Devious Mafia Vows

1. Bianca

Bianca

The dressing suite door slams open and shut, and in walks the devil himself. “Get out.”

My father’s never knocked or asked permission in his life, and unfortunately, today’s no exception.

My younger sister Livia stiffens behind me, where she’s buttoning up my off-the-shoulder mermaid-style wedding gown.

The satin dress clings to every curve in a vulgar way, and the cinched waist impedes my ability to drag air into my lungs.

With every inhale, my breasts swell over the sweetheart neckline.

Thanks to her mutilated hand, my sister is only half-done.

“Father, Livia hasn’t finished with my dress—”

In a blur of motion, he flies across the room and backhands Livia across the face with a deafening thwack.

In the prime of his life at forty-nine, the burly, sharp-nosed Aldo Giampiero Conti is more fit than men twenty years younger and has a thin, cruel mouth. I didn’t inherit his piercing blue eyes, but my brown hair is just as unruly, though he always keeps his gelled back.

Anything to avoid appearing unkempt.

As the hit reverberates through my bones, I suppress the urge to flinch.

Showing any sign of emotion will only enrage Aldo further.

Instead, I force myself to maintain an impassive expression as the blow knock my sister off-balance.

Staggering, she swallows her own cry and straightens with more dignity and control than I’ll ever possess.

Her cheek blooms crimson, a mark she’ll bear for the rest of the day.

“I said, get out.”

Both Livia and I recognize our father’s low, lethal tone. Without a glance in my direction, my sister slips on a pair of sage gloves that match her maid of honor dress and quietly slinks out the door.

The gloves were a last-minute procurement to hide her latest disfigurement.

Last night, as punishment for one of my oversights regarding the guest list, Father snipped the webbed skin between Livia’s fingers.

He didn’t cut deep enough to damage the tendons, but he still inflicted enough damage to make his point.

She and I spent the night before my wedding suturing her hand back together with the supplies she stores in her room for such injuries.

Ever since my father figured out that he could control me by causing her pain, my sister has served as his whipping girl.

He knows I’ll do anything to protect her.

Considering our mother abandoned us years ago, I’m all Livia has.

But no matter how thoroughly I heed his instructions and bow to his whims, it’s never good enough.

And Livia always pays the price.

My father spins from the mirror, jerking me around so he can take over the task of buttoning my gown. When his meaty fingers tangle with the fastenings, I bite down on my cheek to prevent a shudder. I can sense him examining me as if I’m a piece of fruit and he’s searching for the rot.

His hot, stale breath blasts my ear. “Don’t embarrass me today, Bianca.

This wedding is all New York high society is gossiping about, but more importantly, the Council will be monitoring this event to see how well the Contis play by their rules.

” He snaps the loops around the ivory buttons so carelessly, it’s a wonder they don’t tear.

“And we’ll show them, won’t we? We’ll show them just how worthy the Contis are of their protection. ”

Understanding my input is unwelcome, I simply nod. I already know our family’s continued survival depends on this union in more ways than one.

My wedding is my most significant mission to date.

If I can help Father gain and maintain the Council’s favor by marrying their golden boy, Marco Argento, then I’ll have helped the Conti don achieve a lifelong goal.

Father will see just how useful I can be, and Livia will no longer suffer for my mistakes.

Aldo finishes with the dress and circles me before grabbing my chin.

He tsks as he studies the shimmery brown eyeshadow and dark rose lipstick.

Releasing me, he wipes his hand clean on the small handkerchief from his inner pocket.

“You look like a cheap, tawdry slut. Like a portrait of those garish harlots that Argento boy surrounds himself with.”

Before I can open my mouth to thank him, he snatches the edge of my blusher veil.

As he yanks the accessory free of my bun, the metal comb scrapes my scalp.

Though the motion jerks me backward and causes me to stumble, I manage to right my stance in the next heartbeat.

With my spine rigid and my shoulders squared, I track the sheer tulle as it arcs across the room and lands in a heap on the floor.

