Oath of Deceit (Destructive Ties #1)

Chapter 1 Sora

SORA

“I don’t like her hair,” my father says to my mother, his scrutinizing gaze severe as he inspects me from head to toe. “She’s supposed to look like a promising young bride, not an old maid.”

Sprawled casually across the garden’s half wall, my brother snorts, his smirk smug as he props himself up on one elbow, clearly amused by our father’s assessment.

Not that I would expect any different from Kenji.

We aren’t exactly close.

I’ve long since decided to stop taking it personally.

My older brother doesn’t like anybody.

So, why should I be special?

The only person he does respect is my father, and when my father casts Kenji a sharp glance, my brother quickly grows silent.

“We might not like the Chiaroscuros, but we need to impress them if we’re going to solidify this arrangement,” our father reminds us sharply.

Grasping my jaw, he tilts my chin until I have to meet his gaze, and my heart anxiously skips a beat.

“That means you must be perfect, Sora. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Otosama,” I breathe.

I was born and raised for this life, educated to be a perfect Yakuza wife, to run a house so my husband can manage the business.

I never dreamed I might be faced with marrying an Italian Mob Boss instead—let alone our family’s worst enemy.

The only thought more terrifying than that is angering my father.

And I know better than to raise my objections.

Not again.

His sharp gaze grows more intense, his brows pressing into a frown as his fingers tighten painfully around my jaw. “Just remember, Sora, you are a Tanaka—even after you’re married, we are your family. You will always belong to us. You must not lose sight of that.”

Something about his tone gives his words extra weight, as though he’s imparting some critical truth that my very survival rests upon, and a shiver runs down my spine.

My father isn’t one to waste breath on sentimentality, so I know he doesn’t mean it like that.

But this could be the closest I’ll ever come to hearing him say, “I love you.”

Or maybe he’s warning me not to betray him in some way.

I honestly can’t say.

Heart racing, I can’t seem to speak past the cold fear gripping my throat, so I nod to confirm I’ve heard him.

He gives a single jerk of the head, acknowledging my response before dropping his hand.

And only after he releases me does the fist around my chest loosen enough that I can breathe again.

His eyes shift to look over my left shoulder. “Fix her hair. Something alluring but still fitting for a young woman. Our guests will be arriving within the hour.”

“Yes, Tanaka-sama.” My lady’s maid gives a respectful bow, following as my mother takes my elbow to steer me back into the house.

My cheeks burn with humiliation.

The thought of being primped and primed into the picture-perfect bride feels that much more insulting when I know my father positively loathes the Chiaroscuro family for whom we’re putting on this whole production.

Talk about being sold off like chattel.

Today, I’ve become little more than livestock, only good for breeding or slaughter.

A token of goodwill meant to pacify their bloodlust.

When Kenji turned eighteen, he was gifted my father’s legacy—his entire Yakuza empire along with all the men and territory that fall under it.

A week after my eighteenth birthday, I was informed I would be marrying Leonardo Chiaroscuro, a renowned playboy who is not only fourteen years older than me but who just so happens to be heir to the most brutal, cut-throat Mafia in Chicago.

I’m being sold to the family we’ve been feuding with for longer than I’ve been alive.

What could possibly go wrong? It’s not like my father is knowingly sending me into the lion’s den, right? No doubt, he’s only looking out for my best interests.

I have to bite back a snort at the cynical thoughts that flood my head as we enter my bedroom.

Slumping into my vanity chair, I release a heavy sigh, allowing my maid to drag the long needle from my tresses and start over.

“Don’t pout, Sora,” my mother says as she looks in the mirror to double-check her own flawless updo.

“I don’t see why I can’t wallow until they get here,” I state crisply. “If I’m going to marry against my will, shouldn’t I at least have the freedom to express my feelings behind closed doors?”

“You’re being selfish. This is for the good of the family. Your father and I don’t like it any better than you do, but you need to trust that he has the bigger picture in mind. You should be grateful for the opportunity to support your family’s survival in such a critical way.”

Pressing my lips together, I glance up to meet my mother’s gaze in the mirror.

She’s stunning, even in her forties, her skin flawless, her dark eyes clear and framed by thick lashes.

Her midnight-black hair falls nearly to her waist when she lets it down, and even if she didn’t paint her face, she would be a natural beauty, but her makeup is a work of art in and of itself.

