Defiant Vows

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

VIVIANA

At twenty years old, I’ve never seen a dead body.

Today didn’t change that. They put my sister’s ashes in an urn.

According to my parents, not enough of Elenora survived the car crash. A drunk driver ran a red light and collided with her cherry convertible. It took an hour for the first responders to subdue to wild blaze.

This morning, I said goodbye to a mother of pearl urn instead of my big sister.

My throat tightens as I think about the iridescent vase holding Eleanor’s remnants. It’s still downstairs, almost directly beneath my childhood bedroom, where the last of the mourners linger with my parents.

I excused myself several hours ago, unable to stomach the never-ending robotic condolences. What a beautiful service. Elenora was such a lovely young woman. We are so sorry for your loss.

It was a beautiful service–beautiful and depressing. Not a dry eye to be found in the cathedral. Elenora would’ve loved it.

Regret knots in my stomach. My sister and I had grown apart in recent years. In truth, we’d never been very close to begin with, but I’d give anything for one final conversation with her. Even if they all seemed to end in an argument.

Three soft knocks yank me out of the haze.

I blink, pushing myself to a sitting position on the bed. My head spins at the movement—the result of a week’s worth of tears clogging my sinuses. No one could claim that I didn’t mourn Elenora.

“Viviana?”

My mother’s voice grates from the hall. She’d been reluctant to let me depart the reception early and undoubtedly wants me to go back downstairs to bid farewell to the last of the mourners. No, thank you.

She doesn’t wait for me to respond before rattling off her demand. “We need you downstairs in your father’s office. Quickly. ”

I frown. I didn’t expect the undercurrent of urgency in that last word. And why my father’s office instead of the living room we’d converted into a wake?

Interest piqued, I slide off the bed and shuffle toward my door. I twist the handle and peer into the hallway. “Is everything o–”

She’s already gone, her shadow retreating down the second landing of the grand staircase.

I chew on my lip, newfound worry curling in my gut.

Something must have happened. Did someone spill the special funeral fruit punch? Knock over Elenora’s urn? Had father’s heart finally stopped working at the prospect of a future without his beloved eldest daughter?

Glancing down at my clothing, I consider changing back into the knee-length black dress from the funeral. I’d left the dress in a crumpled mess at the foot of my bed as soon as I escaped the wake, opting for my favorite comfort t-shirt, an oversized rendition of a Van Gogh self portrait that reads ‘ Van Gogh Away,’ and leggings instead.

I smooth a hand over a wrinkle in the cotton and decide against changing. My mother said to come quickly, and I refuse to give her a reason to gnash her obscenely-white teeth at me again. We’ve been spatting from the moment my flight landed in New York a week ago.

I creep down the staircase, keeping my steps quiet in case any stragglers remain in the nearby living room. To my relief, there aren’t any voices or other signs of life. I release a deep breath and skip down the stairs with renewed vigor.

With the commencement of Elenora’s visitation, this hellish week will finally be over. A week filled with tears and regret and memories that brought equal parts pain and happiness.

I’ll be happy to return to Italy soon. To the city of Florence that, in the last three years, became more of a home to me than New York ever was or could be.

I pad across the hardwood to my father’s office, the mismatched crew socks on my feet dulling my footsteps. It’s evening, the sun a mere crack of its former glory on the horizon. An ominous red and orange glow leaks across the floorboards from the window.

I swallow, unable to shake the unease prickling at the back of my neck.

When I arrive at the office, I don’t bother knocking. My parents know I’m coming.

“ Papà–” The words evaporate from my tongue as soon as I push the door open.

I thought all the guests had gone.

I was so wrong.

None other than Girardo Venturi, boss of the Cosa Nostra , stands at the center of the room. He’s tall and muscled, though softened by time. He wears an impeccably tailored suit and a pleasant expression that hardly fits the ruler of a criminal enterprise.

My father stands beside him, and his wife flanks his other side, clad in her immaculate dress of black satin and a wide-brim hat pinned crooked over her silvery hair. Another figure lingers behind the don, but my mother’s squeal pulls my attention away from our guests before I can see who it is.

“Viviana!” she gasps, her eyes wide as saucers. “What in God’s name are you wearing?”

Annoyance flares with the humiliation heating my cheeks, and I can’t stop myself from glaring at the woman who birthed me. “You said to come quickly,” I squeak, hyper-aware of every eye in the room burning me to the spot. “I thought something was wrong!”

She tilts her head back, her hands flying to her temples as if she might faint.

“Please forgive my daughter,” she pleads, addressing Girardo . “It’s been a terribly stressful week for her.”

