Defiant Vows

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

LUCIANO

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Viviana Russo would marry me to save her disastrous father. For all her disobedience and disorder, love lurks beneath the surface of her hazel eyes. Although Pietro doesn’t deserve it, she’s loyal to the bastard.

And now, because of it, she glares at me from across the man’s dark study as we await the priest.

“Viviana,” her mother complains for the umpteenth time that evening. “Won’t you go upstairs and change clothes before Father Amadeo arrives?”

Gia Russo’s voice sets my teeth on edge, but I continue scrolling through a financial report on my phone. Though I scan over the document, the numbers don’t register. My focus rests entirely on the young woman in a ratty old Vincent Van Gogh t-shirt, sitting with her knees pulled into her chest and shooting scathing looks at everybody in the room. She reminds me of an ill-tempered feline.

Despite Viviana’s assumptions, I did grieve the loss of her older sister. In the years since our betrothal, Elenora and I became friends of a sort. I held no love for her and she held even less for me, but we knew what was expected of us. In a matter of weeks, I would’ve married her.

Yes, I grieve her loss. I grieve the certainty of a future with the eldest Russo daughter. And I grieve the monstrous headache that her little sister will undoubtedly give me.

“No,” my twenty-year-old fiancé counters. “I’m wearing Van Gogh or nothing at all.”

Beside me, my mother sucks in a sharp breath. Revulsion for her future daughter-in-law rolls off of her in waves. It seeps from her pores.

Mother loves– loved– Elenora. She spent the better part of our engagement inviting Elenora over for cappuccinos and gossiping about other women in our circle. To her, Elenora had no faults. With stunning beauty and grace, Elenora represented everything that a boss’s wife should be.

My father loved Elenora for other reasons—namely her connection to the Chicago Outfit. But her Master’s degree in Political Science and her ability to speak five languages didn’t hurt.

With Elenora by my side, in my bed… Well, life would’ve been simple.

Now, minutes away from marrying the other Russo girl–the girl that they hid away for reasons becoming abundantly clear with every word that leaves her mouth—my life feels anything but.

“Viviana!” Gia seethes, lowering her voice as if that might draw attention away from the embarrassing squabble.

From the corner of my eye, I see Viviana shove to her feet and boldly grasp the hem of her oversized shirt. “I will do it.”

Her threat works. The room goes still, and her mother’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water before she scurries to her husband’s side and leaves Viviana alone.

A smug, triumphant smirk plays on her full lips, and Viviana takes her seat once more. When her ass hits the cushion, her gaze snags on mine and catches me staring. Her smile fades in an instant, but I refuse to look away from the challenge brimming in her eyes. When it becomes clear I won’t balk from her glare, she looks away first.

I swear I see a blush dust her sun-kissed cheeks before she combs a hand through her light-brown locks and turns to study an ugly fucking painting on the study wall. It’s hideous, a dark portrait of a man’s face made entirely of gourds, but she stares at it with unbroken concentration.

For the first time since she walked into the office that evening, her features soften. She’s beautiful.

Two concise knocks vanquish that dangerous thought from my mind. The room quiets again, my father and Pietro ceasing their muttered conversation to greet Father Amadeo.

The priest shuffles into the room, clad in black pants and a dress shirt with a white collar tab. Although not a member of the mafia, Amadeo presides over the organization’s liturgical business and, more often than not, turns a blind eye to our practices. Just today, he led our service for Elenora.

Now, the man will wed me to her sister.

“Gentlemen.” Father Amadeo dips his head, his light eyes scanning the occupants of the room. “Ladies,” he adds upon discovering my mother, Gia, and Viviana.

The latter looks ready to curse the holy man to the darkest pits of hell. I don’t miss how her nose scrunches in annoyance when Amadeo studies her getup.

“Father Amadeo.” I stand from my seat on the sofa, taking lead of the conversation. In the last five years, my father has strategically stepped back from his position as don . Of course, he still holds the title and serves as the figurehead, but I’ve run the show since turning twenty-six.

I stop in front of the priest. “Thank you for coming.”