He gets in my face again, his ruddy cheeks darkening with anger.

“Get rid of that ridiculous thing. You’re not some untouched, virgin bride, and I won’t let you humiliate me by playing the part.

You’ll walk down that aisle with your head held high, letting them all see you for what you are. His whore.”

I fend off a wave of humiliation, reassuring myself he’s the only one who views me like that. Uncertainty trickles in anyway. Aldo’s is a master at exploiting hidden fears.

Father adjusts his gold cuff links in the mirror and recomposes himself. “I need you flawless. Understand? There’s no room for error. Only the successful execution of this marriage will allow us to seize back what was stolen from us.”

Of course.

The book. When Dulce abandoned our family to marry Giovanni Argento, she stole a compendium of secrets.

Our tactics, safe houses, moles…all in the ledger that traitorous bitch gave to the Argentos.

That access to our underworld connections, trade opportunities, and blackmail targets is the only reason they stayed ahead of us for all these years.

The Conti family predates the Argento legacy, and with age comes wisdom, resources, and financial information passed down many generations.

Now, finally, we have the chance to regain what we lost and to restore our flagging power. And once Father has his precious book, I can whisk Livia to a safe place, somewhere he’ll never be able to touch her again.

“I could just kill him.” Not that I relish the thought, but desperation can change your perspective. “After what his brother did to Uncle Enzo, we’d be well within our rights, and on top of that, I’d inherit the family. Then we could—”

I gasp as Father drives his fist into my stomach and knocks the wind out of me, doubling over as I fight to draw air into my lungs.

At least he didn’t break a bone this time.

He circles me while I recover from the blow. “Your job isn’t to think, Bianca. It’s to follow orders like any capo worth their salt. If he dies too soon, you’ll be the first one the Council suspects. And how do you think that’ll make me look? Our family?”

Crouching so that he’s in my line of vision, he peels back his upper lip, his blue eyes flashing a warning. “You’ll wait for my orders and do as you’re told. No more. No less. Spread your legs, earn his trust, and find. My. Fucking. Book.”

Ice slithers through my veins.

I’m well aware of the consequences if I fail. My sister’s suffering lives in the sinister slope of his brow. A silent cue that every time I slip, Livia bleeds for it.

Slowly I straighten, determined not to wince. My ribs will ache for the rest of the day, a physical keepsake of what happens if my sister or I refuse to fall in line.

The light knock on the bridal suite door probably saves me from another tirade.

My father jerks his chin. “It’s time. Let’s go.”

He exits the room with the grace of a man who values control above all else, leaving me to trail behind.

The red-faced wedding planner leads us to the Grand Room, where the murmur of nearly one hundred guests buzzes over a pianist playing the theme to Jurassic Park.

That song was absolutely not on the approved list of music.

My three bridesmaids have already lined up for their walk down the aisle. None of them pivot to offer a smile or nod of encouragement as I draw up to my father’s side.

Why would they? I only met these women last night.

From what I understand, they’re dates of Marco’s drinking buddy groomsmen.

Other than my sister and fiancé, Marco’s second-in-command, Luca Navarro, is the only person from the wedding party that I remember because he introduced himself at the rehearsal dinner.

With a sigh, I tell myself I’m not here to forge friendships. I don’t have friends.

A capo doesn’t squander time cultivating meaningless attachments.

Friendships offer nothing but liabilities, while this marriage buys an empire.

Walking down the aisle merges my family’s territory with Marco’s firepower, securing an alliance through blood ties rather than sentiment.

This is more than a wedding. It’s a coronation, and I intend to claim my crown.

With renewed resolve, I accept the bouquet the wedding planner passes me. The stunning arrangement features burgundy dahlias, dusty pink roses, and sprigs of eucalyptus. I sniff discreetly to ground myself as the heavy velvet curtains open and the bridesmaids begin their descent.

The women in my bridal party parade into the Grand Room, and I steadily inch closer to the fate that awaits me.