I roll my eyes. Give me a break.

“Vivi.” My father speaks for the first time, employing the nickname I’d adopted in childhood. Nowadays, he only uses it when he wants me to cooperate. I’m immediately on guard. “Perhaps you should go upstairs and change into something more appropriate?”

I frown, crossing my arms against my chest. I would hardly consider my t-shirt and leggings inappropriate. They cover all the interesting bits and more.

Before I can decide whether to refuse or obey, Girardo steps forward with an amicable smile painted on his lips. The person lurking behind him in the corner of the office shifts, still obscured by Girardo’s frame. “There’s no need. Thank you for coming, Viviana.”

My eyes shift between my father and the don. As a capo in the Sicilian mafia, my father reports to and works for the Venturi family. The name denotes royalty among New York’s twisted underworld—a world I escaped from at the age of seventeen.

I’m no longer their subject. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself for the last three years. And yet, Girardo Venturi still holds all the power. It’s clear in the way he holds himself— confident, shoulders back and chest puffed out.

I shift my feet. I don’t like that he summoned me.

Some small, hopeful part of me wonders if Girardo merely hoped to offer his condolences to my family in private. Elenora had been engaged to marry his eldest son and heir, after all. In a matter of weeks, our families would’ve been bound by marriage.

My hope shrivels as Girardo steps closer, his muddy brown eyes sweeping over my body so quickly that I almost miss it.

“Viviana,” the graying boss hums, a pleased smile peeling on his lips. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You’ve been gone from New York for, what, three years?”

I’m surprised that he knows how long I've been away. I’d only met the man on a handful of occasions, dinner parties and birthday celebrations, and each time I’d been happily overshadowed by Elenora. It sets my teeth on edge.

“Yes,” I practically croak, my voice hoarse from nerves. My fingers fidget with the hem of my tee. “I’ve been in Italy. Florence—with my mother’s family.”

I skirt around the fact that my family shipped me off to Italy after graduation as a punishment. They wanted me out of New York, somewhere that I couldn’t embarrass them and jeopardize Elenora’s chances. In the end, my prison-sentence in Florence liberated me.

If Elenora hadn’t been killed, I never would’ve returned.

Girardo nods once, a single dip of his chin before glancing at his wife. Clearly he isn’t interested in hearing more about my time abroad.

“Well?” he prompts his wife.

My stomach bottoms out as the silver-haired woman—I think her name is Allegra—directs all of her attention to me. There isn’t a single wrinkle or blemish on her face, but her eyes show her age. Sharp and unforgiving.

She stares down at me like I’m a speck of dirt on her favorite pair of Louis Vuitton pumps, and an uncomfortable silence settles over the room.

What the hell?

I wrap my arms tighter around my front, as if that might protect me from her analytical gaze. Is she… studying me? Allegra Venturi narrows her eyes, and I get the distinct feeling that, for whatever reason, she doesn’t like what she sees.

Well, fuck you too, lady.

I bite the inside of my cheek and lift my chin, willing myself not to break eye contact with the Cruella de Vil lookalike.

Before she has the chance to voice her opinion, my father clears his throat, and the sound cuts through the tension like a butter knife through burnt steak. “I can assure you, she’s untouched. We’ve had her closely monitored during her stay in Florence.”

My eyes widen, the blood draining from my face. I spin toward my father. “ Untouched? What are you– ”

“My sister had some of her best guards following her,” my mother adds, rushing forward to stand by Father’s side. “Viviana was never alone. But of course, we can have her checked.”

Have her checked? I almost choke.

“No, no,” Allegra drawls in a husky voice, as if she’s smoked one too many packs of cigarettes alongside her husband. “That won’t be necessary. We’ll see the evidence eventually. I suppose she’ll do.”

Realization crashes over me like a vat of boiling water. They’re talking about my virginity. The most valuable thing to a girl in the archaic traditions of the Sicilian mafia. A standard for every young woman unfortunate enough to be born into this ugly world.

But why would they be discussing my purity, unless…

Girardo turns away from me, focusing on the corner of the room where the mysterious third party waits in the shadows. “And you, Luciano?”

My blood turns cold.

Luciano Venturi finally emerges from behind his father, and my lungs seize.

Stormy gray eyes pass over me, void of any inkling of emotion. A muscle in his jaw ticks, the smallest shift beneath the shadow of a neat beard, and a shiver slithers down my spine.

He holds my gaze for one heartbeat. Two.

Then, he turns to my father and nods once. “I accept. Call the priest and have him come tonight. You owe me a bride, and I’ll not risk losing her again.”