The Runaway Wife (Vows of Possession #2)

Chapter 1

LUCIA / LUCY

The things that we love tell us what we are.

I love that quote. But I’m fairly sure St Thomas Aquinas never pictured a half-naked, sunbaked woman in Antigua, clinging to an ice-cold margarita like it’s holy water, when he came up with that gorgeous line.

I grin to myself as I pass a freshly shaken mojito across the bar and lift my own frozen cocktail in silent celebration.

This.

This is the damn life. Who cares about the heatwave rolling in off the scorching beach or the beads of sweat trickling down my temples and along my spine when I have this incredible view?

When the summer tourists have mostly gone, leaving behind a few stragglers and the locals who know how to drink without being obnoxious about it?

I’m busy enough but not totally rushed off my feet, with a few minutes here and there to appreciate the vibe and my surroundings. Just the way I like it.

A blend of reggae and Afrobeats rolls out from the twin speakers mounted either side of the entrance to Marcel’s Place, a crooked little beach shack named after its equally crooked owner.

Palm-frond roof, mismatched stools, tables and chairs, and a bar top scarred by years of salt and spilled rum.

It isn’t fancy, but it’s home.

When I first arrive almost eighteen months ago, it’s overwhelming. The noise. The heat. The unusual rhythm of island life. I can barely tell a daiquiri from a pina colada, and Marcel takes one look at my shaking hands and mutters something in Creole that I’m pretty sure isn’t kind.

Now? I can free-pour like a pro, juggle three orders at once, and read a customer’s mood before they even open their mouth.

Progress.

The bell over the bar door jingles and I glance up to see Jax strolling in, long limbs loose, thin dreadlocks brushing the small of his back.

His skin is polished dark gold, his smile bright, his presence easy.

Behind him, Naomi, his girlfriend, is all curves and confidence, hips swaying like music follows her.

They live two doors down from me in Palm Row, the little cluster of pastel houses tucked behind the beach road. We’ve grown close enough to call them good friends.

“Evenin’, Lucy,” Jax drawls. “Tell me you got somethin’ cold for a man who worked too hard today.”

I slide him a beer without asking. He grins and takes the bottle with a wink.

Naomi hops onto a stool, eyes flicking to my hair after she takes the drink I pass her. “Mmm. Time for a refresh, girl?” she says in her thick island lilt.

I laugh, fingers going automatically to the elaborate French braids she wove for me last week, enjoying the sound of the beads clicking softly. “You think? I was hoping they’d last the rest of the week.”

She tilts her head. “Two more days, you gon’ look like you been wrestlin’ a hurricane.”

“Rude,” I say. Then, grinning, “Can I pay you in drinks?”

From the back, Marcel’s voice booms, “I heard that! You tryin’ to bankrupt me, girl?”

“Oops. Busted!” I call.

Laughter rolls through the bar. Someone whistles.

The mood stays light, lazy, sun-soaked. Two couples are dancing on the patch of sand we optimistically call a dance floor.

One of them, young and blatantly honeymooners, wrapped around each other like the world doesn’t exist, makes something twist in my chest.

She perches on a stool with her margarita, playing with his fingers. He can’t stop looking at her. The look in his eyes. A cross between awe and disbelief. Like she’s the only thing that matters.

I swallow and look away, half-resenting the tinge of jealousy that brackets my thoughts. I pick up my cocktail. Sip. Secretly hoping the alcohol will work quicker.

Halfway to lowering it to the counter, my skin prickles.

It’s nothing new, this feeling. It’s come and gone since I arrive, like a ghost sensation I can’t shake. Paranoia, maybe. Or instinct.

Arrived.

I snort softly at the word. More like fled like I was on fire.

I’d thought I’d have to keep moving, never settle, never leave tracks. But the moment I introduced myself as Lucy, just Lucy, and Marcel studied me for a long beat before nodding and handing me an apron, I knew.

I was safe here.

My privacy would be respected, my secrets my own.

But you can take the girl out of Queens and she still checks exits, still searches faces, still deals in cash and changes her phone every few weeks. Old habits die hard.

So when this feeling arrives, I scan the street, the beach, the tables. Nothing out of place. Nothing threatening. The feeling fades as the quote drifts back in.

The things that we love tell us what we are.

My thoughts darken, just a shade. Because I once loved like that. Like those two on the dance floor. With my whole chest. My whole stupid heart.

And that love turned out to be…

I huff out a breath, avert my gaze to the sparkling sea.

Does that make me a fool?

