Sweet Manipulation (Vows of the Vicious #1)

Chapter 1

Aurelia

“You’re pathetic. Hit me harder.”

Enzo’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, and I want to spit in his face. Instead, I stagger, bare feet scraping concrete.

The skin of my soles are raw, and sweat drips down my face, mixing with the sting of blood pooling at the corner of my mouth. My vision is a blur of flickering light and movement until the silhouette sharpens into him.

My brother. My trainer. My tormentor.

I raise my head in time to see his fist coming, and my jaw catches it hard.

My head whips to the side, teeth grinding as pain blooms, pricking my eyes with tears.

I stumble, my stance breaking for a second, but it’s enough. He sees it. He always sees it.

Weakness.

“Enzo, come on,” I brace myself on my heels, fighting to regain my balance and gather some strength.

“Let me tap out.” It comes out breathless, and I hope that for once, he can have sympathy.

But with a smirk and the shake of his head, I know. He won’t.

He swings again and I’m forced to the ground. The air is thick with rot and iron—sweat, bleach, and old blood soaked into the cement.

We’re in the Anova estate’s training basement. No windows. No mercy. Just concrete walls, rusted chains, and cold overhead lights that shudder with every step.

Losing interest in pleading for mercy, I know my only chance at stopping this fight is ending it myself.

“Okay, fine,” I hiss, wiping blood from my mouth with the back of my hand.

I know I look like shit.

I push myself up and try to regain my initial intensity. I swing and manage to land a punch after blocking one of his. But then I kick—too fast, too wide. He catches it with practiced ease that says, “You still haven’t learned.”

He throws me backward. My body slams against the floor harder than before, my thighs dragging hard enough that I feel skin peel open. The pain is everywhere now.

My navy cotton tank is soaked with sweat, clinging to every bruised rib and sore muscle. My braid’s half undone, strands of slickened hair stuck to my cheek, mouth, and neck.

“You’re never going to be worthy of your name, Ace,” Enzo says, circling me with impatience. “Not until you stop being so fucking weak.”

He’s trying to motivate me, I know that, but fuck him.

Ace. Not because I’m special. Because I was made to be a weapon. A version of entertainment. Not a girl. Not a sister. Just a tool.

“Enzo,” I rasp, spitting copper. “I’m done, okay?”

He tilts his head. His damp, dark hair, falling into his blue eyes. He looks like the devil dressed in De Luca don skin.

“You’re not done because your eyes are still open.”

“Not today, I—”

My words die in my throat. He lunges, and before I can block, black eats at the corners of my vision.

* * *

Popcorn.

That’s what I smell first. Buttery. Sweet. Then rich, thick hot chocolate with a dash of cinnamon Enzo knows I love. Before my life turned into shit, I used to sit with my family watching movies, having snacks in the estate’s living room.

God, I wish I could go back to being that naive and happy in this place.

For a second, I smile, thinking of the warmth and the memories. For a second, I forget.

Then I move, and agony floods back in. My ribs scream, my shoulders aching with an unbearable fire, my jaw’s stiff, and I feel the crack of dried blood down my neck.

Training is a bitch.

If you can call getting knocked out by your brother on your birthday training, that is.

“Relax, Ace. The snacks aren’t going anywhere.”

Enzo’s voice filters through the haze, and as usual, it’s cocky and amused. I roll my eyes even though I can’t fully lift my head yet. The ache in my neck makes sure of that.

“How many times do you have to knock me out before you can just call me Aurelia?” I mutter, shifting upright on the mattress.

He smirks, head tilted in that same practiced angle—a silent don’t hate me, it’s the rules.

Dante’s rules.

No one in this house is allowed to call me by my full name. Not until I’m deemed strong enough to carry it. Capable of protecting myself.

It’s supposed to be motivation.

Today, it feels like a slap in the face.

I’m twenty-two years old.

And still not worthy of being called by my own name.

Happy birthday to me.

I shift again, legs dangling off the edge of my bed now, bare feet brushing the cold marble floor. My room smells faintly of sandalwood and linen, with just a trace of blood left over from when I’d stumbled in earlier and collapsed.

The windows are open, letting sea air drift in, cool and humid, carrying the sounds of Anova’s nightlife in the distance: deep music, shouting, something that might be laughter.

A reminder that the world keeps moving.

But I know better now. I live in a different reality than everyone else on the island.

I know when to fold and when to hold my tongue, and I’ve learned how to smile even while swallowing rage.

My family is complicated. And that’s putting it politely. So reluctantly, I’ve come to terms with it all.

Enzo rushes to my side the moment I shift, ice wrapped in a towel already in hand as he crouches beside the bed and presses it gently to my cheek.

“I’ve got it,” I mutter, flinching slightly from the cold. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he replies, his tone subtle but firm. “And I’m sorry, Ace. I didn’t want to do training on your birthday, alright? But you know Dante doesn’t allow changes to your schedule.”

