says. Then after a minute, he grins and admits, “Actually yeah, I’m pretty fuckin’ cold.”

We go back into the warmth of the apartment, closing the sliding glass door behind us.

Raylan and I linger in the living room, a strange kind of tension between us now.

“I guess I’ll go to bed,” I say.

“Good night.” Raylan nods.

I go into my room, brush my teeth, and slip under the covers.

But it’s a long time before I actually fall asleep. I lay there restless and confused, wondering why I felt so relaxed on the balcony, but so troubled now.

I wake to someone jerking me out of bed.

The air is thick with black smoke, so thick that I’m hacking and coughing, and my eyes are streaming with tears. I can’t pull in a breath.

“Get down!” Raylan barks, pulling me down low to the carpet.

It’s a little easier to breathe down here, but not much.

Raylan is tying one of his t-shirts around my face, making a makeshift bandanna. I can hear sharp cracking and popping sounds, and it’s so hot that sweat is pouring down my skin.

“What’s happening!” I rasp. My throat feels raw and choked, even with the t-shirt over my face.

I can’t see anything. The smoke and heat are getting worse by the second.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Raylan says. He’s yanking the blankets off my bed, and the sheets too.

He throws a blanket over both of us and pulls me along, staying low to the floor.

As we leave my bedroom, we’re met with a solid wall of fire. The front door, the entryway, and the kitchen are engulfed in flame. Floor to ceiling it rages, spreading out into the living room.

The heat is immense, indescribable. I can’t even look at it or it burns my eyes. My body is screaming at me to get away, but there’s nowhere to go.

“We’re trapped!” I gasp out.

Grimly, doggedly, Raylan pulls me toward the balcony.

“Hold on,” he says, unlatching the sliding glass door.

I don’t know what he’s trying to prepare me for, but as he yanks open the door and shoves me out, the cool night air rushes into the apartment. The influx of oxygen gives the fire a new breath. The flames roar across the ceiling and throughout the room, igniting the rest of my apartment in an instant. Fire billows out, hitting us like a wave.

The comforter Raylan threw over our heads catches fire. Raylan throws it off, and I watch it tumble end over end, burning like a torch as it falls the twenty-eight floors down to the street below.

Using the sheet to protect his hand, Raylan forces the glass door shut again, but I can see the heat has singed the hairs all along his arm. The glass and metal are already hot to the touch, like a fireplace grate. The door won’t hold for long. And we’re trapped way up here on this tiny balcony, with no fire escape.

I’m trying not to panic. I’m still hacking and coughing, and so is Raylan. His whole face is dark with smoke, cut by the tracks of sweat running down his skin.

We’re going to burn to death. We’re trapped. The fire is going to burst through the glass any second. No fire truck can reach up here. I don’t understand how the fire spread so fast through the apartment. I don’t understand what’s happening.

I can hear distant sirens, but not the fire alarm itself. The roar and crackling of the flames are too loud. I never knew how loud fire could be.

Raylan is tying my bedsheet around the balcony railing. I don’t understand why.

“Get on my back!” he shouts to me. His voice is hoarse and choked with smoke. His eyes are bloodshot, but the irises still gleam bright blue against his sooty face. It’s the only part of him that still looks familiar. Still, I don’t understand his plan.

“What?” I gasp back.

“GET ON MY BACK!”

He grabs my hand and wraps my arms around his neck. I’m only wearing a silk camisole and shorts, with bare feet. He’s shirtless in boxer shorts, but his feet are stuffed into his boots at least.

We’re both so sweaty and filthy that it’s hard to hold onto his neck.

And I just realized he’s climbing over the railing.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” I shriek.

We’re twenty-eight fucking floors up in the air. So high up that you can barely see the streets way down below us. So high that the frigid November wind is blowing hard against us.

If we slip and fall, we’ll fall for five or six seconds before we hit the pavement. And when we land, our bodies won’t just break—they’ll explode.

“If we don’t get off this balcony we’re dead!” Raylan shouts back.

I look at the glass doors, barely holding back the raging flames. Even as I watch, the glass begins to crack and warp.

“Oh my god . . . ” I whisper.

I cling onto Raylan’s neck, my legs wrapped around his waist from behind.

“Don’t choke me,” he says.

I try to relax my grip just a little, while still holding on tight.

He swings his leg over the railing, gripping the bedsheet with both hands.

