Defiant Vows

Chapter Thirty-Four

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

VIVIANA

I can understand why Vincent Van Gogh spent his final hours in life painting. There’s something therapeutic about the brushstrokes. About mere paint on canvas and the ability to create something out of nothing. Of course, at the end, Van Gogh poured his pain into the post-impressionist swirls of yellow and green and brown. When I paint, there’s only joy.

Bright pastels and long, sweeping brushstrokes. Depictions of cotton candy skies and springtime mountain havens. They’re not the best. God knows I’ll only ever show the finished products to my husband. To Luc, my paintings are priceless, and, as time passes, I find myself believing him.

Biggie lounges on the ground at my feet, a soft, steady snore timed with the rise and fall of his flanks. When Luc first gifted me this studio, I purchased a plush dog bed, but the slobbery mongrel prefers to sleep close by. Like his father, he’s become more protective of me and my swollen belly in recent months.

I rest a hand on the top of my bump, smearing peach paint on my ratty t-shirt, and smile. Profound warmth sweeps through my body as I consider the baby boy growing in my womb. It won’t be long now.

A soft knock sounds from the doorway behind me, and I turn my gaze toward the only person who spends as much time in my art studio as me. Luc leans a shoulder against the doorframe, his arms crossed against his broad chest and a lazy grin stretched on his mouth. “Hello, beautiful.”

Delight skitters up my vertebra, and I set my paintbrush aside to greet him. “You’re home early!”

Luc pushes away from the threshold to meet me halfway. He wraps me up in his arms with painstaking care and kisses me long and slow, careful to avoid crushing my belly between us. Despite my insistence, he still believes the smallest nudge could hurt our baby. When he pulls back, he peppers one last kiss on the tip of my nose but continues cradling my cheeks in his calloused palms.

“I canceled my last two meetings of the day,” he admits, eyes trailing down the length of my body as if ensuring that nothing has changed since he left this morning. “I think I’ll let Gio take my city appointments until the baby comes. I don’t like being so far away from you.”

I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads to my toes. “He’s still at least a month away.”

“It could happen sooner,” Luc replies dubiously.

“It also doesn’t happen all at once,” I tease, rubbing my palms up and down his chest. “You’d have plenty of time to make it back home. But, I’m not going to complain. You can help me with the finishing touches of Dominic’s nursery.”

He slides his hands to my neck, kisses me once again, and steps back. “I thought we finished the nursery months ago.” As soon as an ultrasound told us we were having a boy, in fact. Luc narrows his eyes. “Or did you change the theme again?”

“I did no such thing!” I gasp, feigning indignation. “But I did find a different shade of green for an accent wall. I was going to ask Carlo, but if you’re here…”

Luc chuckles. “I’ll be happy to paint it whatever color you want.”

“Thank you!” I chirp, rising to my tiptoes to gain better access to his mouth for another kiss.

Our lips unite, and I dare to brush my tongue along his seam—my hormones have made me a desperate, lustful beast in the last few weeks—in hopes of starting something for the second time today. This morning, he spent half an hour with his head between my thighs before leaving for work.

He knows what I want. A low groan rumbles from his chest, and his hands fall to my hips, digging into the extra flesh I’ve gained in pregnancy. He tugs me closer, a task made more difficult by my belly, but it’s enough to send heat coursing to my center. My fingers nimbly start unfastening the buttons on his collared shirt.

Luc groans again, but frustration underlines the guttural sound. His hands clasp on my wrists, gently prying my greedy fingers from his clothing. “Wait, cattivella… There’s something we need to talk about first.”

I grunt, reluctant to stop what we’ve only just begun. I’m insatiable. “Later. I need —”

“It’s about Elenora.”

His words are a bucket of ice water dousing my flame. I step back, eyes wide. “Elenora?”

We don’t talk about my sister often. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve spoken her name in the last seven months. When we hopped on a jet to leave that Chicago hospital so many months ago, Luc put Elenora on a plane, too. Whereas we returned home to New York, he sent her to Italy. She currently resides with distant Venturi relatives in Milan, where she’s meant to spend the rest of her days in exile.

