Page 2 of Stolen Vows
For a long time, I convinced myself it was better that way, but now, I can’t help feeling like I’ve made myself a sitting duck where my father is concerned. Perhaps if I’d not been so intent on getting out and going to college far away, I’d have been able to anticipate this. Maybe I’d have been able to escape.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Papà says after a moment, still not looking at me. “I realize this isn’t the money I told you I would bring, but I have a feeling you’ll find my daughter a bit more interesting.”
Fuck. It’s too late. I should have run before we came inside.
A dark chuckle echoes from the altar’s penumbra, followed by a stentorian voice that sends a shiver down my spine. “Where’s the cash you owe?”
“Isn’t a pound of flesh worth more to you?” Papà presses.
My bones grow hollow as I continue standing, struggling to break free from my father’s hold. We’ve all heard the stories about the man in the shadows—how he possesses the brute strength of a feral animal and the patience of one recently caged. Though he’s only a year older than me, the men in my father’s ranks have feared him for ages, with rumors of his detachment and thirst for blood making him a terrifying threat to the tenuous hierarchy of the underground world.
They say he kills indiscriminately and has been known to feast on his enemies just to keep an edge over his opponents.
“I’m afraid you’re overestimating your daughter’s value.”
Ouch. My head whips in the direction of that faceless voice, my brows drawing inward. “Excuse?—”
“Stella’s priceless,” Papà cuts in, squeezing my arm so tight that it tingles. “You have no idea how many offers for her I’ve fielded since she turned sixteen.”
A long, drawn-out pause. Then: “What exactly are you presenting to me?”
He sounds much older than his nineteen years, and I wonder if the pressure from a life of crime does that to a person.
Do I seem older than eighteen to him?
Then, an immediate follow-up:Why do I care how I appear to him? I’m not planning on sticking around anyway.
Still, Papà doesn’t let me go. A small sound of frustration blows past my lips, and I grapple with his fingers, trying to pry them off one by one.
He gives me a harsh shake. “The last daughter I have at home. Take what every other man in the city wants, and we can discuss money later.”
“How convenient for you.”
“She’s untouched.”
At that, I recoil from Papà completely, releasing him and distancing myself as much as I can while he maintains a hold on me.
“My older two fucked up my plans before I could get them involved in their full duties for the family, but this one…I managed to keep her under lock and key. You want to be the first to ruin her? Be my guest.”
The shadows ripple with dull laughter, and it almost feels like the sound is coming from the darkness with the way its owner is hidden. “What makes you think I’m interested in a virgin?”
“Oh, come on. You’re young, De Tore, but you’re a man.” Papà’s free hand comes up, reaching out before I have a chance to smack it away. He grabs my chin, curling his fingers into my cheeks so my mouth scrunches up. “Look at this face and tell meyou don’t want to know how red it’ll get choking down your cock in an hour.”
Bile burns the back of my throat; if he weren’t pinching so hard, I think I’d puke right on the altar.
I wonder if this is the kind of thing my sisters endured in private.How did they manage to get through it?Five minutes into this show of humiliation, and I wish God would smite me right inside this place of worship.
“Coglione.” The word—deadpanned in a language neither of my Italian American parents bothered to pass on to their children—is the first thing I hear outside of Papà’s heavy breaths in my ear.
A second later, the silhouette steps out of the shadows. Slowly, as if savoring the anticipation of his audience.
Long, strong legs reveal themselves first, clad in tailored black dress pants. Then, a tapered waist and broad shoulders beneath the matching suit jacket and leather gloves pulled tight over big hands. Two tendrils of ink-colored hair brush against his tannish skin, and his sleek jaw is covered in a thin layer of stubble that looks coarse to the touch.
People call himthe Demon of Boston.
In presence and stature, Leopoldo De Tore is massive. He practically takes up the air around us, vacuuming it from the altar space and leaving me gasping for breath as he stalks forward.
But it’s the eyes I can’t look away from—a smoky-gray color, like the clouds around a misty full moon. Outside of church functions, I’ve only seen him in passing at different occasions: funerals, weddings, holiday parties. As bad as his reputation may be, I’ve never been able to corral my interest.
