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

Bo comes back to the house at about ten in the morning, looking exhausted, but happy.

“Shelby and the baby are fine,” she says. “They’re naming her Frances.”

“Frances?” Raylan says, like it’s a foreign word.

“I know,” Bo says, shrugging. “But they seem really excited about it, so don’t say anything.”

All of a sudden I feel like an intruder here. I’m sure Raylan wants to go to the hospital to see his new niece. I don’t think I should be a part of that. The Boones should be able to enjoy all this together, without me in the mix.

Speaking quietly to Raylan, I say, “I’m gonna drive back home today.”

“By yourself?” he says. “I’ll drive you.”

“No,” I shake my head, “It’s too far. And you’ll have to fly back again. Stay here with your family. Go see your niece.”

Raylan doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t argue with me.

I don’t have much to pack. I brought nothing with me, and I’ve mostly been wearing Bo’s clothes.

I do plan to take back the cowboy boots Raylan bought me at the outlet store. I know I won’t have anywhere to wear them in Chicago, but I feel irrationally attached to them. They’re damned comfortable, if nothing else.

I offer to reimburse Bo for the dress Raylan and I ruined, but she just snorts and shakes her head. “You were doing me a favor ripping that up. Aunt Kel is always trying to get me to dress more feminine. I wish she’d save her money, or get me something I actually like.”

“Like a grenade launcher?” Raylan interjects.

“Yeah,” Bo grins. “That would be much better.”

Bo heads over to Grady and Shelby’s house so she can help Celia get the boys dressed to go visit their baby sister.

Raylan feeds and waters the horses, while I get ready to leave.

We meet in the yard—Raylan looking tired and dusty, me gripping the keys to the Escalade in my hand.

“You sure you want to drive back alone?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think that’s for the best.”

I look up at his handsome, scruffy face. I wish he’d give me his charming smile one more time—the one that drove me crazy at first. Now I think it would just make me feel warm and happy.

Instead, Raylan pulls me close in a hug.

As he lets me go, he brushes my cheek with a rough kiss.

I grab his face and kiss him softly on the mouth instead.

“Thank you,” I say, again.

I turn away from him and hurry over to the car. I don’t look back at him, but my ears are straining. Listening in case he calls out to me.

Raylan doesn’t shout for me to stop. He just watches as I get into the SUV and start the engine.

I wave to him in the rearview mirror. He holds up his hand in return as I drive away.

It takes me all day long to drive back to Chicago. It’s the longest and most depressing drive of my life. Every moment of it feels wrong. My stomach is tight, and my temples throb with a headache.

I tell myself that I’m doing the right thing.

Raylan and I are too different to be together. We want completely different things out of life. He told me he wants to get married and have kids someday. I’ve sworn a hundred times that I’ll never get married, and I’m not too keen on children, either.

He wants to stay on that ranch, and I want to run a law firm.

We’re just not compatible.

It’s like Nero said—he and Camille have the same plans, the same goals. Internally they’re the same.

Raylan and I are different inside and out. Yes, we learned not to drive each other crazy. And we learned how to work together pretty well. And sexually speaking, we were pretty fucking compatible . . .

But you can’t build a whole relationship around sex. I’d like to . . . but I can’t.

Still, I feel utterly dull as I drive back into the heart of Chicago. It’s nighttime. A chilly wind blows bits of trash across the road. Not many people want to brave the cold, so the sidewalks are more empty than usual.

Raylan gave me his phone. I use it to call Dante.

The phone rings and rings without answer. I was going to ask him if I could swing by to drop off the SUV, but I don’t want to drive over there if he’s not actually home.

Without thinking, I head in the direction of the office instead. It’s more home than my actual home. And unlike my condo, it wasn’t burned to a crisp.

The office tower looks as grand and imposing as ever. It used to give me such a thrill walking through the double glass doors every day. Thinking that this would be a piece of the city I’d own someday.

Looking up, I can see two or three windows on our floor still illuminated. My own office is dark. But Uncle Oran seems to be working away.

I want to go up and sit in my chair behind my desk. I want to remind myself who I am, and what I’m working for. I haven’t felt like myself in weeks. Slipping into that cushy leather chair again will be like slipping back inside my own skin.

I park Dante’s car and head inside, waving to the security guard at the front desk. Carl gives me a little salute, hitting the button under his desk that activates the elevators. He’s used to me coming and going at all hours.

I push my way through the expensive glass doors bearing the names Griffin, Briar, and Weiss. As soon as Weiss retires, I intend for that door to say Griffin, Griffin, and Briar. There’s no way I won’t be getting the partnership now, with Josh out of the way, and me being the one who uncovered his theft.

The familiar scent of the office hits me immediately—paper, printer ink, the freesia perfume that Lucy wears, and lemon-basil furniture polish from the cleaning crew.

