Defiant Vows

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

VIVIANA

I tried. I really, really tried to be civil.

Looking back, I’m not sure why I bent over backwards to behave during the first half of dinner. Maybe it’s because I— kind of —like Girardo, who smiles and laughs more than any mafia don has a right to. Or because Luciano’s apology and our subsequent conversation on the walk over softened my resolve to cause him trouble.

Regardless, we haven’t even touched the main course, and my self-control already hangs on by a thread. A precariously thin, splintering thread.

I’m seated beside Luciano. His parents sit on either side of us at the heads of the table. Across from Luciano, Gio shovels food into his mouth. He arrived ten minutes late, which earned a few sharp glares from his mother. I could’ve kissed the ground he walked on for taking some of Allegra Venturi’s disapproval off of me. Unfortunately, the reprieve didn’t last long.

My spawn-of-satan mother-in-law has spent the last thirty minutes slipping snide remarks into every conversation. She compared me to Elenora, not once but twice . She asked questions about my art history studies, then scowled when I spoke. And, if looks could kill, I’d be dead where I sit.

I don’t care. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I tell myself that Allegra is merely a rotten old hag with botox and a stick up her ass.

My consumption of ungodly amounts of wine has helped, too.

I’m buzzed, warm and fuzzy and only half-paying attention to the current discussion about a family-owned hotel, when the server places the main course in front of me. My stomach drops. Ground beef and cheese spill from a heaping serving of lasagna, garnished with a single stem of parsley. It’s the only hint of green on my plate.

Mrs. Ajello told me that she discussed my dietary preferences with the Venturis’ chef. He must’ve forgotten. Or, perhaps it was simply too late to change the night’s menu.

Regardless, I stare down the cow-filled dish and contemplate my options. It’s been years since I’ve eaten meat or cheese. Even if I didn’t have a moral qualm with the slaughter and exploitation of innocent animals, I’m certain that ingesting the lasagna would wreak havoc on my digestive tract. I’ll have to fake it.

The rest of the table has already begun eating by the time I pick up my own fork and knife. I slice through the juicy lasagna, and the cottage cheese filling oozes from the noodles. Nausea roils up my throat, and I push it to one side of the plate.

Too bad there isn’t a dog for me to shovel spoonfuls to.

“ Are you feeling alright?” Luciano’s low voice reaches me, quiet enough that his family doesn’t overhear.

I shoot him a small smile. “Perfect.”

His gaze lingers even after I’ve turned back to my plate. I set my fork and knife aside, feigning interest in his father’s words across the table, and reach for my third glass of red wine. The contents slip down my throat, tart and hearty with a small burn, until only sediments remain at the bottom of the glass.

A server comes to the rescue a moment later, wielding the dark bottle that I’d single-handedly drained in the last half hour. “Another glass, Mrs. Venturi?”

“ Please, ” I whisper to him from over my shoulder.

He offers me a polite smile, leaning over to fill my glass once more. The purple liquid trickles to the bottle’s neck, seconds from spilling into the glass, when a large hand covers the rim.

“My wife will have water for the rest of the evening,” Luciano drawls in a tone that leaves no room for arguing. The server withdraws the bottle, dipping his head.

What the—

Before the server can scurry back to his spot by the French doors, I lift my hand to draw his attention back to me. “Actually, the wife would like another glass of wine. Thank you.”

The poor server pauses, wide eyes flickering between me and Luciano.

My husband grunts his disapproval. “You’re not of age. I’ve already let you have too much.”

Let me? As if I’m some child being allowed to have two cookies instead of one . I roll my eyes. Give me a break.

“The drinking age in Italy is eighteen years old. I’ve been having wine with dinner for almost two and a half years.” It’s an effort to keep my voice down, though the conversation around the table has already gone quiet. We’ve gained an audience. I pretend not to feel the eyes of everyone in the room and offer the server a prize-winning smile, gesturing to my empty glass. “Go ahead.”

“ Leave us .” Luciano growls at the server, abandoning any effort to uphold the tentative truce between us.

The man rushes away, wine bottle in tow. Damn it.

I swivel my head to glare at Luciano, only to find his graphite eyes already on me, alight with annoyance. That only kindles my own fire.

“So I’m old enough to be forced into a marriage with a man that I hate, but I’m not old enough to drink another glass of wine?” I challenge, hands curled into fists on the table. I swear I see a muscle in his jaw feather at my use of the word ‘hate,’ but that doesn’t deter me. I scoff and turn to face Luciano’s family. “Does that seem a little fucked up to anyone else?”