People tell me I’ve been blessed with my mother’s good looks, but I can’t say I agree.

They feel more like a curse to me.

If I were more common, I doubt my father could sell me off so easily.

Shifting my gaze back to my own face, I feel a ball of lead sinking in my stomach.

They did a beautiful job on my makeup, with a dewy foundation and peach-hewed shimmer eyeshadow, a dramatic cat-eye liner, and soft pink blush to match my lip gloss.

All to make me look naturally radiant and call attention to my assets.

But my lips feel sticky with the shiny gloss, and the fake lashes make my eyes burn, so I have to fight the urge to blink repetitively.

My maid switches out my kanzashi for a more decorative comb.

She leaves a few strands loose near my temples before pulling the rest into a thick braided bun that she rolls into a knot at the back of my head and pins in place with the floral red-and-gold ornament.

Then she curls the wisps around my face, taming them with enough product that they’ll last for longer than an hour.

“The barbarians—excuse me—I mean, your future husband and our honored guests have arrived,” Kenji says from the doorway, his subtle smirk silently saying that he thinks I have as good a chance of surviving this union as I do.

One point we can actually agree upon, though my brother would never speak up in my defense or try to persuade my father to change his mind, even so.

“You both had better behave yourselves today,” our mother warns, looking sharply between us. “We need this alliance to ensure the Tanaka name survives. With our numbers waning, we can’t continue to sit by and do nothing. That’s why we have to go through with this. Understood?”

It’s the first time my mother has spoken so openly about our situation.

I knew my father was struggling to recruit enough men to compensate for the losses we’ve been sustaining.

I didn’t realize it had gotten bad enough that we might be in trouble as a family.

Loath as I am to admit it, if the straits are that dire, I don’t want to be the one to ruin our chances of survival.

“Yes, Okaasan,” I murmur, glancing down at my hands as they start to shake.

I hate this world I was born into, the traditions, the obligations, the expectation that I must serve my family by marrying a husband who will benefit our name.

But if I don’t have loyalty to my family, then what do I have?

This life is all I know, and without my family, I won’t survive.

“Good.” My mother tugs at the back of my dress, straightening the creases as I stand, and together, we join Kenji as he heads toward the front of the house.

Glancing out the wall of windows that runs along the hallway of our modernized Japanese-style home, I take a moment to appreciate the tranquil green of the Zen garden, populated with evergreen plants that can survive the grueling winters of Chicago inside the high walls that surround our home.

Taking a deep breath, I absorb some of that calm stillness in an effort to steady myself. From what I’ve heard about Leonardo Chiaroscuro, I’m going to need it.

The sound of deep male voices winds its way around the corner of the hall, my father’s distinct in his thickly accented English.

My heart flutters when a man with an Italian accent responds.

“I look forward to the opportunities this union will open between our families,” the man says. “Though, to be honest, I was a bit surprised you requested a meeting in the first place.”

The low rasp of my father’s chuckle raises the hair on the back of my neck.

It’s a sound I’ve heard only a handful of times in my life, and never in a warm, affectionate way.

That makes the stakes of this meeting feel even higher.

Training my face into a calm look of composure, I round the corner with my mother and brother, following them into the entryway as I catch sight of my betrothed and his family for the first time.

I’ve heard a lot about the Chiaroscuros over the years. I’ve heard about their arrogance, their cruelty, their violent and uncivilized tendencies—not to mention their womanizing.

But I hadn’t expected them to be quite so… fashionable.

Or daunting.

Three men fill the entry of our home, each tall with broad shoulders and muscles that strain against their finely tailored Italian suits.

The two younger men—both in their early- to mid-thirties, if I had to guess—tower over the older man by nearly six inches, and my father by even more than that.

The three Italians turn as a solid unit to assess me, and it suddenly feels like the oxygen has been sucked from the room.

The don’s eyes are as cold and penetrating as my father’s, their rich brown doing nothing to hide his scrutiny, though his expression would indicate he’s satisfied with his son’s prospective bride.

To his right looms a man with a thick head of dark curls and icy blue eyes that would suggest he’s not entirely of Italian descent.

Same goes for his straight, refined nose and the hint of red at the roots of his dark stubble.