I shake my head, annoyed at myself. I don’t get maudlin. Not usually. And definitely not before sunset, possibly the best time of day if you’re lucky enough to be in this part of the world.

Relief trickles through me when a man steps up to the bar, forcing me to focus on the present, not the dark past I’m running from.

He’s not a local. My eyes catch the difference immediately. Too neat. Too clean. City posture he hasn’t been here long enough to let go of yet.

He’s handsome in a forgettable way, smile easy, gaze a little too direct. More than average cocky.

“Rum punch,” he says, eyes lingering on my bikini top, denim shorts, tiny apron and flip-flops combo that passes for uniform around here.

“Coming up,” I reply, matching his tone, all professional charm.

He watches me make it, asks where I’m from, compliments my hair, my accent, which earns him a droll glance since he sounds American, like me. That draws a false self-deprecating laugh.

It’s flirting. Harmless.

I give him exactly enough to feel seen and not enough to feel invited.

Until he leans in, and I tilt back.

“Not on the menu, buddy,” I say lightly but firmly.

He laughs, curses his luck, leaves a generous tip, and heads for the beach.

The quote whispers again.

I glance at Marcel. “Okay to take my break, boss?”

He waves me off from the overcrowded confines of his shoebox office, where he tries to balance books that stay stubbornly unbalanced. “Go. Before you melt on my floor.”

I grab my drink and step onto the sand, the heat of it seeping through my soles.

The sunset is ridiculous, orange and pink bleeding into the sea like someone spilled paint.

I sink down with a deep sigh, knees to chest, and watch the horizon.

Someone passes, calls, “Evenin’, Lucy.”

I wave back, open my mouth to respond.

Then, for some reason, I freeze.

“That’s not my name.”

The muttered words slip out before I can stop them, and my heart thuds dully in my chest.

Huh. I didn’t think I’d miss hearing it. My real name. I especially didn’t think I’d miss it the way it used to sound on his tongue.

Deep. Low. Rolling.

With that curling intonation that always sends fireworks whistling through my veins.

Sicilian. Old school. Not at all boring or run-of-the-mill.

Lu-cee-aa. Lu-cee-aa.

“Lucia.”

My heart stops and the world tilts.

I’m imagining it. I have to be. After all this time, my brain has to be playing tricks on me. All because of that quote I foolishly bring to mind, sending myself down this stupid rabbit hole.

“Lu-cee-aa.”

The blood drains from my head as I twist around in the sand.

The man standing there, not six feet from me, isn’t a shadow or a memory or a cruel little sunset trick.

Oh hell no.

It’s him.

Flesh and blood and bone.

Dark. Tall. Immaculate, even in casual clothes. Or his version of casual clothes, which still manages to be GQ runway perfect.

The very air around him seems to shift, to bow in reverence, barely lifting his wavy jet-black hair.

His bronzed, tattooed, brawny arms are cocked on his hips, and his dark blue gaze pins my trembling body in place, giving zero quarter.

My lungs forget how to work and I feel my jaw sag, unable to contain my roiling emotions.

I shake my head, my sludgy brain forming the words no, no, no, when he speaks.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says softly.

The Sicilian-laced New York accent hits me like a punch as I stare at him, in shock, horror and unending dread.

“I’ve found you, my little runaway wife. At last.”

The second I snatch air back into my woefully depleted lungs, I do the only sane thing.

I spin. Scramble to my feet.

And I run.

Barefoot. Down the beach. As fast as my legs will carry me.

They pound the sand with desperation I wholeheartedly endorse, every step a sharp, stinging reminder that I didn’t imagine him.

That Giovanni Dragoni is real.

Here. On my beach.

I’ve kept myself in peak physical condition with a ruthless, thrice-weekly regime of running, boxing, swimming. Not for vanity but for this very reason.

Because I always knew there would come a day when I’d have to fight or flee for my life again.

Run from… from—him.

My husband.

Fear claws up my spine, lodges in my throat as I risk a frantic glance over my shoulder.

And nearly stumble.

Not because he’s right behind me, a nightmare bearing down on me.

No. Because he isn’t moving at all.

Giovanni stands exactly where I left him, hands loose at his sides, dark shirt open at the throat, watching me run like I’m… entertainment.

His head is tilted, eyes narrowed, not with anger, not even impatience.

Amusement.

God. Why…isn’t…he…?

I get my answer a second later.

Men.

His men.

Dark-clad men, not even bothering to blend in.

They’re everywhere. Not swarming, because no, that would imply effort. They’re spaced with military precision along the beach, near the tree line, by the narrow road that curves behind the bars and guesthouses.

