Page 9 of Stolen Vows
“Don’t pretend you did any of this forme. I’d probably be better off dead.”
One of his brows rises. “How long have you been suicidal,stellina?”
“I’m not. It’s a figure of speech,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “And my name is Stella.”
“I know what your name is.” He gives me an unreadable look, then comes closer. “I’ve been watching you, you know.”
“Creepy.”
He grins. “Every Sunday at church. You’d come in with your head down and sit between your mother and sisters, like a buffer between them. Eventually, you started to come alone, though you sat in the same pew like the dutiful little Catholic girl you are. Most people told me not to bother, because you were more interested in your books than anything else. But sometimes, I’dfeel your gaze. You wouldn’t look anywhere but at the priest or me, and it feltgoodwhen I had your attention. Like the Devil winning against God. I could never stop staring.”
I roll my eyes, though something churns in my stomach at the idea of him watching me. Like a predator stalking its prey. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never noticed.”
How could I have missed him looking back?
He moves forward again, standing so close that our clothes brush. “You wore these thick, square-framed glasses that were almost too big for your face, but also made you look wise beyond your years. They once gave you a choir solo, and I remember questioning my faith because your voice was so perfect. You weren’t given another after that, supposedly because they didn’t want to highlight someone with your worldly curiosity. I’ve always wondered if that was why your participation seemed to become robotic. Is it possible you lost your way then, too?”
My eyes burn. “Science doesn’t mix so well with creationism. I tend to have more faith in the former.”
“As do I.” He licks his lips. “What happened to the glasses?”
“Contacts.” The word is barely a whisper, and I’m not sure he hears it.
Instead, I watch his gaze dip to where my hand still rests on my biceps, and I try not to get too caught up on the bombshell he just dropped on me.
Leopoldo De Tore noticedme?No one else ever has—or at least, they’ve never been bold enough to say so.
Even though it shouldn’t, that knowledge makes my belly twist with some sort of perverse pleasure.
“Get her an ice pack,” he snaps suddenly at the guard, who scurries away with his tail tucked.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh at how pathetic I find the ranking system in the Mafia. How these grown men, capable of gruesome acts of violence, fall into line so easilydepending on who has the most money or physical prowess—or the preferable bloodline.
“Something amusing?” Leopoldo asks, raising his hand to my face.
I flinch out of instinct, then freeze when he only tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “No. I just find your trained rats vaguely entertaining.”
The oneratstill standing out here with us clears his throat, turning away.
“Funny that you, of all people, would call them rats, considering what the whole of Boston calls your family.” Putting his back to the other guard, Leopoldo lowers his voice and tilts his head. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter much now, does it? You’re a De Tore as of five minutes ago.”
A knot forms in my throat. This is the opposite of freedom—of everything I’ve worked so hard to get.
“Asa De Tore,” he continues, pulling away from me, “do you care to explain the grievous act of treason you committed by bringing a weapon to a business meeting?”
I watch in horror as he reaches up, slides two fingers into his mouth, and pulls out the blade. He holds it between us, and I notice that it’s still wrapped in blue athletic tape.
My chest tightens, and I take a step back, bumping up against the brick wall. “Youhad a weapon.”
“I wasn’t hiding it, was I?”
“So, it would’ve been fine if I’d come to you with it in plain sight?”
He ignores the question, leaning back in. “Do you realize what would have happened if one of myratsknew you had this on you? If they thought, even for a second, that you were some kind of threat?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
“It wouldn’t stop with you either. Sure, I’d be forced to slit your throat with the damn thing—although it’s so small, I’m not sure that would be very effective. But I’d send people after your family. Your papà. Your bitch of a mamma, wherever she is. Your sisters.” His eyes almost seem to glow in the flickering overhead lighting, like talking about violence excites him. “Everyone you’ve ever loved would suffer, all because you were too stupid to wait and kill me with something you found at my home.”
