Page 12 of Stolen Vows
Ignoring that dig, I make a sweeping hand gesture, indicating to my house staff lurking close by that we’re ready for drinks. Anna, a petite strawberry blond with a matching pink-ish complexion, scrambles in quickly, setting a silver tray of cocktails before us.
Silence settles in the air while she’s here, and she pauses, looking at me for direction. Despite being among us for a few years now, she’s never been comfortable in the presence of De Tore men. Not that I blame her when they’re sizing her up in the white polo and black dress pants she has on, as if she’s their next meal.
The others hate cocktails, but I’m a fan of them, so I lean forward and snatch one up. Taking a sip, I bask in the raspberry flavor and give Anna a curt nod of dismissal.
I don’t miss the sideways glance she tosses Frankie Galenti, who stands just behind the couch, his wrists crossed over the juncture of his legs. He doesn’t return it or meet the gaze of the men here, choosing to remain close enough to react only if I need him to. He’s my right-hand man, the only one I really trust in this room.
“We’re worried about the way it looks.” Ranolfo D’Avanzo, the oldest and most revered Elder, shakes his head, pointing his lit Cuban at me. “She’s Italian, which is good, but we don’t want to be seen as an ally of a known traitor. Not when we’re trying to move in on former Ricci trade and protection sanctions, make them our own.”
A few glances are cast in Frankie’s general direction, at the blue diamond inked on the tanned skin beneath his left eye. The informant’s diamond.
I smother a smirk at their discomfort. If his loyalty weren’t enough to make them uneasy, the fact he’s a former boyfriend of mine certainly would. Not that we were ever that serious; I’ve always been too involved with the family business to entertain deep commitments, and Frankie prefers a partner he doesn’t have to answer to. Our relationship is better suited to the dynamic we have now.
“We can still do those things whether she’s here or not,” I tell them. “I fail to see the issue.”
“It makes you look weak,” my father notes. “Which makesmelook weak. Like I don’t have control over my own son. What else might I not have control over? How can I be trusted to organize deals with premium product, or to facilitate services that’ll keep officials off our asses?”
I roll my eyes and get to my feet, strolling across the room to the connecting kitchen. A knife block rests on the breakfast bar, and I run my fingers over one of the larger black handles, removing it slowly. My back is to them when I speak again. “Please. Rafael didn’t have the cash we wanted, and he said he didn’t know where his wife was, so I made an executive decision and took what he valued. If anything, ourallieswill thank me for getting leverage on the bastard. Christ knows you were never able to.”
They're barking up the wrong tree if they’re looking for remorse over my taking of Stella. I won’t apologize, and I won’t give her back.
Not now that I know how terribly sweet she tastes. Like rainfall at night. A beautiful song in the midst of utter silence.
My father grumbles something to Ranolfo. I listen to them silently, the tip of the knife still lodged just inside the block, taunting me.
“You’ll have to deal with your nonna then. Not to mention Aunt Regina and the cousins who’ll look at a Ricci as a slap in the face,” says Zeno Zorzi, a second or third cousin and the head of import oversight.
“They’ll be mad that there was no wedding,” my father adds. “Expect a formal ceremony soon, if your nonna gets her way. Lord knows she’s been dying for the chance.”
“Aurelio’s gonna want bedsheets,” Ranolfo points out.
My heart drums an unsteady rhythm in my chest.
Why hadn’t I thought about all the bullshit I’d be dragging Stella through just to be with me? Aurelio’s pushing one hundred, but since he’s the former underboss to my great-grandfather, his desire to uphold tradition is generally respected by the rest of the De Tores.
There are rules in this world. Expectations.
But I didn’t give a fuck about any of that when I had the woman of my dreams offered up on a silver platter.
I just…wantedher.
I would’ve put the De Tore family and business through hell to have her.
Uncle Gino, at least, sighs in resigned acquiescence. “My advice? Lock her up in this tower. Get her pregnant. If she spits out a brat for you, the other families will know you’re serious and not just trying to pull something over on them. The De Tore lineage will live on, and you won’t be risking our fucking necks because you wanted to show how big your dick was.”
“I wanted a wife, not a broodmare.” My dominant hand curls around the knife’s handle, heat rushing to my face as rage simmers in my blood. “I will do with her as I see fit.”
“Perhaps we should all do that,” my father suggests, his voice cutting through the air with a screech. “Do with her as we see fit, that is. If she’s just a business asset to you, I don’t suppose you’d mind running her through more…rigorous tests to prove her loyalty?”
Zeno seems to slap someone on the back before he chimes in. “Cristo, of course! If you’re not man enough to handle it, I’m sure any of us would be happy to break her in for ya. You’re not theonlyone with De Tore blood.”
Everything seems to freeze. A hush falls over the men, and my neck cracks as my head swivels slowly to the side. My shoulders come next, then my hips, and lastly my feet, until I’m once again facing my men.
A sinister smile graces my father’s angular face—my face, though older and without the influence of the mother who abandoned us three weeks postpartum. Can’t say I blame her, but she could’ve taken me along.
The chef’s knife is heavy against my palm, and I touch the sharp tip with a gloved finger, twisting it slowly. “Is that a threat?”
My father lifts a shoulder, nonchalant. “Hardly, Son. Just a suggestion. There’s no better way to ensure someone’s obedience than to send them through our ranks. The men have a history of testing out new initiates, you know?”
