Crimson Night Vows (The Boston Underworld #2)

Chapter 1 – Gabriella

Iwill not cry.

I will NOT fucking cry!

No one was going to see a mafia princess weep. It was forbidden. We did that in private. In the shower, where the water washed away the tears, and the heat hid the red in our cheeks. But my body didn’t listen. It was ready to fall apart.

Outside.

I needed to get the hell out of here!

Escape into the dark.

I didn’t want to risk going through the restaurant’s kitchen and having one of the cooks stop me.

A rough laugh barked in my throat. The Made Men, whose day jobs were making some of the best food in the city, wouldn’t know what to do with a distraught, woeful woman.

I was the tough-as-nails front of house manager.

I didn’t break under the stress of a busy night.

Customers didn’t walk all over me, and the waitstaff didn’t get away with shit.

The don said he was losing his best employee? Damn straight he was!

Thankfully, no one was in the back hall.

I passed the bathrooms, not wanting to be trapped in there where someone would probably catch me crying.

I gripped the exterior door handle, ripped it open, and stumbled into the alley.

Avoiding the single lamp on the building, I rushed into the dark and sagged against the wall.

It might be summer, but the brick felt cool against my blazing skin.

An arranged marriage….

I’ve been sold.

Numbness seeped into my bones. I clutched the cornicello necklace I always wore for protection against the evil eye.

But the malocchio had found me. Again. My bloodstained fingers trembled as I gripped the small horned shape pendant.

There wasn’t actually blood coating my skin.

It was a deep stain. One that blackened my soul. Something that would never wash away.

Being sold to the Irish mafia was exactly what a sinner like me deserved.

I always knew this would happen. It was what every Made Man’s daughter expected.

Most of us dreaded it, and we hated the little idiots who dreamed of the day they would marry the man their father selected for them.

An arranged marriage in the mob wasn’t a fairytale.

Or at least, not the pretty, polished cartoon version with elegant yellow dresses, magical libraries, and monsters who turned into pretty, polished princes, with gaping shirts that reminded the viewer of a Fabio romance cover our moms hid in their nightstands.

An arranged marriage was a life sentence.

The best girls like me could hope was that our husbands didn’t beat us often and never gave us STDs from the whores they kept as side pieces. A loveless, terrible union, and it had finally happened to me.

It was a hard pill to swallow. Part of me couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t fair! Not when I was so close. My chest squeezed tight, making each heartbeat hurt.

The Made Men thought it was finally the solution for one of Deluca’s girls! Us poor, unmarried burdens. They didn’t bother to ask what I wanted to do. Dio sopra! Those thick-skulled neanderthals. They would be dumbstruck if I told them I didn’t plan to stick around this city.

I didn’t have anything against Boston, per se. In fact, it was the only home I knew. My sisters and I had never been farther than the coast, and that was only because Don Morelli had a summer picnic out there once. One trip, one blissful day spent away from the rush and rumble of this place.

You could still escape.

The thought was a whisper. It came on the night breeze, tickling the hairs at the back of my neck.

I latched onto the gossamer thread—and pulled.

Could I do it? Run away? My plans didn’t have to change just because my last name did.

There wouldn’t be time before the wedding.

Plus, there would no doubt be extra focus on me because I was the bride.

More eyes watching me, under the guise of helping me prepare for this marriage.

No, if I ran, it would have to be after.

“But….” If I stopped working my regular shifts, how would I come up with the funds I needed to start over?

Anger bubbled up inside me. I kicked the wall.

I let out a strangled gasp as I jarred my knee, pain radiating up my calf.

It felt good. Too fucking good.

I kicked and kicked the wall. My bones protested. The muscles screamed. Since I couldn’t yell and rage, I let the pain do it for me. My fists joined the fray, and I pummeled the brick.

It didn’t budge.

Indomitable, it represented my life. Trapped by traditions and obstacles that I could never escape.

“I’m not giving up,” I rasped.

No, it seemed hopeless now. But the news was fresh. The situation was still frightening. What I needed was to calm the hell down and think this through.

I sagged into the wall, letting its captivating presence support me.

