Jealous Vows (Vicious Mafia Kings #7)

Chapter 1

Sienna Luciano

I wake in a quiet rush, ignoring the ache in my shoulder and hip from sleeping on the hard floor, and strain my ears as the sound carries through my tiny studio apartment again.

Metal slides against metal as the person outside my door continues picking my lock. I grit my teeth, shift deeper under my bed until my back presses against the wall, and tighten my fist around my knife.

My heart pounds in my ears as the latch clicks and door handle turns. A low chuckle lifts the hairs on my nape and fills my throat with bile.

I swallow and watch through the tiny gap between my suitcase and duffel bag as two sets of boots step over the threshold and into the darkness.

The second man shuts and locks the door behind him. I force myself to remain still despite every cell in my body demanding I flee as the first guy takes slow, menacing steps toward the bed.

“Wakey wakey, puta. I caught you. Eres mía. There’s no escaping me now,” he gloats.

My stomach sours at the familiar voice. José Reyes, the president of the local biker gang, has been the most persistent of the so-called suitors my stepmother sicced on me.

He cornered me in the alley outside my workplace two years ago, but I escaped out of sheer desperation.

It’s been weeks since I heard from him last, so I’d hoped he’d gotten bored of the cat-and-mouse games, but his ego is too inflated for him to give up.

If he ever catches me again, I’m as good as dead.

After two years of dodging, I’m running out of options.

I brace as he flings the covers back. He curses.

“What’s wrong, El Jefe?” his second, Elias, asks.

“Turn on the light, pendejo,” José snarls.

He does. The old bulbs and dirty fixtures illuminate the space in a dull orange glow.

“Mierda,” lackey number one mumbles as he sees the pillows I left positioned on the bed.

José snaps his fingers and demands, “Check in there. She was here recently.”

My stomach curdles, but I don’t dare move as Elias stomps toward the bathroom. With nothing more than a toilet, sink, and shower, there’s nowhere to hide, so he flips on the light and grunts out, “Not here. You really think she was here, jefe?”

“Sí. It smells like her,” José says.

Disgust roars through me. I clench my fist around my knife so hard my fingers cramp.

“Drop the letter in la cocina and get out. Or stay. Me vale,” José says.

The toe of his boot nudges the suitcase closer to my face as he shuffles closer to the bed and unzips his pants. Vomit sours the back of my throat.

“Fuck, she smells good,” he groans.

I lie in silent horror as he strokes his cock above me.

Even with the bed blocking my view, every cell in my body revolts, and I keep from vomiting by sheer force of will as he groans, grunts, and gasps.

I wish I could erase my memories and scrub my entire body with bleach as the sound of his jizz splattering onto the pillows infects my eardrums. He sighs, wipes himself with the sheet, and zips his pants before turning away.

With dread gluing me in place, I hardly breathe as he stops in the kitchen, opens the fridge, scoffs, twists open the only item—a chocolate protein shake—and spits into it.

After closing the shake and shutting the fridge, he turns.

Even though I know he can’t see me, terror squeezes my chest as he pauses, but the sound of paper ripping assures me he hasn’t noticed me.

He’s reading the letter he told his lackey to put on the counter.

It’s most likely from my stepmother. This wouldn’t be the first time she sent me an unwelcome missive through her nefarious contacts. José isn’t the only lowlife she’s tried to sell me to.

My father wants more benefits from my marriage, so he hasn’t arranged one yet. I don’t think he’s aware of my stepmother’s games, but since his house is no doubt peaceful again with me gone, he hasn’t bothered to remember I exist in real life.

José’s amused chuckle lifts the hairs on my nape. Premonition spreads further throughout my body with every thud of my heart.

“Gotcha, puta. Hasta manana,” he muses before slapping the envelope down on the counter and lumbering his way into the hall.

I don’t move. Minutes stretch into an hour before I finally allow myself to take a full breath, but the sour, musty smell permeating from the bed flips my stomach.

I gag and pull the collar of my oversized T-shirt over my nose to suck down lungfuls of cinnamon.

The sweet and spicy sting clears away the filth from my nostrils, but the sense of violation remains.

When the tingling numbness in my shoulder and hip warn of permanent damage, I force myself into motion, but instead of pushing my luggage out from under the bed and crawling out, which would disturb the layer of dust and dirt, I nudge my duffel with my toes and wriggle down through the narrow space until I emerge feet first from under the footboard.