A lupine grin plays on Gio’s lips, and he salutes me by lifting his own wine glass in my direction before bringing it to his lips. Girardo watches with poorly-veiled disappointment, and Allegra…

Allegra gasps like she’s never heard the word ‘fuck’ before in her life, even though Gio has used it three times since we sat down. She places her silverware down on her plate, unnecessarily clattering the two together, and raises her brows. “ Luciano? ”

I frown, unable to understand the expectant gleam in her beady eyes. Then I realize. She’s waiting on him to reprimand me.

Beside me, Luciano sits dangerously still. To his credit, he doesn’t acknowledge his mother’s cold complaint. He simply stares at me, eyes simultaneously icy and ablaze. That strong jawline is tight, and his knuckles bleach white as he grips his fork and knife.

I lower my gaze. In all of my father’s years dolling out punishments on me, he’d never managed to spark real fear in my heart. But Luciano… My heart accelerates, sweat gathering at my palms.

Would he punish me here? In front of his family. The staff.

My entire body goes tense as I wait for poisonous words or physical threats. I wait, and I wait.

Several beats pass in silence, and I risk a quick glance at my husband. He’s tampered down his rage and wears an unshakable mask of calm instead. His lips pinch into a thin line, nostrils flaring as he exhales then nods to my full plate. “Eat, Viviana.”

Palpable relief sweeps through me. Relief and surprise.

I expected a fight. I baited him for a fight, and he ignored me. His self-control astonishes me, but, even more, embarrassment at my own words and behavior rises through me. My cheeks warm, and I hastily grab my glass of water and pull gulps down my throat.

Tentative conversation settles over the table once more, this time revolving around Gio’s plans for a racketeering scheme. A small sigh escapes my lips, and my shoulders sag before I turn back to my uneaten lasagna. Without the wine to distract me, I quietly push bites of the main course back and forth on my plate.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I sit up straighter and glance in Luciano’s direction. Half of the lasagna on his own plate is gone.

Setting my fork aside, I shrug. My neck still feels unbearably hot. “I’m vegan.”

A line forms between his brows. “You should’ve said something. Have you been eating at our house?”

Is that concern in his eyes? The same eyes that glared daggers at me a few minutes ago? I must be imagining it.

I nod. “Carlo knows. And Mrs. Ajello, too. She said she told your parents’ chef this morning, but it must’ve been too late to change—”

Those thick dark brows furrow further, and he interrupts me by lifting his hand in the air and calling over the server he dismissed a few minutes ago. “Take this plate away from my wife and bring us a vegan alternative. Then tell the chef to come speak to me.”

Oh hell.

“I really don’t care,” I squeak, suddenly terrified by what Luciano might say or do to the chef. For all we know, the man might’ve made an honest mistake. I’m certain he didn’t ignore Mrs. Ajello’s instructions out of malice.

“Is everything alright, over there?” Allegra’s cool voice floats across the table. She arches a brow.

“Your chef ignored Viviana’s dietary restrictions. She can’t eat this.” Luciano gestures towards my plate as the server clears it away, then settles back against his seat and places his napkin on his own plate—evidently finished. “I’d like a word with him.”

Allegra blinks, and a single wrinkle mars her forehead. Time for more Botox.

“Oh, the matter about the meat? Yes, he told me about that.” She dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Do not blame poor Chef Michele. He only followed my instructions.”

I stiffen. She told him to serve me the meat and cheese lasagna?

Luciano leans forward, slate eyes narrowed at his mother. I take a moment to admire his side profile. He’s all sharp lines and strong bone structure. A short, neat beard covers his jawline and surrounds his mouth. He’s excruciatingly, obnoxiously good looking. Especially when his intense gaze isn’t directed at me.

“What instructions?” The question sounds more like a warning.

Allegra doesn’t balk. She simply waves her hand dismissively. “After all the Russos told us about her, I figured Viviana was trying to be difficult. I told Michele not to trouble himself with making a second entree.”

I don’t know whether I feel more angry or confused by the fact that this woman dislikes me so much. I didn’t kill Elenora in the car crash. I didn’t ask to marry her son. As far as I know, I’ve done nothing to earn her ire besides wear a Van Gogh t-shirt on my farce of a wedding night. My simple existence offends her.

“ Oh, Allegra,” Girardo mutters, shaking his head and rubbing at his forehead.

“You can hardly blame me!” She huffs a short, exasperated laugh and turns to my husband, as if expecting him to come to her defense. “Luciano—”

“Apologize.”

I blink.

The room goes quiet, and a shiver skitters down my spine.

Beside me, Luciano has transformed. He sits tall, shoulders broad and rolled back as his gaze darkens. He’s no longer the diplomatic, agreeable son who chuckled alongside his brother and discussed business with his father. This is Luciano, the future of the Cosa Nostra. This man demands respect and obedience, even from the woman who brought him into this world.