The music concludes, the trailing notes coming to a gentle standstill as the bridesmaids finish their procession.

Only then does the pianist launch into the familiar rhythm of the traditional wedding march.

Father tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, presenting me like a prize rather than a daughter. Banked violence vibrates through the fingers digging into my wrist, delivering a final, silent warning as the guests rise and settle their attention on us.

Packing away my emotions, I mold myself into what I need to be.

Impenetrable. Cold.

The Ice Princess.

The moniker my enemies saddled me with following the mission that convinced my father of my worthiness to lead.

Since then, I’ve earned every stripe attached to my name. This feat will simply be one more.

Father leads us down the aisle, and I strengthen my invisible armor as the guests’ gazes pierce me from all angles.

Averting my eyes from the man towering at the end of the promenade, I drink in the splendor of the space.

I organized every aspect of this day right down to the napkins on the tables, but seeing my hard work come together is another thing entirely.

Wisteria drapes from the ceiling in clusters of bright blue flowers, offsetting the dark-paneled walls.

The blooms aren’t in season, but money can create miracles.

Recruiting the best florist in the tristate area cost an arm and a leg, but the result is the heady perfume masking the scent of old wood and floor wax.

Scattered lantern lights infuse the space with a warm glow, a perfect enhancement to the vintage skirt chandeliers that flicker with faux candles.

Sage and blush accents enrich the deeper hues of the heavy wine-colored drapery, and the massive sweeps of fabric blot out the late afternoon sun, trapping the bustling noise of lower Manhattan firmly outside.

As we near the end of the aisle, I can no longer delay.

With a silent inhale, my attention passes over the groomsmen and zeroes in on my husband-to-be, Marco Argento.

The sight punches the air right back out of my lungs.

The man’s even more handsome than I remember.

In fact, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. At 6’5, he’s all muscle and well over two-hundred pounds.

I’ve heard he’s a beast in the ring, though he’s obviously had his Roman nose broken a few times.

His size, coupled with those thick dark brows and too-easy smile, reminds me a little of Superman.

If Superman were Italian and fucked everything with a pulse.

Wavy pitch-black hair that appears rumpled complements his warm olive skin tone, both highlighted by the…amethyst suit?

I specifically requested, in several emails and two messengered copies of the wedding plans and itinerary, that he wear charcoal like the other groomsmen.

I grind my molars. It’s going to be a long marriage.

Unsurprising given Marco’s reputation as a well-known man-whore.

But if he thinks he can continue that game after the ink dries on our marriage certificate, he’s severely miscalculated.

If his eyes—or anything else—stray once I claim his last name, he’ll find out exactly how easily my blade can sever his favorite toy.

As Father and I stop in front of the priest, Marco finally deigns to grace me with his attention. His moss green eyes sweep over my body, lingering on every curve until my skin burns beneath the satin and lace.

When he meets my gaze, that ridiculous, cocky grin widens. With that smug expression—a blatant taunt—the asshole clearly believes he owns me already.

I lift my chin, refusing to let him make me feel small.

When the Council ordered this union between the Contis and the Argentos, my promotion to caporegime became official, a strategic elevation to ensure I stood on more equal footing with my new husband.

At twenty-three, I’m the youngest female capo in New York City mafia history.

Father Roberto begins his welcome speech.

While none of the Councilors are here to witness the joining of our two enemy families, their presence haunts the ceremony.

Lorenzo Demarco, or Ren as everyone calls him, acts as Zanni’s personal hunter and tracker, and I spy him lurking among the paparazzi and social media influencers, no doubt charting our every move to report back to his master.

Marco’s scent—chocolate wrapped in sharp, smoky cinnamon—envelops me. I hate how my pulse leaps as his eyes drift over my fitted gown, how my body instantly craves a taste of this man…the one I intend to destroy.

He huffs a deep, dark laugh, and his bourbon-laced breath ghosts over my face.

My nose wrinkles.

Son of a bitch.

How drunk is he?