Merciless Vows (Titans: Moretti Mafia #3)

Prologue

Valentina

Dallas, Texas

Dallas is all dressed up tonight, sparkling, alive, glittering.

Forty floors below, the city is a sprawl of headlights and neon, streaks of gold and electric blue sliding between dark buildings. From up here, it’s easy to pretend the whole thing belongs to me. In some ways, it really does.

Or rather, it belongs to my father.

He controls every heartbeat of the city. Owns everyone and everything that matters.

Next to me, my friend Chaira snaps her fingers in front of me.

I shake my head.

Her guests are laughing at something, making me realize I haven’t been paying attention.

“Val, it’s my birthday!” Chiara scolds, bumping my hip with hers. “You have to at least act like you’re having fun.”

I force a smile that I hope looks genuine. “I am having fun,” I lie.

What I’m actually doing is mentally mapping every exit point and calculating how many seconds it would take my security to reach me if someone pulled a gun.

The high-top table that we’re standing around is in the back corner of the rooftop bar, prime real estate with a full view of the space. There are designer dresses, expensive jewelry, flirtations, and pounding music.

This is the kind of place where men come to feel powerful and don’t realize they’re actually prey.

Two of my soldiers stand near the entrance, half hidden in the shadows, suits immaculate, expressions bored. Santo is closer to the railing, angled like he’s taking in the view rather than tracking every movement up here. No visible weapons. Just expensive watches and dead eyes.

Local men probably assume they’re hedge-fund or oil money.

They’re not.

I catch Santo’s gaze and give him the smallest nod. I’m good. I’m safe. The building is vetted, and the owner knows I’m here.

“Your table has been taken care of tonight,” he’d told me when we arrived. “Compliments of the house.”

Compliments of my last name is more like it.

Given those circumstances, no one is stupid enough to start something here. I’m safe.

Santo’s shoulders loosen by a millimeter. For my men, that’s practically a hammock and a margarita.

Trying to behave like I’m expected to, I lift my glass in Chiara’s direction. Above her, a dozen metallic balloons bob in the warm breeze. “To the last year of your twenties.”

Our friends cheer, the sound bright and a little shrill over the low thrum of music. I drain my glass.

“To poor life choices,” someone says.

“To not getting murdered,” I add, which makes Chiara snort champagne through her nose.

We laugh, and for a heartbeat, I let myself sink into it. Not as Don Fabrizio Russo’s daughter. Not the woman who spent the week quietly shutting down a Bertoni capo who thought he could skim from a shipment and blame it on a dock worker.

Tonight I’m just Val. In a red dress that would make my father scowl and heels that would give my mother a headache.

I tilt back my glass, let the champagne dance over my tongue.

The wine is far too sweet for my taste, and honestly, part of me would rather be at home, talking to my brother and father. But Chiara expected me to be here for bubbles and fun. And even though I’d made several excuses, she continued to insist I join her.

The night air is warm on my bare shoulders, and the silk hem of my dress brushes the top of my thighs when I shift my weight.

Around me, the music pulses and lights shimmer. For the first time in days, I’m not actively trying to keep anyone alive.

And then the air changes.

I feel it in the subtle tightening at the base of my skull. There’s a prickle along the back of my neck, like someone just laid a dangerous hand on the room.

I freeze.

“Someone’s staring at you,” Chiara singsongs, already tipsy and more than a little delighted.

Unfortunately for me, people always seem to stare. Because of my guards. My face. My name. My reputation.

But when I follow her gaze across the rooftop, I know she doesn’t mean the usual curiosity.

She means him.

He’s at the far side of the rooftop, half shadowed, a dark slash of tailored suit and ruthless stillness.

The man is drop-dead gorgeous with impossibly broad shoulders and what I imagine are rock-hard abs.

The fit of his suit is perfect, quiet and expensive at the same time.

He’s loosened his tie a little bit. Not enough to be casual, just intentional.

He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t preen. Instead, he just watches.

Like he’s cataloguing the room.

Our eyes meet.

And now he’s cataloguing me.

Heat suddenly rushes through me, settling deep inside.

Instantly I shove away the hated, unwanted reaction.

I’m absolutely not interested. Not in him. Not in any man. I have too much to accomplish to allow myself to be sidelined by my hormones.

“I mean, he is gorgeous.” Chiara touches my arm, dragging my attention away from the man. “And it has been a reallllly long time for you.”

“Don’t.” Even as I protest, my betraying pulse notches up a second time. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”

“He’s hot, Val.”

