Corrupt Promises (Twisted Arrangements #4)

1. Ravenna

Ravenna

“ W here is your sister?” Mother paces the church’s small, dank bridal preparation room.

Her long black mourning dress sweeps the floor.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let her run that last minute errand this afternoon.

She’s made a run for it. I can’t believe she’d do something like that to us.

Your father will be furious.” She nervously wrings her hands.

I sit on the sofa, dressed in black to mourn my dead brother. Today I’m also prepared to lose my twin sister when she marries Cian O’Rourke, brutal leader of the Irish mob—the Gaelic Devils—and the man who murdered our brother Matteo.

Can I blame her for running? Not at all.

Do her actions totally screw us over? Yep.

Without Elena here to fulfill the terms of this arranged marriage, we’ll once again be at war with O’Rourke and his clan of cutthroat Irishmen. This wedding is our one chance at lasting peace. A deal sealed in marriage.

“Are you listening to me, Ravenna?” Mother scowls in my direction. “Call your sister again and tell her if she doesn’t show up I’ll toss her in a convent and throw away the key.”

I do as I’m told, not bothering to tell Mama that Elena would prefer a convent to marrying the man everyone calls The Beast . I don’t want to even think about how he came by that nickname.

Elena’s phone goes straight to voicemail, again. I relay the message, then pocket my phone. The clock on the wall shows a quarter to three. We have fifteen minutes before a Pontrelli woman has to walk down that aisle and seal this deal—or else we all face the consequences.

I am, quite literally, the only option. Is it a crazy idea?

Hell yes it is. Not to mention dangerous.

But I should have been the one chosen for this arranged marriage in the first place.

I’m not sure why my parents insisted they put this on Elena’s shoulders, other than she’s technically the older twin.

Even so, she’s always been the soft spoken one, who hates conflict. While I’m…the opposite. I might just survive being thrown to the Irish wolves. She wouldn’t.

I stand up and turn toward Mother. “We have no other choice, it has to be me who walks down that aisle. Father will be in a rage if this peace deal falls through.” I inwardly shudder at how he’d react. His wrath could very well be worse than anything the Irish might dish out.

Mother frowns. “You’re right, but we can’t tell O’Rourke he’ll be taking a different bride.

This is the man who postponed the wedding when we had to switch venues because the church flooded.

He suspected a trap. He’s a very suspicious man.

How do you think he’ll react when we promised him Elena and he gets you instead? ”

“Then we don’t tell him. They never met face-to-face, so he won’t know the difference.” Plus, we’re identical twins, a lot of people find it challenging to tell us apart until they get to know us.

The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

“We don’t tell anyone. I’ll walk down that aisle and marry him as Elena Pontrelli.

Once he figures out who I really am, it’ll be too late.

Not that it matters which sister he gets, all he’s looking for is the turf, and peace, he’ll gain by joining with our family. ”

“That’s true.” Mother mulls over my idea.

“Your father can’t tell you girls apart anyway, so until, and if, your sister resurfaces, our secret will be safe.

However, this can’t be temporary. A man like O’Rourke will kill you if he finds out we did a bait and switch. He can never learn your true identity.”

I swallow thickly. “Then from this day forth, I am Elena Pontrelli.” Will it be easy?

No. I’ll have to act more like Elena around my friends and family to pull this off.

Ugh, this is a mess, but we’ll figure it out.

I’ll worry about the future later. My sister has to resurface, because I can’t imagine life without her.

Mother glances toward the door. “Are you sure about this? We don’t have much time.”

“Then we have to hurry.” I slip off my black dress and don the wedding gown that was designed for Elena. Luckily our measurements are close enough that it fits well. I slip into her shoes, put on her veil, and then I’m finally transformed… into my sister. And a bride—the wrong bride.

The clock strikes three. It’s time.

I release a slow exhale, my hands shake.

I have no idea who I’m going to find standing at the altar, but whoever he is, he’s some version of liberation from my family.

For a chance at freedom, I’ll marry an old man, an ugly man, just please, dear God, may he not be cruel to his wife. That is my single wish.

Give me a kind husband .

My father appears and I draw myself up, standing tall, then remember how Elena would act, and round my shoulders. I shrink into myself and avert my gaze, acting shy and compliant.

“Where’s Ravenna?” he demands, glancing around the small room.

“She wasn’t feeling well, so I sent her home in the car,” Mother lies to him. A bold act, coming from her. But she lost her only son because of this war, I know how badly she wants to see the violence end.

My stomach flips. This is the beginning of a life-long charade. Am I really going through with this?

“It doesn’t matter. We don’t really need her here.” He turns to me. “Pull down your veil, he doesn’t get to see you until you belong to him.”

I lower the veil over my face, obscuring my features from view.

Until I belong to him… It has to be better than belonging to you, Papa .

“Good. Come, Elena.” He tows me along by my arm, the sensation of spiders crawling up my spine at his touch.