Silence roared around me. Even the busy streets were muted. At least I wasn’t crying. That was good.

“Okay, new plan,” I hissed, drawing myself up. “Stay mad. Keep fighting.”

That was manageable. I had twenty-two years of hell to fuel my rage. It was enough to drive me for the next decade or so.

Shooting a glance at the door, I let out a ragged breath. There was no way in hell I was going back in there, smiling at the guests, and helping make sure the evening wrapped up smoothly. Nope. I was going home early.

As I started walking, I realized it was the smart choice.

The safe choice. Better to get home and in bed before my father showed up.

I didn’t want a lecture, private words on how this was going to happen.

That conversation loomed in my future like a funnel cloud.

If I skirted around it when it decided to descend, the damage might be minimal.

I could take shelter, protect myself from the storm that was coming.

I shoved my fingers through my hair. Short, unpainted nails scored my scalp. The claw clip loosened, and I tugged it free with a vicious yank. The wind picked up as I emerged from the alley. It blew soothingly against my face, lifting my hair and caressing my burning throat.

Maybe, if I screamed into a pillow, it would release some of the pressure there.

We lived almost a mile away from Mama Ana’s Bar & Grill. I knew this path like the back of my hand. Walking on autopilot, I nearly missed the shout from the abandoned lot. But the instinct every city girl had, that inner voice of self-preservation, slammed into me.

My heart jumped to my throat.

I instantly dropped into a crouch by the broken chain link fence. Beyond was a stretch of fine rubble where a building had been torn down years ago. A gaping eyesore that no one planned to build on, to invest in this unused piece of real estate for the foreseeable future.

There were two shapes, one large and stalky, in the lot. The other? A giant. They squared off, not ten paces from a hole in the fence that I would have walked past in just a few steps. Before I could dart across the street, one of the shapes spoke.

“We don’t want the Irish here!” It was John Corvino. His voice was a snarl, packed with that hot-blooded Italian temper.

Dammit, Gio, what are you doing?

I knew him. Knew that he was a rough, temperamental blockhead, and one of my father’s worst soldiers. John was nothing but trouble.

Trouble and lewd glances.

The Morelli men weren’t stupid enough to touch a capo’s daughter.

Not without invitation—which every well-brought up girl knew not to invoke.

But in the dark? I didn’t trust them as far as I could throw them.

A big guy like John? Yeah, my puny arms would have better luck making the brick wall budge.

The second shape finally spoke. “You followed me out here to say that? You’re stupider than you look, lad.”

The deep, smooth rumble of that voice made me pause. Little shivers whispered over my skin. It was a beautiful voice. The cadence velvety and the sound arresting.

John spat.

Idiota.

The Made Man began to speak, but the words turned into a grunt as the larger shape moved. Without the moon or the glow of streetlights, it was hard to make out the small movements. But John’s muffled cry of pain was unmistakable.

The shapes locked tight. Violence rippled through the night.

An arm moved back. Something metallic flicked in the air before it plunged forward.

John screamed—or tried to. Something was blocking his mouth.

Again, the giant’s arm struck. And then, on repeat, it happened over and over.

The larger man was stabbing him!

My hands slapped over my mouth to silence my own scream. Every muscle locked tight. I couldn’t run if I tried. But it wasn’t the murder that froze me in place.

It was the murderer. A silent gasp escaped my throat.

In the struggle between life and death, there was a moment where the giant’s face was caught by what little light resisted the night’s reign. It revealed his identity with a piece of cut white plastic across half of his contorted face.

The mask.

It was him.

John slumped to the ground. He lay perfectly still. Didn’t even twitch.

Run. RUN!

I scrambled into the street. There was never much traffic this way, since the old train depot was around the bend.

Industry hadn’t come to revitalize this area.

My plan was simple. I was going to stay out from under the few working streetlights on the other side of the road, then duck up Water Drive before cutting back around to the intersection that led to the residential zone.

Five steps. That was all I managed before a bar of iron wrapped around my middle, and I was lifted into the air.

I screamed, but a wet, gloved hand clapped over my mouth. The tang of copper spread over my tongue before I choked and shut my mouth tight.

