Defiant Vows

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

LUCIANO

The doors to my office close with a soft thud, a handful of my most trusted men disappearing behind them. As soon as I’m alone, I release a ragged sigh and yank at the top buttons of my dress shirt. It’s suffocating.

I received a call late last night that an informant came forward. The man, a low-level drug dealer for the Bratva, claimed he had evidence that Elenora’s ‘accident’ wasn’t an accident at all. I left Bedford within the hour. When we arrived, we were too late. Someone had already killed him. They left his tongue in his lap.

Now, we’re back to square one.

I need indisputable evidence if I plan to start a war with the Bratva—if I want to punish them for murdering my betrothed. Without the informant’s testimony, I have nothing but a gut feeling.

And it’s giving me a fucking headache.

I rake a hand through my hair and prepare to dive into the pile of paperwork and reports on my desk when my phone buzzes. Speaking of headaches. The name Emilia Ajello flashes on the screen, and I pick up on the second ring.

“Is Viviana causing trouble?” I demand, wasting no time with pleasantries.

I never intended to leave Viviana in the care of my staff so soon, and I dreaded thinking about what she might do or say to them. Originally, I planned to stay in Bedford while she settled, establishing ground rules and an intolerance for disorder, but my duty to the Cosa Nostra comes before a wife who needs babysitting.

“Good morning to you, too, Luciano,” Mrs. Ajello hums from the other end of the line. She sounds amused. “No trouble here. In fact, Viviana is lovely. Not at all how you painted her.”

Lovely? My brow furrows.

I did, in fact, warn the entirety of the estate’s staff about my bride’s proclivity for trouble. I wanted to prepare them for her snide remarks or a possible escape attempt. They promised to call if she gave them any difficulties.

“Sorry,” I amend, remembering my manners. “Good morning, Mrs. Ajello. If Viviana isn’t causing trouble, why are you calling?”

She’s never been one for idle chit-chat. I’ve known the woman since I was ten. She ran my father’s household before I sniped her for my own home. He says he’ll never forgive me for taking her, but I couldn’t leave my house—or my wife—in anyone else’s hands.

Mrs. Ajello chuckles. “I only wanted to let you know that her favorite flowers are sunflowers and peonies.”

“What are you talking—” I stop myself, realization washing over me, and close my eyes. I sigh. “The roses. You saw them?”

I left the bouquet of roses from our garden on the bathroom counter in a moment of weakness. I’d felt guilty for our prior conversation. Alonso, my gardener, helped me collect the flowers at an ungodly hour while I scrawled my apology on a piece of card-stock.

Knowing that Mrs. Ajello saw the bouquet, I feel foolish. My neck flushes, and I yank at the collar of my shirt once more.

“Yes,” she answers, and I can practically hear her smile. “And they were lovely.”

“And Viviana?” I ask before I can stop myself. I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t. “Did she like them?”

She’s quiet for a moment, but her silence speaks volumes. I wonder if Viviana threw the flowers and their accompanying apology in the trash.

“I won’t pretend to know the circumstances of your marriage, Luciano,” Mrs. Ajello responds, sounding more nurturing than my biological mom ever has. “But I’d wager it will take more than a bouquet of roses to win this girl’s affection.”

My teeth clench.

I’m not trying to win Viviana’s affections. I’m trying to make the next year of my life tolerable.

Viviana and I don’t have to like each other. In fact, I’d prefer if we kept our relationship business-like, just as her sister and I planned. But that necessitates mutual respect—mutual respect that I might’ve tarnished beyond repair last night.

“Right,” I grit out, spinning an ink pen on the polished wood of my desk.

“Well then… Should we expect you home tonight?”

Again, there’s a smile in her voice that sets me on edge. Like she has somehow stripped me of my defenses, even from miles away, and seen something inside of me that even I’m ignorant of. She knows me better than any housekeeper should.

I consider this for a moment.

Technically, I don’t have to stay in the city another night. Without the informant, there’s no business I need to accomplish that I can’t finish from my office in Bedford. And, although I’d never admit it out loud, I’m anxious to see Viviana again.

I can’t explain it. Perhaps I simply hate the way we left things last night. Perhaps I’m a masochist and long to hear what scathing insult she’ll volley at me the second I step through the door.

“No,” I decide, pushing those thoughts away. “No, I’ll be in the city for a few more days.”

Coward. I’m a coward.

But, if Viviana is truly thriving in my absence, shouldn’t I give her a few more days to settle without me? Maybe she’ll be ready to forgive me by the end of the week.

“Very well,” Mrs. Ajello drawls, although disapproval drips from each word. “I hope you find a florist that has a few days’ worth of sunflowers and peonies, then. Goodbye, Luciano.”

“Goodby—” I begin, but she’s already hung up.

I rip my cellphone away from my ear and scowl at the screen. In all the years that I’ve known her, Mrs. Ajello has never hung up on me. And she’s certainly never ordered me to buy a woman flowers.

Still frowning, I toss my phone across my desk, the device sliding precariously across the surface.

I won’t do it.

If Viviana didn’t appreciate the roses, why the hell would I send the woman more bouquets to scorn? Besides , peonies and sunflowers would make a piss-poor pairing…

Turning my attention back to the stack of papers in front of me, I start to read through the first financial report, but the numbers don’t register in my mind. My thoughts are a jumble of Mrs. Ajello’s disapproval, Viviana’s fiery temper, and an obnoxiously bright bouquet of sunflowers and peonies…

Eventually, I push the financial report aside and snatch the nearest batch of stationary from a drawer. Clutching my pen with enough force to break it in half, I pour every ounce of frustration into the ink.

When the note is finished, I resist the urge to crumple it up and call for my assistant instead. She pokes her head in the door, and I slip the note in an envelope with Viviana’s name on it and hand it to her.

“Find a florist who’s willing to make a bouquet of sunflowers and peonies,” I demand, a strange tightness stretching across my chest. “Have it delivered to my Bedford address, along with this note.”

My assistant immediately leaves, and, with the matter of Viviana dealt with, I can finally focus on my work. And yet, as the hours pass, my traitorous mind continuously returns to the little hellcat waiting for me at home.