Dante—our father. Enzo’s boss.

I haven’t spoken directly to that man in six years. Yet, he gets a say in my life and plans my days. Fuck, I hate him.

But I can’t let it affect me, not on the outside at least. Instead, I snort and shake my head, dipping the mattress as I try to lift out of my position.

Even at five-foot-seven, I have to push up on my toes just to find balance against my brother, who looks every inch the soldier he’s been trained to be—thick arms under a fitted black tee, callused hands that have both broken bones and pulled me out of fights, and storm blue eyes that never miss a single slip-up.

He’s built from war. And for most of my life, he was the front line between me and it.

But as of today, that changes. And selfishly, I wish I could keep him forever.

Enzo is officially being sworn in as Dante’s second-in-command, which means I can no longer claim him as my personal protector. No more late-night sparring to vent my rage, no more having someone at my side I can actually trust with the ugly parts. No more family at my side.

“Well,” I say, breathing a little tight as he helps me to my feet, “maybe if I were allowed to leave the east wing of this damn fortress, we could all hang out. Get some family time, you, me, and Papa.”

I glance up at him, eyes flicking over the tattoo just below his shoulder—a dagger thrust downward, a serpent coiled tight around its blade, jaws open, ready to sink into skin.

Beneath text curls with blocky lettering, Fideltà o Morte.

Loyalty or Death. Inked in brutal black lines.

And I give him a look that’s half teasing, half tired.

We lock eyes.

Then we both burst out laughing.

“God,” he says, running hand through his hair, “I don’t know who’d end up dead first.”

We both know Dante would never want to spend time with us, and I’d likely be the one dead, unable to hold my tongue around him, but it’s worth laughing about.

With his arm around my back, lifting me to ease my pain, I walk slowly from my bed to the bathroom, my body tensing as every sudden movement makes my bruises ache.

My room glows in soft gold light from the high chandelier overhead, its glass catching on the carved archways and reflecting in the marble floors.

The scale of this place has always felt too big for one person, but that’s the point. Intimidation through opulence.

We step through the double arch that leads into my bathroom, a space that’s somehow even more excessive than my bedroom.

The ceilings stretch at least fifteen feet, adorned with carved mouldings and a mural of the old De Luca crest surrounded by vines and daggers.

Steam curls lazily through the air from the heat already pumping into the open-concept shower.

Not only did Enzo start the shower, he also filled the tub sunken into the floor with a purple bath bomb and bubbles.

I can’t help but smile knowing that I’ll get to relax for some of the night.

My tub, wrapped in obsidian tile and framed with brass lions at the corners, calls me first, but I know I need to rinse off all the dried blood before ruining my perfect bath.

I turn away, ensuring I have my towel on the heated rack before dismissing my brother.

And sure enough, my vanity is lined with untouched perfumes, soaps, and a plush robe that’s hanging neatly beside my prepared towel.

Enzo helps me to the edge of the shower, steadying me once more before stepping back.

“I can handle the rest,” I say quietly as I go to push the glass door open, expecting to hear the click of my bedroom door before stepping inside.

But then… the glass stops on my fingertips.

His hand pushes it closed, his fingers tense on the top frame, and I think he’s holding onto something heavier. His jaw clenches, and for a second, he just stands there, looming at my side, his eyes searching mine for permission.

I wait.

I’ve learned not to rush him when he’s in his head about things.

“Elijah’s going to be taking care of you,” he says at last, the words dragging. “While I’m working with Dante full-time.”

“I know,” I answer with a smile, trying to ease the shift. “You two have basically been co-parenting me since he was let into the De Luca circle, so—”

“He’s my best friend, Ace,” he cuts me off. “The only real one I’ve ever had. He’s basically my brother.”

I blink, thrown off by the urgency in his tone. “Okay?”

His jaw tightens further. “Please don’t make me have to kill him.”

Silence.

We stare at each other—long enough for the air between us to twist tight and uncomfortable. I study his face, but there isn’t even a hint of hesitation.

“We’re just friends, Enzo,” I say quietly, the truth hanging limp in the air. “We always have been.”

“You’re not,” he replies, calm but final, “and even though he knows better, I’m asking you not to tempt him. Not when I’m not around.”

I don’t say anything else. Just, “Okay.” That’s all he needs.

My brother has a temper, but keeps everything so bottled up. I’m scared for the day he won’t be able to hold it in anymore.

He gives a final nod, the unspoken weight still hanging on to him as he turns and disappears through the arc of my bathroom and then the door of my bedroom.

Only after I hear the door click do I strip down from my clothes and start undoing my loose braid, steam curling up around the marble and glass. My muscles unclench. My spine loosens. But I can’t stop the image that forms—uninvited.

Elijah Romano.

My brother’s best friend.

My new shadow.

The boy I was never supposed to want.