A Vow of Lust and Fury: A dark mafia romance Read online

  When I entered my father’s office, the scent of cigars greeted me. Father sat behind the huge desk that dwarfed everything else in the room, a haze of smoke gently swirling through the sunlight that poured through the window.

  This room always brought a sense of nostalgia, memories of moments spent sitting on my father’s lap in that very chair as he read from first editions of Charles Dickens and Lewis Carroll. That was before, though. My father was no longer that man, and whatever innocent adoration I’d once held for him had long since been torn away. Now, it wasn’t my father who drew my attention but my uncle. He leaned against the front of the desk, arms folded as he watched me approach. His shrewd gaze swept over me, the void in his eyes making me as uncomfortable as ever before he sneered. I had no doubt that my beach wear and soaked-through dress were not considered suitable attire for this asshole’s presence.

  The charcoal-gray suit he wore was nearly the same color as his neatly combed hair, clinging to a wiry body. Sergio Donato could almost pass as a businessman if it weren’t for the ice in his eyes, a kind of cold that dug into your soul and pried you apart from the inside. Uncle Sergio had always scared me. When I was younger, I thought he was the Scar to my father’s Mufasa. Little did I know that Disney had gotten it wrong, and the bad guy always wore the crown, not that my father was some regal saint.

  I could feel my uncle’s gaze burning into the side of my face as I took a seat in front of the desk. My heart let out a thundering beat that felt an awful lot like the symphony of my impending demise, and I gritted my jaw, forcing my figurative armor into place.

  “Emilia,” my father began. His dark gaze bore into me, daring me to misbehave in front of his brother. “You are to be wed.” Just like that. He said the words like he was discussing what we were having for dinner.

  Of course, I had thought this might happen at some point; that I’d be standing right here in this room while my parents tried to sell me off and buy something favorable with my virginity. The fact that Father would even try to do this to me after everything… But no, the same man who had read Alice in Wonderland to me now offered nothing but indifference in the face of my worst nightmare. Maybe this was what it took to stand at the top of The Outfit. No heart. No soul.

  Anger punched through the horror, licking up my spine until it took everything in me to keep my expression smooth. Emotions weren’t welcome here, and the only thing that would garner me respect right now was strength. I’d long ago been robbed of the innocent belief that women in the mafia were valued. That men like Uncle Sergio and my father could and would protect us. It was bullshit. Women in the mafia were assets, protected for their worth. Nothing else.

  I stared straight at my father, squaring my shoulders. “No.”

  Uncle Sergio shifted to his full height and turned his back on me as he moved to the window, as though I were unworthy of his full attention. “Your father believes you are capable of doing your duty for The Outfit, Emilia.” He spat my name like it offended him. “This marriage is an important one and would be most beneficial with a Donato bride.” Of which there was only one left—thanks to him and my father. “Of course, Matteo Romano still believes he is also owed a Donato bride.”

  Just the sound of that man’s name was like a shot of ice into my veins, paralyzing my ailing heart.

  Sergio glanced over his shoulder. “Seeing as the first one was…defunct.”

  “My sister was not defunct!” I snapped while my father said nothing. Not a word.

  My uncle’s lips twitched, mocking me, enjoying my suffering. “Would you rather marry him?”

  My temper bubbled beneath my skin, wild and volatile, and I vowed to myself right then that one day…one day, I would kill that man. He would die in the flames of fury he had stoked in me for years.

  “Even you cannot make me speak vows to that piece of shit, old man.”

  My uncle moved like a snake, the back of his hand colliding with my cheek. Blood exploded in my mouth as he gripped my throat, yanking me to my feet until my body was flush against his. Again, my father said not a damn word. And me, I smiled in my uncle’s face because I’d made him lose control and gotten a reaction.

  “If you will not speak those vows, then you will be his whore. To fuck and break. I’m sure he won’t mind either way, and you’re no use to me if you won’t marry.”

  My smile faded, and hot, angry tears stung the backs of my eyes as blood trickled from my split lip. I tried to be brave, not to back down to these men and their threats, but this was one I couldn’t hide my fear of—Matteo Romano.