Something in my stomach tightens and warms at the sight. At the knowledge that he came to my defense.

Allegra’s mouth opens and closes once, reminiscent of a gaping fish, before she collects herself. She schools her face into a mask of calm, though her eyes betray her unease. “Come now, Luciano… You’ve spent the first week of your marriage hiding away from this woman. She is a disaster, you’ve said so yourself.”

“Watch your mouth—”

Allegra rises from her seat, hands slamming against the table. “How can you blame me for expecting the worst out of her when you have not even tried to break her of her delinquency! She is a disgrace. To her family. To her sister’s memory. To you .”

I flinch like the words are a physical assault.

I’ve heard it all before. From my mother and father. From my teachers. From Elenora herself. It’s why they shipped me off at seventeen. I’m used to being unwanted. And yet, hearing the words from Allegra’s lips… It hurts far more than I care to admit.

Shame heats my skin. My eyes begin to sting, but I refuse to be abused by this woman. Casting aside any hopes of civility, I push up from my seat, causing the chair to scrape against the hardwood.

“Believe it or not, I’m not exactly happy to be part of this family, either,” I hiss, holding Allegra’s glare like my life depends on it. “But don’t worry. This disaster will only be here long enough to pop out your precious grandchild. I’ll be on the first fucking flight out, you can bet your next round of Botox on that, you old witch.”

I don’t wait. I shove away from the table, nearly tipping over on my damned heels in the process. Bone-rattling anger and three glasses of wine weren’t the best combination for a smooth, powerful exit, but I somehow manage to march away from the dinner table without falling over.

The pounding between my ears drowns out the muffled sounds I leave in my wake. Gio’s barking laughter. Allegra’s gasps and exclamations of disbelief. Luciano’s voice calling my name. None of it breaks through my determination to get as far away from this house as possible.

The two servers standing by the door step aside for me as I pass, but I pause at the doorway. The men watch me skeptically. There’s one more thing I need to do.

“I’ll be taking this, ” I drawl, snatching the bottle of wine from its resting spot in a tub of ice. Cold droplets rain from the glass, but I tug the cork off, wrap my lips around the rim, and take a pull of the red wine. It drips from the corner of my mouth, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand as I march away from the dinner party from hell.

None of the wide-eyed staff try to stop me. The butler that greeted me and Luciano earlier in the evening stands at the large French doors, and something like pity pools in his kind gaze. I’m too rattled to offer him a smile as he holds open a door for me.

The moment I step outside, a rush of cool air rises to greet me. My heels click to a stop on the stone, and I take a moment to inhale deep, sucking in a full breath for the first time all evening.

Vision blurring, my icy resolve crumbles too soon. I swipe at a single rogue droplet that falls onto my cheek and curse. “Damn it.”

Tears are inevitable, but I hoped I would at least make it back to my bedroom before they fell. No one in this family deserves to see my tears.

Sniffing one last time, I start the long trek back toward the lake. In the distance, light glows from the windows of Luciano’s home, serving as a beacon in the night to guide me to safety. The bottle sloshes at my side, and my ankle comes dangerously close to rolling more than once.

I’m halfway to the body of water when I hear it. Footsteps, heavy against the earth behind me.

I keep my eyes ahead, even when a familiar voice calls out my name. “Viviana!”

My beloved husband. He’s close. Probably only a dozen steps away, and, judging by the sound of his panted breaths, he’s jogging. “Viviana, will you wait?”

I pick up my pace. “Leave me alone.”

I know what is coming. He’ll yell at me. Probably demand that I turn around and apologize to his mother this instant. Or, maybe he’ll inflict whatever infamous punishment he’s alluded to since the first night I arrived in Bedford. That doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for him.

Luciano reaches my side, and I brace myself for his bruising hand to clamp on my wrist and wrench me around to face him.

It never comes.

“Stop walking,” he demands.

“No. I’m not going back there. And I’m not apologizing to your mother. She deserved everything I said.”

“I know.”

I blink. He knows? For the first time since storming out of his parents’ house, I slow my pace and risk a sideways glance at him. Tendrils of dark hair fall across his forehead, disheveled from chasing after me, and the top buttons of his dress shirt are open, revealing a dusting of dark curls on his chest.

Luciano swipes at the hair on his brow and sighs. “My mother disrespected both of us tonight. I would’ve gone with you when you left, but I stayed behind to tell her that.”

God, a part of me wishes I’d stayed so I could’ve witnessed that.