I feel a flush of nostalgia, even though I’ve only been gone less than a week.

I flip on the light in my own office. I expect to feel the same comforting rush, but instead I notice how stark and cold the space feels. The bookshelf looks staged, like a furniture catalogue, and the polished desktop is so empty that you’d think nobody worked here at all. Everything looks gleaming and expensive, but lacking in personality and warmth.

It makes me think of the ranch house, where every piece of furniture and every bit of decor seems to tell a story of the person who made it, and the people who used it over the years. The Boones’ house is a home. This is just an office where I spent countless hours working alone.

I sit behind the desk anyway, trying to recover my sense of purpose and drive. This where I always felt most powerful, and most myself.

I need to feel that again.

I switch on my computer, thinking it’s the work that’s missing. I should immerse myself in my old projects.

But when I start sorting through files, I realize that half my projects are missing. Deleted off my computer without a trace.

Before I can search through to find what’s missing, Angela Pierce pokes her head in my office.

“Hey, there you are!” she says. “We missed you!”

Angela is one of the senior attorneys who work directly under Uncle Oran. She’s clever, argumentative, and stubborn, so we get along great. But I don’t know what Uncle Oran told everyone about why I disappeared, so I try to be vague.

“I missed you guys. You know I hate taking time off.”

Angela grins. “I was counting down the days on my last vacation. There’s only so much relaxation I can handle, before I’m itching to fight with somebody again.”

“You done for the night?” I ask her.

“Yup. I was going over some tax filings with Oran. He’s still back there, if you want to say hi.”

“Oh, perfect. I’ll do that.”

She wrinkles her nose, looking me up and down. “What are you wearing?” she says.

I’d forgotten that I was still wearing jeans and cowboy boots. While Angela looks like me from three weeks ago, in a flawless cream blazer, cigarette pants, and Gianvito Rossi heels.

“Just . . . trying a new look,” I say.

Angela grins. “Not bad,” she says. “We should see if we can get Oran to agree to Casual Friday once Weiss retires.”

“Good luck with that,” I laugh. “You know Oran loves a three-piece suit more than anyone.”

“True.” Angela lowers her tone, leaning into my office a little further. “Hey, did you hear about Josh?”

“What?” I ask, playing dumb.

Angela grimaces. “He killed himself.”

“He did?” I say. I’m a terrible actor, but Angela doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too wrapped up in the drama of this particular piece of gossip.

“Yeah. Just yesterday. It’s so weird—I never thought he was the type. You know, he always seemed so full of himself. I guess I shouldn’t say that, now that he’s dead.”

“Why did he do it?” I ask her. I want to know if anybody’s heard about the embezzlement. Angela always knows what’s going on in the office—if there’s a rumor circulating, she’ll be the first to hear it.

But she just shakes her head. “Who knows! He was fighting with his girlfriend. But I bet it wasn’t that.”

“Huh,” I say. “Well I guess you never know . . . ”

She steps all the way inside, speaking even more quietly. “I bet it was a work thing.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well,” she casts a quick glance back over her shoulder in the direction of Uncle Oran’s office. “I saw Oran giving him shit a couple of times. Pulling him into his office for private chats, and then Josh came out looking stressed as fuck, like he got dressed down. And he was bragging to Lucy that the partnership was in the bag . . . but the rest of us thought you were going to get it. So if he found out it was yours . . . I could see him losing it.”

She catches the look on my face, and quickly adds, “Not like I’m blaming you for what he did! It’s not your fault—you deserve to make partner. You’ve worked your fucking ass off. So you shouldn’t feel bad about it. I’m just saying . . . he seemed kinda delusional about it. So I could see him freaking out, if it came as a surprise.”

“Yeah,” I say, slowly. “You might be right.”

“It’s just so weird,” Angela says. “He acted totally normal all day long! And then he leaves and just shoots himself . . . ”

I’m about to nod, but something catches in my brain—like a nail snagging on fabric.

“Wait,” I say. “Josh came to work yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Angela says. “He was here all day.”

“I thought he called in? Said he had the flu or something?”

Angela frowns and shakes her head. “Not that I know of. He definitely didn’t have the flu. He was strutting around like usual, giving Lucy shit over some letter she forgot to type up for him, and complaining about the espresso machine.”

“What time did he leave?”

“I don’t know—about four or five o’clock? Early enough that I thought he probably had a date with his girlfriend. Why?”

I look at her blankly, my mouth open. “I . . . no reason,” I say.

“It’s weird as fuck for sure,” Angela says, tossing back her long, dark hair. “Anyway, glad to see you back.”

“Thanks,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

Angela strides off toward the elevators in her sky-high heels, briefcase in hand.

I watch her go, my thoughts chaotic and troubled.

I need to talk to Uncle Oran.