Mother follows behind as we step into the aisle.

A solo pianist plays a wedding march. The only other people in the church are the priest, the groom, and his best man.

Everyone is wearing black except for me, sticking out like a sore thumb in brilliant white, which is a harsh color against my warm skin tone.

I’m a virginal sacrifice to finalize a contract between two powerful men. I’ve never felt more like an object, to be traded, bought, or sold, in my entire life.

My gaze flicks between the men at the altar, and I immediately know which one is the groom, because only he could be called The Beast .

Huge, built like a Celtic warrior, he has shoulder-length blond hair with a hint of auburn, and pale blue eyes. A scar runs from his forehead straight down to his chin, crossing one eye—the largest blemish among several smaller ones that crisscross his face.

Not only does he have massive shoulders, he’s also tall. I’m not short at five foot seven, yet as I climb the stairs to where he stands, I realize he must be at least ten inches taller than me. At nearly six foot six, his presence commands the entire space.

My pulse stutters. What have I gotten myself into?

Father takes my hand and puts it in this stranger’s enormous palm. Rough calluses and dry heat engulf my fingers. His touch makes my heart race. The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat.

Suddenly all of this is real, too real.

It’s not too late, I can reveal my identity and watch months of peace negotiations fall apart. It will be all my fault when the streets run red with blood, again. Father will take out his rage on me, and then on Elena if we ever find her.

None of that can happen.

So I don’t say anything. I remain mute as the priest speaks his words.

At one point, I realize I’m supposed to repeat after him.

My voice emerges strong but soft, “I, R- Elena Pontrelli, take thee, Cian O’Rourke, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.

I pledge thee my loyalty and honesty.” I cringe on that last vow– honesty –the one I’ve already broken.

How many more will I have to break in my lifetime?

The huge stranger mumbles his own version of our vows, we slide plain gold bands onto each other’s fingers, then the priest is suddenly pronouncing us husband and wife.

There are no cheers. My parents, and Cian’s best man, remain quiet as this ceremony comes to its conclusion. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I feel slightly dizzy, realizing what I’ve just done.

I’m married. To a stranger. To the enemy.

The Irishman reaches out and slowly lifts my veil. I can only imagine he’s terrified of what he’ll find beneath this semi-sheer fabric. When his gaze falls upon my face, he frowns, and I’m hit with a sense of outrage.

What? Am I not pretty enough for him?

Who the hell does he think he is to look at me like that? It’s not like he’s especially handsome with all those scars. What a jerk.

Usually, this is where the groom kisses the bride.

Instead, he lets my veil fall back into place, adding insult to my injured pride.

Then he takes my arm and marches me out of the church.

My mother hands me my purse and waves goodbye, while Father is already on his phone and onto the next order of business for the day. He’s a don after all, a very busy man.

I’m taken outside and shoved into a waiting car. The behemoth slides in after me and the vehicle pulls away from the curb.

Facing forward, he speaks. “There, your father has gotten his wish to saddle me with his daughter and try to govern me through you. Or perhaps you’re meant to be a spy. But listen carefully, you’ll stay out of my business. If I catch you poking around, I’ll kill you. Are we clear?”

What a charmer. Apparently God isn’t listening to my prayers today.

“Yes. Crystal clear.”

“Good. Now after this ridiculous honeymoon we have to go on, you’ll get your own room.

We won’t need to bother each other at all.

You stay out of my way and I’ll stay away from you.

” The asshole finally angles his head to look in my direction.

Pale blue eyes assessing me. “You won’t take any lovers.

You’ll do as you’re told. And above all else, if I ask you a question, you’ll tell me the truth. I don’t tolerate liars .”

My stomach swims with nausea. God what have I done?

The Irish brute studies me for several thundering heartbeats. I’m not sure why, because he can’t see me clearly through my veil. Even so, his gaze seems to sink beneath my skin and I do my best not to squirm.

“Did you want to marry me?” he asks, his deep, gravelly voice the only sound in the quiet limo.

How, exactly, am I supposed to answer a question like that?

Truthfully. All he wants is an honest answer. Or so he says. Though men often say that, then dish out punishment when the answer is not what they wanted to hear.

“No,” I say, swallowing down my fear.

“Then why’d you do it?”

“I had no other choice.” It’s the truth.

His lips firm and he grimaces. “Those are the answers I expected. Thank you for your honesty.”

He’s thanking me? Instead of using it as a trick to lure me into telling him the truth only to punish me for it? For one fleeting, insane moment I wonder how honest I can be with him. Can I tell him that my father’s a monster? Or the things my brother said to me?

I crush the temptation as soon as it rises.

Men like him delight in patting each other on the backs, they don’t want to hear about the uglier side most of them reserve for their home life.

Daughters are nothing but property and pawns to be passed on to the next generation of made men . They’re all ruthless killers.

I’ll find no sympathy from my new husband. It’s best to keep my secrets buried. Just like my true identity.