  My uncle knew he’d won, and a smug smile pulled at the corners of his lips as he shoved me back into the chair. I sucked in a ragged breath as he smoothed a hand down the front of his suit.

  “Good. Now…your marriage.”

  I had no comeback, no words, no fight. He’d played his trump card, and in this moment, he had me. Because really, how was I supposed to stand up to a man like him? Right now, I couldn’t, but I could bide my time. I might not have succeeded in escaping my family, but if they wanted me to marry—

  “You will marry Giovanni Guerra. He is consigliore and underboss to Nero Verdi.”

  My heart dropped.

  I hated everything that encompassed our world—the traditions, the codes, the false decency. Those were the thick, black lines of my life, placing me in a tiny box. But Nero Verdi and Giovanni Guerra…the New York Famiglia had no lines. I’d heard the rumors. They killed women and children, obliterated their competition so ruthlessly, few would or could stand against them. Least of all, my uncle and father. Why the hell was he trying to ally with the Famiglia? But of course, the answer was obvious. Power. Power he was willing to buy with me. The thought made me sick. On more than one occasion, my father had said that the Famiglia had no honor, no code. Although, honestly, I’d seen what “honorable” men did, and that word didn’t mean a thing to me anymore. Still, Father was willing to sell me to men he himself branded as monsters, and I couldn’t deny that it hurt.

  Uncle Sergio watched my silent monologue with narrowed eyes. “I see you know the name.”

  “Yes,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady.

  He grabbed my chin, thumb swiping over my bloody lip and making me wince before he forced my gaze to his. He towered over me, and I wanted to stand, but I also didn’t want him to think he intimidated me. “Matteo wants an unruly whore to break. Giovanni Guerra will expect a proper Outfit wife. Obedient, submissive, one who knows her place. Which are you, Emilia? A wild whore or a mafia princess?”

  Neither. I was just a girl who wanted to be free of this life. But this…Matteo…this was a punishment, leverage to make me marry Giovanni Guerra, and it was truly cruel in a way only my uncle could be.

  “Do you hate me so much, Uncle?”

  He released my chin. “Don’t be childish. We all have our duty, girl.” He grasped my hand and tugged me to my feet before kissing both my cheeks like he hadn’t just hit me and threatened to let that animal rape me. “You’d do well to remember it.”

  Oh, I’d remember this well. I’d carve it on my heart and wear the scar until the day I could repay Uncle Sergio the favor. He flashed me a knowing grin before turning to my father.

  They shook hands, and the second the door clicked shut behind him, I picked up a paperweight off the desk and launched it after him, leaving a dent in the door.

  “Fuck!” Angry tears stung the backs of my eyes. I wanted to kill him. And my father. And Matteo. And this Giovanni. Men who thought they could sell me or buy me.

  My father turned his back on me and stared out the window, ignoring my outburst. A curse slipped under his breath before he faced me. The coldness had left his eyes, replaced with obvious stress. “You cannot talk to him like that, Emilia. Your uncle will not be as lenient on you as I am.”

  “Lenient? You just sold me like a damn horse in your stable. And if I don’t marry this guy, I’m sure you’ll stand by and hand me over to be r
aped by that creature.”

  “Enough!” he roared, slamming both hands onto the desk.

  He didn’t scare me, though. I’d known for years that my father was a small man. I’d long since lost all respect for him.

  “Why? Does it bother you, hearing the truth? That you already let it happen to Chiara.” I moved closer until my thighs bumped the desk. “That you failed to protect the one person you should have at all costs. Am I as disposable as she was because I have a vagina?” My voice cracked, giving away my hurt through my attempt at holding a front.

  He grabbed the edge of the desk, dropping his head forward as though the weight of the world rested on him. “The Famiglia are…uncouth, but Giovanni is honorable enough.”

  I snorted. “Tell me, Father, would you consider yourself honorable?”

  He glanced at me, his lips pressing in a thin line.

  “Yeah, your version of honor doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  His jaw clenched, the muscle ticcing, but he said nothing. I wanted to cut him, emotionally and physically. I wanted him to hurt like I did because some deep-seated part of me was still pathetically wishing my father would protect me from a world I’d never asked to be a part of. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  “I love you, Emilia. This is for the best.”