“Did something happen?” I whisper, fear gripping me by the throat. I haven’t forgiven Elenora—don’t know if I’ll ever fully trust her again—but she’s my blood.

“She’s coming back to New York.”

I blink. Of all the things I expected Luc to say, that wasn’t one of them. He’s made his hatred of Elenora well known. If it weren’t for me, he would’ve killed and washed his hands of her in the basement in Chicago. He wouldn’t let her set foot on New York soil again unless for a good reason.

Suspicion creeps into my mind. I draw my lips into a thin line. “Why?”

Luc rubs his hands up and down my arms, his skin warm and comforting over the goosebumps that formed over this surprising news. “She won’t get within a mile of you and Dominic. I can promise you that.”

My frown deepens, but I don’t step away from his touch. “I’m not afraid of Elenora, Luc. I’m afraid for her. Why is she coming to New York?”

His comforting strokes stop, and his tongue darts over his bottom lip. I recognize the gleam in his eyes. He disapproves of my persisting love for my sister and is considering his next words carefully. Eventually, a long sigh slips from him, and I have enough sense to dread what he says next.

“We’ve reached a tentative truce with the Bratva,” he admits, something like reluctance pooling in his gray gaze. “But they want more than my word that our hostilities will cease. They want a marriage.”

The puzzle pieces fall into place quickly after that. A marriage. Elenora’s marriage to one of our gravest enemies.

“To who?” I demand, my jaw clenching to the point of pain.

“The pakhan’s brother, Maksim Morozov.”

My mouth goes dry, and I wrap my arms overtop my rounded stomach. “Does she know? Are you forcing her?”

Though my marriage to Luc transformed into the greatest blessing of my life, most women aren’t so lucky. Arranged marriages dehumanize women, reducing them to mere wombs—pawns in the wicked games of men. And a marriage to the brother of the Russian mafia’s boss…

“I’d never force her,” Luc admonishes, two little lines forming between his brows. Guilt twists at my gut.

“You’re right,” I amend, bridging the gap between us with a hand on his wrist. “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised. So she’s already agreed to do it?”

He dips his chin, eyes softening to show he’s already forgiven my barbed interrogation. “She volunteered, actually. She already speaks the language and prepared most of her life for a similar fate. She has also promised to gather intel on behalf of the Cosa Nostra. It will be like having a fly on the wall of the viper’s den.”

My brows lift, and disbelief coats my voice. “She agreed to help you? After everything that has happened?”

“She’s quite motivated.” One corner of Luc’s mouth quirks upward into a small, pitying smile. “Something about redeeming herself and wanting to know her nephew.”

He waves off the sentiment like it means nothing, but I know my husband. He’s a fair man. If Elenora promised to do this in exchange for a shot at redemption, Luc will give it to her. But first, she must bind herself, body and soul, to a man we’ve been conditioned to hate for his last name and the Russian blood in his veins.

Tears sting my eyes. “Do you think she’ll be safe?”

“Yes, I do.” Luc’s hands find my cheeks, and the pad of his thumb brushes a rogue droplet from my cheek as soon as it falls. “Your sister is an ill-tempered, cunning shrew. In fact, I pity the Russians.”

I laugh and lean my cheek into his palm, turning my head to kiss the center of it. “Maybe it won’t be so bad. It worked out for you and me , didn’t it?”

“I’m glad you think so,” he teases.

I pinch his side. The rumble of his laughter must wake up Dominic, for our son flutters in response to the deep vibration. Luc strokes my cheek again, and his eyes brim with unfettered devotion as he bends to unite our lips once more. It’s a wonderful feeling, being loved by the man who owns your heart, and not one that I ever thought I’d enjoy.

But Luc is here, and he is mine, and he loves me. Whatever the future brings, with Elenora and the Russians and little Dominic, I know that will remain true.