Hot air brushed against my skin. “You shouldn’t have run.”

There was a heavy pause. My life flashed before my eyes. Such a short, tragic existence, full of mistakes and pain.

“You picked the wrong night to be curious,” the masked devil rumbled. His thumb brushed against my cheek. “But now that you’re here…I suppose I’ll have to deal with you.”

I shuddered.

Why did I think that voice was beautiful? Death wasn’t pretty! It was a nightmare wrapped in a promise of relief from the burden of life.

And dammit, I wanted to live.

I kicked and thrashed. Heels collided with living stone. Fists slammed into a wall of muscle. I bit on the leather, which only made the bastard grunt.

“Watch it, cailín,” he snapped, words clipped and short by my ear. “I don’t like to hurt women.”

“Fuck you!” I screamed into his palm. Not even the revulsion of John’s blood could stop me cursing the means to my demise.

A rough, broken laugh broke against my hair, and his grip tightened around my middle. He turned, pressing his face into my hair. There was an audible inhale.

Was he…was he smelling me?

“Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards for us.” He lowered me to the ground but didn’t loosen his hold.

Spinning me around, he lowered his touch from my mouth, put that gloved hand around my throat, and with a squeeze, forced my head to the side. A shaft of streetlight played over my face.

The moment was charged with a frenzied pulse of energy.

The devil considered me, looking over my face.

Did he recognize me? We’d shared a moment earlier.

Granted, it had been across the restaurant, and he spent more time looking at the blonde bombshell of a lawyer with whom I’d been sharing a glass of wine.

I was mousy and dour compared to her perfectly manicured, put-together visage.

Me, the poor Deluca girl, who didn’t paint my face, didn’t wear bright, colorful clothing, and didn’t cause trouble for my father.

Well…didn’t cause much trouble. And the only sin I ever committed blackened me forever where my sire was concerned.

“I’ll make you a deal.” The devil gave me a shake. My teeth clacked with the force of it. “Keep your mouth shut and don’t try to be a hero. Got it?”

His fingers shifted over my jaw. The touch was hard and lacked mercy. It tightened around my throat. For the briefest of moments, he squeezed.

“This doesn’t have to be your last night on earth,” he tempted.

Panic surged through me.

But then his fingers loosened.

I tripped backward, suddenly free of his hold.

I brought my hands to my neck, rubbing at the bruised skin.

A strangled gulp of air filled my lungs.

From the deep shadows, his features were hidden.

But even though I couldn’t see him, I knew the mask was there.

I remembered why it was there. This man had been badly burned.

He wore the white cut of plastic over half his face to conceal the damage.

It was the only part of him that was vaguely visible against his shadowed mass.

“Run, cailín,” he warned. “Run and forget.”

Easier said than done.

My feet were lead. I didn’t want to put my back to the beast, self-preservation wouldn’t let me. But I had to if I wanted to get away. Blood roared in my ears, terror muted my senses as I turned and ran. I couldn’t tell if he followed.

When I reached the intersection, I paused. Hands on my knees, I dragged deep, ragged gulps of air into my lungs. The spots in my vision began to vanish. But I was fairly certain I hadn’t been followed.

He didn’t recognize me.

I was just a nameless woman, one he thought he could frighten into silence.

If he knew I was connected to the mob, he would have silenced me a different way.

A power player like him would be stupid to let me live.

There would be too much risk I would snitch to the don about what he’d done to one of our men.

The tears I fought so hard earlier to keep at bay welled in my eyes. Hot, angry tears stung. There would be few people who cared if I vanished. The people who should feel the most wouldn’t bat an eye. One of my sisters would replace me—sold to that deranged animal.

A shiver jarred me.

I was the sacrificial lamb. And that masked fiend?

He might not have realized it, but he’d just smeared the blood of his latest kill on his fiancée.

My fate was sealed to that beast. But what Liam McDonagh didn’t know was that I had no intention of staying his wife.

Those marriage vows would break the first chance I had.

The Irish Devil told me to run, and that was exactly what I planned to do.