  There were a thousand things I wanted to say, but it had all been said before, all fallen on deaf ears. Because his loyalty was to his brother, not his daughter.

  I turned and walked toward the door. “We both know that’s a lie. I’m nothing more than a whore to you and your boss.” I heard his sharp intake of breath as I yanked open the door.

  I had barely made it into the hall before my father’s footsteps pounded after me, and he snatched my wrist in a bruising grip. He didn’t even say anything, just dragged me to the door halfway down the corridor, taking a key from his pocket to unlock it. My pulse ticked up, panic threading through my veins, but I refused to let any of my fear show on the outside. He opened it and dragged me down the stairs before unlocking the door at the bottom and shoving me inside the small, windowless room. There was only a bed, a toilet, and a shelf full of books. Nothing else. There was a time when I would be crying now, begging and pleading with him not to leave me here. Those pleas always fell on deaf ears, though, so I learned not to show weakness to men who had no mercy.

  I turned to face him in the doorway, and he closed the distance between us, stroking a hand over my hair.

  “Emilia,” he said softly.

  For a moment, I held the vain hope that he might say something to show he actually gave a shit. It was the sad need of a daughter who still held a glimmer of hope that her father actually loved her.

  “You will marry Giovanni Guerra.”

  I stepped back, and his hand fell away.

  “Matteo wants you, and if you do not learn your place, then I fear Sergio will agree to Romano’s terms. He will not risk bartering an unruly bride for a fragile alliance. Please. I do not want to lose another daughter.”

  “You already have,” I said as I took another step back and another until I fell onto the bed that was as familiar to me as the luxury one upstairs. That tentative hope shattered inside my chest as I remembered I was truly alone.

  My father let out a long breath. “You will stay in here until you come to your senses.” Then he shut the door, the click of the lock enough to stoke the flames of my fear. The four walls pressed in on me, and there was no escape.

  No one was going to save me from this because, in this story, there was no white knight or prince charming, only a sea of villains, and I, cast amongst them.

  Emilia

  One Week Later…

  My heart was pounding a staccato beat as the bright lights of Chicago faded in the side mirror. With Renzo’s help, I’d fled my own engagement party, ran while everyone was distracted and the guards were letting guests on and off the property. Nothing but open road lay before us, and a weight lifted off my chest, allowing me to breathe properly for what felt like the first time since I’d first understood what my father did. It was the untainted air of freedom.

  I’d run before and not even made it out of the city, but this time was different. Right now, this rusted old sedan felt like the sweetest freedom, and even the stench of cigarettes and fast food in here couldn’t shadow my elation. But one thing could, and that was my brother sitting behind the wheel, running with me. I knew he was the only reason I’d even made it this far, but when I accepted his offer to help me at the house, I’d never expected him to stay with me. The guilt was like a knife twisting between my ribs.

  “Ren…”

  He turned down the radio, the twang of country music fading into a low hum. “Don’t start again, Emi.”

  “You could just drop me at a bus station and go back. Dad will forgive you.”

  The glow from the lights on the dashboard played over the angry set of his jaw. “No. I’m coming with you. End of—”

  “You know they’re coming for us, Renzo.”

  The moment Giovanni Guerra turned up at that party and his fiancée was nowhere to be found, they’d hunt us like a pack of dogs on a game trail.

  “He’s going to come for me. I should have met him, feigned a headache or something. Bought us more time.”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re right, he is going to come for you. I will do everything possible to keep you from him but trust me, it’s better for him to think you ran blindly from marriage than you don’t want to marry him. It will be less of a stain on his honor.”

  There it was again, talk of honor from heinous men. That was even more reason for Renzo to go home, though.

  “I can do this alone, Ren—”

  “You really think I’m going to leave you to fend for yourself?”

  “Leave me with a gun.”

  He snorted, though there was no humor in the sound. “If it gets to that point, you’re already fucked. You need me to help you, so you never have to come face to face with him.”

  “And if he finds us?”