As if that means anything, I try to tell myself.

“And he won’t look at anyone else. It’s rude to ignore that kind of commitment.”

I roll my eyes, but despite my best efforts, my attention keeps drifting back to him.

He doesn’t look like Dallas money. There’s too much coiled restraint, not enough performative flash. He moves like someone who knows exactly how much space he owns and doesn’t need to prove it.

Danger, my instincts scream.

Opportunity, another part of me whispers.

It’s been a long time since I let my guard down with anyone. And maybe I yearn for a connection with someone who has no idea who I am.

After exhaling—and wondering what in the hell is wrong with me—I determinedly finish the last of my flute.

Now I can switch to something I’d rather drink.

Even though I could signal for a server, I don’t. “I’ll be right back.”

“Bring back Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody,” Chiara calls as I slip away from the table.

Once again wondering what is wrong with me, I weave around the clusters of people.

As I pass my men, Santo straightens slightly, eyes scanning the immediate area.

“I’m just going to get a drink,” I murmur as I near him.

“I’ll get it for you, ma’am.”

“Thanks.” With a small smile, I wave him off. “But I’ll do it myself, thank you.”

He gives the barest nod. “Stay where I can see you, signorina.”

“Of course.” That is one rule my father set that I don’t dare violate.

I reach the bar and slide onto one of the comfortable chairs. I don’t order immediately, even though the attentive bartender asks what she can do for me.

Instead, I rest my elbows lightly on the polished surface as I look around, calculating. It’s a habit I’ve had since I was old enough to see over a conference table. I count exits as I look for threats.

Up here, the who’s who of Dallas’s elite believe they’re safe, that this is a slice of music and light.

I know better.

There are threats everywhere.

Movement brushes the edge of my awareness.

A reflection in the glass shows the broad-shouldered man pushing off from where he’d been leaning.

I hide my smile as he cuts through the crowd toward me.

I wait until he steps into my space, and the air goes thick and electric, buzzing over my skin like a live wire.

Then I slowly turn toward him.

Oh God.

Tall, dark, and broody, just as Chaira said.

This close, he’s worse. Or better.

His dark hair is a shade too long to be corporate-correct, and his jaw looks like it was carved to take a punch and give one back. His eyes are…

God.

Sharp and assessing.

They’re a rich, dangerous brown that rakes over me like he has every right.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

He leans in, and the crisp, dark scent of him displaces everything else.

Unable to help myself, I inhale again and take in the notes of power, undercut by something faintly citrusy. It’s brisk and controlled, like he refuses to allow anything that lingers longer than necessary.

I force myself to breathe through it and pretend I’m not drowning in his masculinity.

He drags over the nearby stool and takes a seat, mere inches from me.

The Texas heat, the music, the people, everything fades until there’s just this breathless, suspended thing between us.

Then I blink, forcing myself to remember that I’m in control.

I give him my best smile, the one I’ve perfected over the years spent at my father’s side. It’s as calculated as it is controlled. Promising everything and yet nothing at the same time.

“Can I buy you a drink?” His voice is sexy as sin, rough-edged and low, threaded with promises I know better than to believe.

Still, despite myself, my pulse trips.

“That depends,” I say.

One dark brow lifts. “On?”

“Whether or not I like the company.”

The corner of his mouth curls up, and something inside me turns molten. Damn it. Damn him.

“In that case, allow me to attempt to make a good impression.”

He doesn’t wait for my answer. Instead, he signals for the bartender with a flick of his fingers like he owns the place. When he orders, it’s not some generic rooftop cocktail.

It’s my drink.

Exactly my drink. A Sicilian Velvet.

When the bartender sets the crystal in front of me, the liquid inside is the perfect shade and pour.

I narrow my eyes, amusement sparking. “You did your research.”

“Something like that,” he acknowledges.

I wrap my fingers around the glass, intending to take a sip, but his hand closes around my wrist before I can lift it.

It shocks me.

Not the touch exactly—men have tried to catch my hand before. It’s the quality of how he handles the situation. And me. Firm. Controlled. Like he already knows my pulse will jump for him and he’s checking to see if he’s right.

He is.

Heat flares under his fingers, my heartbeat kicking against his thumb like a trapped bird. For half a second, my body responds before my brain does, and a shiver slides up my spine.

“Careful, Valentina.” His voice is a warning and a caress.

I freeze.

He knows my name.

My gaze snaps up to his, all teasing gone. “How do you know who I am?”