Stolen Vows (Black Rose Auction #3)

1. Stella

1

STELLA

P apà thinks I’m nervous.

Given the gravity of the situation, I probably should be.

Unlike when my oldest sister, Elena, stood in a similar position just three years ago, there’s no one waiting on the other side to steal me away from this life. No one stands in the shadows, ready to slit my betrothed’s throat and whisk me to his private island, where we can live happily ever after.

My sisters don’t even know this is happening. Not that they’d be able to save me if they did.

Any rescue from this situation rests solely in my hands. Or mouth, I suppose.

My tongue dips to the side, feeling for the small razor blade wrapped in athletic tape that’s hidden between my lip and gums. It’s the size of my thumbnail—not big enough to impede my speech if I’m careful, but still, a deterrent if utilized correctly.

Papà’s grip tightens on my elbow. “Chin up, coniglia . If you ruin this for me, I’ll have you shipped off to Sicily.”

This isn’t a new threat, but I still have no clue what the hell kind of atrocities await across the Atlantic Ocean. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve had my plans to go to college and start a new life for myself completely uprooted, all in favor of fulfilling my father’s twisted deals—what could possibly be worse than that?

I scan the front of the nave past the rows of wooden pews, though the lights are dimmed and not much is visible. A few votive candles sit atop the altar, and a looming statue of our Blessed Mother is situated among the ornate wooden displays on the wall.

“Does my posture actually matter?” I mutter, careful to speak only from the unoccupied corner of my mouth. “He can’t even see me.”

“It’s about respect . De Tore won’t hesitate to kill someone he thinks is mocking him.”

My blood runs cold at the thought. “He sounds so pleasant.”

His fingers bite into my skin, as if trying to crush bone. “Shut it, or I’ll save him the trouble and rip out your tongue now.”

He moves forward, practically dragging me down the aisle.

It feels strangely appropriate to have Mother Mary watching this unfold. Given the sacrifices she made and the trust she had in the Father, surely, she can understand my struggle.

Of course, she wasn’t leaving one prison for another. Giving birth to the savior of the planet wasn’t an instant death sentence—it was a freedom within itself, a gift she thought she was bestowing upon the world. The entire point of the religion is to be released from the shackles of sin and an eternity of hellfire, whereas I’m simply being given to another monster by the one on my arm.

Only damnation awaits me now.

Sweat pours down my spine, seeping into the fabric of my dress. Air scarcely makes its way to my lungs as we approach a tall, broad figure shrouded in shadows. Papà’s fingers turn icy, continuing to hold me in a punishing grip even once we stop at the altar.

If I were na?ve, I’d think maybe his hesitation was laced with regret. That perhaps he was capable of feeling bad for forcing me into this.

But na?veté is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford. Any regret of his comes from the knowledge that I’m his very last bargaining chip—the only daughter left at his disposal. Once he’s given me over, the former don of Ricci Inc., Boston’s once-premier crime syndicate, loses all remaining vestiges of his power.

My feet shuffle forward, my body eager to get on with things. Maybe if it happens quickly, the fear and anger coagulating in my gut like concrete won’t feel so immobilizing.

Once we’re alone, I’ll strike. That way, my chances of escaping will increase.

I tug on my arm, trying to remove it from Papà’s grasp. His hand curls, his fingernails digging into my sleeve and the skin underneath.

His jaw clenches tightly as he stares over my head. I frown, shoving at him with my hip, but still, he doesn’t budge.

“Let go ,” I snap under my breath, alarm bells chiming in my mind.

Suddenly, I’m the only thing standing between two made men, and if I’ve learned anything from being the youngest Mafia daughter, it’s that being caught in the crossfire of any war means death.

These men are ruthless. It wouldn’t surprise me if Papà went from trying to bargain with me to using me as a human shield, given what’s gone on behind the scenes with me and my sisters. Elena got the emotional hits while Ariana took the brunt of Mamma’s physical and mental abuse.

Meanwhile, I was ignored by both parents—hidden away at events because my parents hated how boring and socially inept I seemed. Sometimes, they didn’t acknowledge they had a third daughter at all.