He lets out a huff and grabs my hand, his grip surprisingly gentle as he tugs against my stride. “Now, will you please stop walking? Take off your heels. You’re going to break your fucking ankle out here in the dark.”

As if on cue, my foot lands on uneven ground and wobbles. Luciano cocks a brow.

I eye him, wary, then bend over to heed his request. “Fine.”

A sigh of relief floats up from my chest as I release my feet from their rigid confines. To my surprise, Luciano takes the heels from my hands.

“Why are you doing this?” I mumble, picking up the half empty wine bottle from where I placed it in the grass.

“You’ve got your hands full,” he muses, nodding toward the wine. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to be funny.

One corner of my lips curls before I correct myself. We start walking back toward the lake, its surface shimmering in the moonlight. “You really told off your mom?” I ask, and when he nods, I continue. “What did you say to her?”

He considers his answer quietly before shrugging a heavy shoulder. “I reminded her that you’re my wife, no matter the circumstances of our union. A word against you is a word against me, even from my mother.”

My heart flutters against my ribcage. Despite myself, I dare a small smile. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my gratitude. “I’m sorry she said those things about you.”

It’s my turn to shrug. “She’s not the first person to call me a disaster. I’m sure she won’t be the last.”

Until the day I fully escape from this world—from the Cosa Nostra and all of the unfair expectations attached to it—I’ll never be enough. I’ll never fit their mold, and they hate me for it.

Luciano hums. We’re quiet for a few moments before he changes the subject. “What happened between you and your father to make him send you to Florence? I’ve asked several people but can’t seem to get a straight answer.”

I snort, a cold, unrecognizable sound. “It depends on who you ask. Though, I suppose it really happened about three months before I turned eighteen.” My thoughts turn bitter as memories of that night resurface. “My father had one of his recently-widowed friends over for supper. Apparently, the asshole was looking for a new wife.”

A shiver trickles down my spine, and I feel disgusted and cheap all over again. I clear my throat, forcing my gaze ahead. “My parents already had their sights on a marriage between you and Elenora, so I was the next best option for him, I guess. They announced their plans over dessert, and I freaked out.”

Luciano’s eyes blaze into the side of my face, so I try to maintain an air of indifference, even as my throat bobs. “My father’s friend tried to comfort me by putting his hand up my thigh beneath the dining room table. I spit on his face.”

Beside me, Luciano stops walking. His features twist into a mask of downright hostility, and there’s violence in his graphite gaze. “Who was your father’s friend?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” He growls the word. A different sort of shiver rushes over my body. Goosebumps pepper my arms. My nipples tighten.

I blame it on the chill in the night air and start walking again. We’ve reached the lake shore by now, and I focus on the feeling of mud squishing between my toes instead of whatever visceral response Luciano’s barbaric sound drew out of me.

“His first name is Mario. That’s all I know.” A lie, but Luciano doesn’t have to know that. I figure there are enough Mario’s in the Cosa Nostra that he won’t care enough to pinpoint the man in question.

“Anyway,” I continue, eager to change the subject. “That straw broke the camel’s back. They had me on a plane to Florence within the week. I think they were worried I’d do something to ruin Elenora’s chances of snatching you .”

Luciano hums again—a low, thoughtful thrum. “And now we’re married.”

“And now we’re married,” I agree.

A comfortable silence settles over us. I count thirty-six wet footsteps before speaking again, the alcohol in my system loosening my lips.

“I have a question,” I begin, taking a sip of the red wine. He doesn’t answer, but the moonlight illuminates the way he cocks a brow, prompting me to continue. “Are you mad about how I acted tonight? I mean, your mother was a total bitch. But a proper wife—” I roll my eyes at the phrase—“would’ve held her tongue.”

To my surprise, one corner of his mouth curls. Then it curls some more. Then more, until Luciano Venturi is smiling. It’s an unrestrained smile, showing immaculately straight teeth and accompanied by a deliciously deep chuckle. He shakes his head and reaches over to take the wine bottle from my hand.

I blink, unwittingly bathing in the sight and sound of him.

“Honestly? I thought you were incredible.”

My stomach cartwheels, my head spins, and my stupid heart starts some sporadic little dance in my chest. Get a hold of yourself, Viviana, I coach myself, but it’s all in vain.

My eyes probably bulge out of my head as he brings the wine bottle to his full lips and wraps them around its head. He swallows down a single gulp of the red, his throat rising and falling at a sensually slow speed. His tongue grazes the bottle’s rim, collecting a single droplet of the rich liquid that hung on the precipice.

Oh sweet baby—

“Come on,” he prompts, handing the wine bottle to me again and placing his hand on the center of my spine. I can scarcely breathe, much less walk. “Let’s get back. You still haven’t had dinner.”