Amadeo offers a grim smile. It’s no secret that he dislikes his role as the mafia’s Godly liaison, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. “I’m honored to officiate such a happy occasion.”

A loud snort erupts from the corner of the room. Viviana.

Every gaze in the room snaps toward my bride. She still hasn’t moved from her chair, legs hugged to her chest by her twig-like arms, but now she tosses her head back and giggles like a madwoman.

What the fu—

“Oh for heaven's sake, Viviana,” Pietro grumbles, massaging his forehead with his palm, exasperated and embarrassed.

My own mother mumbles something along the lines of ‘ this is disgraceful,’ but, to my surprise, my father wears a small, bemused smirk. He shows no signs of being offended or disgusted. If anything, something like admiration pools in his dark gray eyes. My eyes.

Amadeo blinks—clearly disturbed—as Viviana wipes a rogue tear from the corner of her eye. “Is this the bride?”

“Yes,” I answer through gritted teeth. “Viviana—” Her name tastes like warm honey on my tongue. “Come here.”

Her delusional laughter fades as quickly as it began, and her gaze turns icy. But she knows better than to refuse. Not with her father’s life on the line.

With slow movements, she unfolds her body and rises from the seat, and I can’t tear my eyes off of her. It’s because you don’t trust her not to make a break for the door, I convince myself, and yet…

She tugs the hem of her shirt down, letting it fall to the middle of her thigh before taking slow steps closer. She eyes me warily, dark circles marring her otherwise blemish-less face. Even from beneath her baggy shirt, I can tell she’s skinny, like she never developed the subtle, sexy curves that her sister had been blessed with. Her warm brown hair falls over her shoulders in disheveled waves, reaching the tip of her perky breasts. If I had to guess, the honey-highlighted strands aren’t quite long enough to cover the pigmented peaks—

No. Don’t think about that. I rip my attention back to Father Amadeo as she comes to a halt a few feet away.

The man looks between us again, his judgment scorching through my clothes. The back of my neck burns, something eerily similar to shame festering in the pit of my stomach.

I shouldn’t feel ashamed. I’ve done far worse than blackmail before. Besides, in a handful of years, when Viviana has fulfilled her end of our bargain and given me an heir, she’ll be free to galavant across Europe again to her heart's content.

Father Amadeo clears his throat. “Are we ready to begin?”

I don’t answer, solely focusing on avoiding Viviana’s gaze as he positions himself between us. My parents flank my side. Her parents hover a few paces away, a healthy distance from their daughter, abandoning her at our not-so-altar.

My lips press into a thin line, but I resist the urge to bark at Pietro to stand beside his daughter. Instead, the bastard stays back, content to let this twenty-year-old surrender herself to atone for his sins.

I risk a glance at Viviana. If she’s bothered by her parents’ behavior, she gives no indication of it. She stares blankly ahead with the poker face of a winning gambler.

Amadeo takes our silence as assent.

“Viviana and Luciano, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”

No. I ready myself for her answer, spine stiffening.

And yet, it never comes.

My eyes narrow on Viviana. Her throat bobs once, but she maintains her steely expression as she answers in a hoarse whisper. “I have.”

The words are hollow, mere husks of her previous spirited refusal. I don’t know why my gut twists, nor why my own throat constricts as I give the same answer.

“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”

“I am,” we answer together.

Love? Not gonna fuckin’ happen. I’d be content to ignore each other for the entirety of our arrangement, only interacting when necessary—to make an heir and free us from any further obligations.

“Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?”

God, the Catholic church lays this shit on thick.

I recite my answer without hesitation, detaching myself from their implications. “I am.”

Across from me, Viviana cracks her lips to respond, but the words snag on her tongue. For the first time since Father Amadeo entered, her mask falters. The shards of green and gold in her eyes crack to reveal a sliver of uncertainty, as if she hadn’t stopped to fully consider children.

“I-” Her voice breaks.

“Viviana?” Father Amadeo prompts.

I hold my breath. What will I do if she says no? If she refuses to marry me and uphold our families’ years-long contract?The answer washes over me with startling intensity.