  He tried to hide it, but I saw the fear painted in the lines of my brother’s face. He didn’t answer me, though, just turned up the music and focused on the road ahead.

  We had enough clothes for a week, our passports, and cash. And so, we drove through the night. At every gas station, I was looking over my shoulder, just waiting for one of my uncle’s men or Giovanni to jump out like the boogeyman. We swapped cars and trudged on along the interstate until the oncoming blur of headlights reduced to intermittent big rigs. Finally, the adrenaline waned, and I drifted into a fitful sleep.

  When Renzo shook me awake, the sun was rising, the last whispered pink hues of dawn fading against bright skies. In front of us was the Canadian border, like a bright, glowing safe haven. Of course, it wasn’t. They’d follow us anywhere, but it at least felt safer than Chicago. Renzo thought Canada was the last place they’d expect us to go, though. Instead of crossing at the nearest point in Detroit, we’d skirted Minneapolis and crossed at Fort Frances. He flashed our passports to the border patrol, and they let us pass without issue.

  The first town we came to, Renzo pulled into a Walmart parking lot, and we ditched the car, changing it out for a minivan he stole. My brother looked ridiculous behind the wheel, but for once, I was too tired and stressed to even mock him for it.

  By that evening, having not slept for nearly two days, Renzo could barely keep his eyes open. My father had never let me learn to drive, or I would have gladly taken over. I guess he didn’t want to give me any greater chances of running away. After pleading with him to stop, Renzo finally pulled over at a service station, parking in a far corner at the back of the lot.

  He handed me his gun. “Anyone comes, you point and shoot.”

  I lifted a brow. “Anyone?”

  A small smile cut across his lips. “I mean, if a hot hooker rocks up—”

  “You’re gross.”

  Renzo snorted and closed his ey
es. As he drifted to sleep, I noticed the stress lines that clung to his normally youthful features, even in rest. That now-familiar guilt spread over my skin like a rash. My gaze drifted out the window at an eighteen-wheeler that had pulled into the service station, its gut-heavy driver refueling himself and his vehicle. I could just get out of the car now, hitch a ride with him somewhere. Renzo could go home. Would Father punish him? Undoubtedly. But I knew he wouldn’t kill him. Renzo was too important to The Outfit, an enforcer, the boss’s nephew.

  I reached for the door handle, and the second it clicked open, the interior light came on, startling Renzo awake. He looked around before his eyes landed on me.

  “What are you doing?” he snapped, leaning over me and tugging the door shut before engaging the locks.

  “I…I just needed to pee,” I lied, unwilling to admit to anything that would make me seem ungrateful.

  Renzo huffed out a breath. “Fine.” He took the gun from me. “Come on.”

  And so, I earned myself the indignation of my brother waiting right outside the stall while I peed, and he lost some precious sleep to my stupidity.

  That was how the next couple of days went as we steadily made our way north and farther from civilization. Cities gave way to snowy forests and lakes that looked like a mirrored doorway to some forgotten world. Despite the danger of our situation, there was a certain peace here. The vastness of it all made me feel small, a needle that could easily get lost in a haystack, and that made me feel safer. After three days on the road, Renzo finally thought it was safe enough for us to stay in a motel room for the night, and I was grateful. My back and hips were aching from being in the car.

  It was late when we pulled up outside a run-down-looking motel in a tiny town. A blinking, red neon sign lingered over the gravel parking lot of a wooden building. It was quaint and kind of creepy, like something out of a Stephen King novel.

  After Renzo got the key and our bags, he led me to one of the doors on the ground floor. The night air was freezing, and the jeans and heavy sweater I wore did little to keep out the chill as we crossed the lot to the room. The faded red paint was peeling from the door, and the number 6 hung at a jaunty angle. We stepped into musty, yellow walls, floral bedspreads, and worn carpet. The entire room smelled like feet, cigarette smoke, and desperation because only the most desperate souls would find themselves here, surely. I had to wonder what that made us because compared to the last two nights, this was an upgrade. I perched on the edge of the bed while Renzo set about checking the bathroom, then pulling the curtains and locking the door. I turned on the little box TV, and the room flooded with the low hum of enthusiastic infomercials.