Inescapable intervals.

I’m burning myself out for nothing, attempting to escape the inescapable. But I can’t stop running. Can’t stop hoping for a sliver of a chance.

Stopping would mean admitting defeat… walking back to Giovanni Dragoni. The man whose name I carry. The man who—

No. I can’t. I just… can’t.

But this is an island, Lucia. Short of throwing yourself into the sea and swimming to—

The thought dies as quickly as it forms.

As I learned in the four short weeks we dated—dated, God, if you could even call it that, more like an Italian opera full of lies, intensity, and dangerous devotion, Giovanni Dragoni has unlimited resources.

Unlimited.

He’d have a speedboat circling me before my second stroke. A helicopter with special ops type men hanging off the sides if he felt dramatic.

And knowing Giovanni, he would.

My lungs scream as I slow despite myself, chest heaving, heart slamming so hard it hurts. I glance sideways and catch familiar faces staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Marcel, standing outside the bar, towel slung over his shoulder.

Jax, frozen mid-step and next to him, Naomi, hand pressed to her mouth. Jam Jam Sid from the record shop down the road.

People I know. People I trust. All standing there, watching me perform my chicken-with-its-head-cut-off routine.

“Lucy!” Marcel shouts. “Hey—are you okay, girl?”

The sound of my borrowed name hits like a punch.

Lucy.

The lie I’ve been living in cracks wide open and spills secrets I know deep in my bones I can’t put back into a box.

Slowing down a bit more, I look back down the beach.

Giovanni has turned slightly now, gaze slicing towards Marcel, sharp and assessing. A warning without words. Marcel falters under it, confusion giving way to instinctive, frowning caution, mixed with concern.

Then Giovanni’s eyes find me again.

Always me. Like he promised he always would. That reminder, that sex-and-death-laced threat ricochetting in my head, drives a second wind into me.

And I run.

Keep running.

Can’t… won’t stop.

I veer hard away from the beach, darting between two pastel houses so close together my shoulder clips a wall. Gravel bites into my feet. A man steps out of the shadows ahead, one of Giovanni’s, but I pivot instinctively, changing direction.

The man moves. Then freezes, his eyes darting over my shoulder.

I glance back.

To see Giovanni has lifted one hand.

Just that.

And the entire world seems to pause as he watches me.

There’s no shouting and no pursuit. Just bodies stilled mid-motion, watching as he taunts me with that hand, daring me to show him my next move or keep running.

As if this, this frantic flight, is something he’s allowing.

A test. Or worse.

The sun sinks lower, bleeding gold and bruised purple across the sky. Shadows stretch and tangle, lengthening around me like fingers reaching to pull me back.

I turn my back on Giovanni and his men and I keep running. Until my lungs burn. Until my calves scream and my feet throb, raw and aching.

I’m barefoot and the stickiness between my toes tells me I’m bleeding. Stupid. He’s going to scold me for this later.

The thought lands unbidden and I nearly sob as I hobble to a stop, lean back against a damp wall and try to catch my breath. To marshal my thoughts, even though I know I have very few options.

The most glaring one? I can’t go home.

He’ll already know where I live. Probably knew before he stepped onto the island. So I cut left, then right, moving deeper into the village, past shuttered shops and darkened verandas.

When I first hear it, I think it’s a very eager mosquito, jonesing for a feast.

But the sound persists. Growing a little louder each second, minus the kamikaze dance of a blood-sucking insect.

I hold my breath at the faint, mechanical whine. Slow despite myself, head tipping back, looking for the source.

When I see it, my throat seizes.

A drone.

Sleek. Black. Silent except for that high, predatory hum as it hovers above the rooftops, tracking me with obscene, laser-red precision.

He’s tracking me with a fucking drone.

A laugh bubbles up, sharp and hysterical, before dissolving into breathless panic.

Of course he is.

I break again, sprinting until stars burst behind my eyes, until my body finally rebels. I duck into a narrow alley behind the closed library, the old one with the faded blue shutters, and fumble for the spare key taped where everyone knows it is.

Because people trust me here.

Because Lucy is safe. Lucy belongs.

The door clicks open.

I slip inside and lock it behind me, sinking to the cool tiled floor as darkness swallows me whole. My chest heaves, sweat slicks my spine, and my feet throb in furious protest.

Outside, the whine fades.

And even as I curl up on the floor, heart still racing, one truth settles heavy and undeniable in my bones.

I’ve been running from my mafia don husband for eighteen months.

And now he’s found me.