For a long time, I convinced myself it was better that way, but now, I can’t help feeling like I’ve made myself a sitting duck where my father is concerned. Perhaps if I’d not been so intent on getting out and going to college far away, I’d have been able to anticipate this. Maybe I’d have been able to escape.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Papà says after a moment, still not looking at me. “I realize this isn’t the money I told you I would bring, but I have a feeling you’ll find my daughter a bit more interesting.”

Fuck. It’s too late. I should have run before we came inside.

A dark chuckle echoes from the altar’s penumbra, followed by a stentorian voice that sends a shiver down my spine. “Where’s the cash you owe?”

“Isn’t a pound of flesh worth more to you?” Papà presses.

My bones grow hollow as I continue standing, struggling to break free from my father’s hold. We’ve all heard the stories about the man in the shadows—how he possesses the brute strength of a feral animal and the patience of one recently caged. Though he’s only a year older than me, the men in my father’s ranks have feared him for ages, with rumors of his detachment and thirst for blood making him a terrifying threat to the tenuous hierarchy of the underground world.

They say he kills indiscriminately and has been known to feast on his enemies just to keep an edge over his opponents.

“I’m afraid you’re overestimating your daughter’s value.”

Ouch . My head whips in the direction of that faceless voice, my brows drawing inward. “ Excuse ?—”

“Stella’s priceless,” Papà cuts in, squeezing my arm so tight that it tingles. “You have no idea how many offers for her I’ve fielded since she turned sixteen.”

A long, drawn-out pause. Then: “What exactly are you presenting to me?”

He sounds much older than his nineteen years, and I wonder if the pressure from a life of crime does that to a person.

Do I seem older than eighteen to him?

Then, an immediate follow-up: Why do I care how I appear to him? I’m not planning on sticking around anyway.

Still, Papà doesn’t let me go. A small sound of frustration blows past my lips, and I grapple with his fingers, trying to pry them off one by one.

He gives me a harsh shake. “The last daughter I have at home. Take what every other man in the city wants, and we can discuss money later.”

“How convenient for you.”

“She’s untouched.”

At that, I recoil from Papà completely, releasing him and distancing myself as much as I can while he maintains a hold on me.

“My older two fucked up my plans before I could get them involved in their full duties for the family, but this one…I managed to keep her under lock and key. You want to be the first to ruin her? Be my guest.”

The shadows ripple with dull laughter, and it almost feels like the sound is coming from the darkness with the way its owner is hidden. “What makes you think I’m interested in a virgin?”

“Oh, come on. You’re young, De Tore, but you’re a man.” Papà’s free hand comes up, reaching out before I have a chance to smack it away. He grabs my chin, curling his fingers into my cheeks so my mouth scrunches up. “Look at this face and tell me you don’t want to know how red it’ll get choking down your cock in an hour.”

Bile burns the back of my throat; if he weren’t pinching so hard, I think I’d puke right on the altar.

I wonder if this is the kind of thing my sisters endured in private. How did they manage to get through it? Five minutes into this show of humiliation, and I wish God would smite me right inside this place of worship.

“ Coglione .” The word—deadpanned in a language neither of my Italian American parents bothered to pass on to their children—is the first thing I hear outside of Papà’s heavy breaths in my ear.

A second later, the silhouette steps out of the shadows. Slowly, as if savoring the anticipation of his audience.

Long, strong legs reveal themselves first, clad in tailored black dress pants. Then, a tapered waist and broad shoulders beneath the matching suit jacket and leather gloves pulled tight over big hands. Two tendrils of ink-colored hair brush against his tannish skin, and his sleek jaw is covered in a thin layer of stubble that looks coarse to the touch.

People call him the Demon of Boston .

In presence and stature, Leopoldo De Tore is massive. He practically takes up the air around us, vacuuming it from the altar space and leaving me gasping for breath as he stalks forward.

But it’s the eyes I can’t look away from—a smoky-gray color, like the clouds around a misty full moon. Outside of church functions, I’ve only seen him in passing at different occasions: funerals, weddings, holiday parties. As bad as his reputation may be, I’ve never been able to corral my interest.

I’m too busy admiring those eyes to notice when he raises his arm and nudges the barrel of a gun against my forehead.