First, I’ll kill her damn father. Then, I’ll hunt down the little vixen and marry her anyway. Not because I like her or particularly want to marry her. But because, in the last hour, I’ve come to regard her as mine.

She clamps her eyes shut and, at last, complies. The words tumble out of her mouth like vomit.

“ I am.”

Pure, male satisfaction curls low in the pit of my stomach.

The rest of the room seems to let out a collective sigh, while Father Amadeo appears wholly unconvinced. Nonetheless, he gestures toward me and Viviana.

“Since it is your intention to enter the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his—” He pauses, glances around the dim room, and finishes with an air of defeat. “Church.”

I don’t hesitate, my hand branching between us to capture Viviana’s, tugging her imperceptibly closer. She immediately tries to draw back, but I tighten my grip and hold her firm. She’s impossibly soft, the pads of her fingers like delicate petals, unworn and untouched.

Viviana’s eyes flare with frustration, but something else swirls in their depths. Resignation.

Only then do I realize that her fingers are trembling. Despite myself, I sweep a thumb across her knuckle. Her eyebrows scrunch together and a frown twists her lips, as if she isn’t quite sure why I bothered.

In truth, I’m not even sure why I bothered.

She holds my gaze, wary but unafraid. When she’s not scowling, her features are soft and round. Whereas Elenora was all sharp edges and refined bone-structure, her younger sister has wide, full cheekbones and a dainty chin. Her skin holds a healthy glow from a summer spent beneath the Florentine sun, complimenting the natural pink of her fleshy lips.

Father Amadeo’s words fade to the background as I continue studying her—my future wife— and I have to remind myself that she’ll be a thorn in my side, just as she was for her father. It’s only a matter of time until I won’t be able to stand the sight of these lovely, soft features.

“Do you have rings to exchange?” Amadeo asks dubiously, pulling me back to the present.

“Yes.”

“No–”

We answer at the same time, and Viviana cocks a brow up at me.

“I didn’t realize you had time to run to the jeweler in between your dead fiancé’s funeral and our wedding ceremony,” she drawls, dry and scathing.

I tamper down the urge to smirk at her burning words.

Still clutching Viviana’s hand with one of mine, I reach into my pocket with the other and pull out the little velvet box that holds the rings. Cracking the box open in my palm, I reveal the three rings nestled within.

One engagement ring with a 5.50 carat princess-cut diamond at the center, encircled by two dozen sparkling sapphires. And two matching wedding bands—one encrusted entirely of sapphires to match the engagement ring. The other, mine, is a simple platinum band inlaid with a thin line of the precious gems.

The set cost a small fortune, not that it matters to me, but I glance up and expectantly wait for awe to pool in her brilliant hazel eyes. And wait. And wait.

“Do I have to wear this thing?” Viviana’s voice shreds through my anticipation. She narrows her eyes at the diamond.

I frown, taking the engagement ring from its home inside the box. “Yes. Don’t you like it?”

“Not really,” she counters, wrinkling her nose as I slip the gaudy thing onto her ring finger.

It’s huge on her, practically dwarfing her thin digits. I’ll definitely need to have it resized, because I suddenly, inexplicably feel firmly that she never leaves my home without it on her finger. Claiming her. Leaving no doubt in the minds of men that she belongs to me.

“Interesting,” I hum, sliding the matching wedding band on behind it. “Your sister picked it out.”

Her bottom lip trembles once, the only crack in her armor. She shakes her head and huffs a dry laugh. “This is so fucked up.”

Father Amadeo clears his throat, his cheeks a shade paler than before.

Knowing that Viviana won’t willingly slip my own wedding band onto my finger, I hastily shove the platinum on myself—a perfect fit. With a tight jaw, I return my gaze to the priest.

“Go on,” I order, eager to be done with this.

He nods, a quick jerk of his chin, and continues the ceremony. We’re nearly at the end. At last, he clears his throat, and something like pity swells in his eyes as he looks down at Viviana, then back at me.

“In the sight of God and these witnesses,” he murmurs.

The blood pumps with vigor through my veins. Viviana’s little fingers warm my calloused palms, and I resist the urge to squeeze them. Her eyes widen as the moment draws near.

Finally.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”