The well trod path into the bathroom hides my passage.

I nudge the duffel back into place and bite back a groan as I sit up.

The world spins. I lean on the wall and breathe as I wait for my head to stop tilt-a-whirling.

Tears burn at the back of my eyes. Hunger gnaws at my stomach as I stare at the fridge across the small apartment. José ruined my only meal. I can never force myself to eat more than a few bites at a time, so I’ve grown used to the constant ache. It’s a reminder to never trust anyone except myself.

I have nothing. The duffel and luggage are just for show.

Not only did my stepmother steal my driver’s license and vital records before she kicked me out, she also hired a trio of women to bombard me at least once a month to steal all my cash, and the local banks are all in either the mafia’s or the motorcycle gang’s back pocket.

My father may not be the don, but he has a lot of clout by being the strongest and most ruthless mafia soldier in San Francisco, so no one will open an account for me.

All my attempts to sneak a fake ID were massive failures, and any time I try to leave the area, my stepmother makes my life even worse.

Refusing to give up despite the crushing odds, I use the wall to rise and stumble across the floor.

None of this would have happened if I had kept my mouth fucking shut ten years ago.

Because of my stupidity, Valentina, my token cousin and best friend, wrote her deepest desires in that stupid diary and gave my father the perfect weapon to kill my uncle.

I haven’t seen Valentina since that night.

She never showed up to summer camp the next day, and when I realized what my father had done, I couldn’t face her again.

Guilt eats away at what my hunger can’t reach.

I slip my knife into my waistband and lock the front door as quietly as I can with shaking hands before shuffling to the kitchen.

With a glob of spit spreading out from the center of the fancy paper, a wedding invitation sits with the corner hanging off the edge of the counter. I bend to read it without touching the filth.

Ice encases my soul. I stand frozen in shock.

My ex-best friend and uncle are getting married. They invited me.

Relief pours through me. My uncle is alive.

I thought he was dead. I thought Pietro Denaro—Valentina’s dad and our don—and my father had killed him because of my stupidity.

I thought they’d murdered him because I told Valentina to write all her darkest desires for my uncle in that stupid diary.

Even as joy blooms in my heart, misery drags me into the depths of hell.

This must be a trap. Or maybe it’s a warning for my father, but they addressed the envelope to me. When I lift it, papers slip out. I watch as a plane ticket slides across the counter and gets stuck on the rusty lip of the sink.

A notecard stops halfway across the counter. I recognize my stepmother’s handwriting.

Wear something nice.

I swallow and check the inside of the envelope. There’s nothing else, but the wrinkles indicate there were other items inside.

I can’t get through airport security without my ID card, so she probably included it and a few dollars for a dress, even though she knew José would steal everything.

I swallow my trepidation and trail my fingertips over the plane ticket. My flight leaves in a few hours.

Part of me wishes Valentina sent me the invitation because she forgives me, but I know she doesn’t. My father lied and said I gave him the journal. They both must hate me. It’s my fault my father stabbed my uncle in the back.

But this may be my only escape. I have to get my ID from José and get on the plane.

New York City may have the richest, most powerful mafia families in the United States, but it’s a big city. I’ll be on the other side of the country. Certainly my stepmother and father can’t reach that far. I can disappear, maybe get a fake ID and slip away forever.

Hope teases along the outskirts of my mind, but a glance around my crappy apartment clears it away. With jizz on my sheets, spit in my food, and pain in my heart, I face the truth.

I can’t afford hope. I don’t deserve it.

Survival is all I need. Escape itself will be a miracle.

I don’t know how I’m going to get my ID from José, but I memorize the location of the wedding, lift the plane ticket off the counter, shove it into my pocket, and head into the bathroom.

After taking care of business, I run my wet hands through my hair, change into the clothes I hung to dry after washing them in the sink, dab a bit of cinnamon essential oil—the only thing I own worth any money—on the bottom hem of my shirt, and move a bag of candy from my sleep pants to my jeans before stepping into the hall.

All the way to the airport, I keep my head down but my senses on high alert, popping a piece of candy into my mouth while I wait to cross the street. The strong slap of spicy cinnamon on my tongue helps ease my queasiness and clears my thoughts.