I’m dangling over bare, empty space, holding onto his back.

Raylan starts to lower us down, going hand over hand on the sheet.

The fabric is taut and straining under our combined weight. I can see his arms rigid with strain, and his hands gripping the slippery material. His fingers leave sooty prints on the white sheet. His knuckles are pale and tight.

I can’t watch. I squeeze my eyes shut, holding onto him with all my might. I can feel his shoulders and back trembling with the strain of carrying our weight.

Raylan’s hands slip and we drop two feet before he catches his grip again. I bite back my scream, eyes still tight shut. I can hear the fabric starting to tear.

“Almost there . . . ” Raylan grunts.

I hazard a look.

We’re down at the level of the balcony below us, but we’re still hanging over open air. The balcony is recessed. We can’t quite reach the railing.

“I’m going to swing us. You have to grab it,” Raylan mutters, jaw clenched tight with strain.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know if I can.” It’s taking all my strength just to hold onto his back. We’re both slippery with sweat and smoke.

“You can do it,” Raylan says in his deep, calm voice. “I know you can.”

He kicks his legs to swing us out and in. The movement is horrible. It makes my stomach clench up. Holding on tight to his neck with my right arm, I reach with my left. My fingers slip helplessly across the slick metal railing. I miss.

“I can’t get it!” I cry.

“Yes you can,” Raylan says. “One more time—grab it tight.”

He swings us again, harder this time. I hear the awful purring sound of the sheet ripping apart. I grab the railing with all my strength and pull us toward it. Raylan throws his arm over, too. The railing hits me in the ribs and it fucking hurts, but I get my arm around it and hold on tight. Raylan shoves me over it, and we tumble down onto the cement. My heart is thundering in my chest. I’m panting and coughing harder than ever.

The apartment itself is dark—nobody inside. Either they already evacuated the building, or they were never home to start with. I pound on the glass door, but it’s pointless. The door is locked and nobody’s coming to open it.

“Stand back,” Raylan grunts.

He kicks through the glass with the toe of his boot, then reaches up through the hole to unlock the door.

Smoke billows out in our faces. Even a floor down, the heat and smoke and noise are intense. It radiates down from my apartment above. I can see the ceiling sagging.

“Hurry,” Raylan says. “That could collapse any second.”

We run through the apartment, which is the exact same layout as mine above. We shove through the door into the hallway, where I can finally hear the steady blare of the fire alarm. Several other residents are stumbling down the halls, trying to carry out reluctant pets, or belongings they don’t want to risk losing.

“Don’t take the elevator,” Raylan tells me unnecessarily. There’s no way I was going to risk trapping myself anywhere else.

We run to the stairs instead, my bare feet soon filthy from the endless descent down twenty-seven flights of concrete steps.

The stairs are choked with other tenants. The descent is tediously slow. Some of the people from lower floors are complaining, thinking the whole thing was only a drill. That is, until they see Raylan and me, black with smoke and Raylan burned down his right arm from forcing my balcony doors closed.

Everything I own is burning up, over my head. Should I have tried to grab something before we ran out to the balcony? Stupidly, I think of my brand-new electric toothbrush that I only used twice. Now it’s melted plastic. Or maybe just ash.

I think I’m in shock.

I feel numb. My head is a balloon, floating above my shoulders, barely tethered.

If it weren’t for Raylan’s arm around my shoulders, leading me on, I think I might pass out.

Raylan takes me all the way down to the parking garage. He pulls the car keys out of his boot. That impresses me. I don’t know how he had the presence of mind to grab them. I don’t know how he kept his calm through any of it.

I feel like I’m barely clinging to my last shred of self-control.

“How did that happen?” I croak, my throat still raw with smoke. “How did the fire spread so fast?”

“I think he must have poured an accelerant under your door,” Raylan says, grimly. “I woke up to this whooshing sound, and in two seconds that whole half of your apartment was on fire.”

I can hear more and more sirens wailing on street level—fire trucks and police cars, coming to the building from all sides.

“We need to get out of here,” Raylan says. “We’re exposed. That might not be all he had planned.”

I nod, numbly, and climb into the passenger seat.

Raylan does a sweep of the vehicle to make sure there’s nothing planted inside or underneath. Then he gets in the driver’s side and starts the engine.

My head is still throbbing from the smoke. I lean my head against the window and close my eyes.