The Don’s Siren (Vows Sworn in Blood #2)

Chapter 1

Francesca

“Young lady, do not take those shoes off again," Mom scolds while I sullenly slip the toe-pinching high heels back on.

“If I’m a lady, why am I drinking ginger ale instead of champagne like you?”

My father turns, overhearing us, and his eyes narrow. I need to harness this big mouth of mine if I don't want to get slapped later.

The high society of Boston’s criminal underbelly has invaded our home for this wedding, forcing me to stand around in uncomfortable shoes.

The line I’m in waits to pay their respects to my second cousin and the stranger she just married.

Civil war within the Italian Trio has forced them to seek allies elsewhere, Boston’s Irish Black Rose Gang in this case, through an arranged marriage.

My parents formed a similar bond years ago, a bid to keep peace between what many would say are natural-born enemies.

Moving out of my father's immediate reach, my ankle turns, and I stagger into a solid wall of muscle. “OH! I’m-”

My apology falters as a hand wraps my wrist, preventing me from falling. Dark eyes glare back at me, set in the stern but handsome face of a tall young man. I stepped on his heel, didn’t I? I hate it when that happens to me.

“Watch it, kid,” the man warns.

Kid? “I apologize if I injured you,” I snap, not disguising my sarcastic tone.

He smirks as he releases me. “A little girl like you could never hurt me.”

Before I can think up a suitable comeback, I catch my mother’s horrified expression and remember who was standing in front of us - Don Daniele Vicini and his family. This must be Carlo, his oldest son and heir, the future head of the Trio.

My father roughly grips my elbow, yanking me aside. “She's a silly, clumsy girl. Please, excuse her.” The old Don gives him a wintry nod as my father whispers menacingly in my ear, “You’re lucky we have guests.”

I hurriedly put distance between me and Da again, wondering why Carlo Vicini glares at my father now instead of me with my big mouth and clumsy feet.

***

An hour later, I sneak away from watchful eyes with Maeve. She’s my favorite maid; seventeen, super cool, and the closest thing to a friend I have in Boston. “You should've asked Carlo to dance with you after stepping on his heel.”

I stare at Maeve like she’s lost her marbles. “Dance with him? He called me a kid.”

“So? He's super-hot.” I giggle at her summation, and she pulls a bottle out from under her apron. “Here… some good Irish whiskey to drown our sorrows. Can I try them on?” she asks, pointing to my heels.

I hand them over as we take a seat on the bench near the kitchen’s backdoor. “Keep them forever if you like.” We’re the same size, so she slips them on to admire while I inspect the red mark on my arm where Da grabbed me.

Passing the bottle back and forth, my head starts to bob as the unfamiliar effects of alcohol course through my blood. “I don’t like the taste of this, but I'll be punished later anyway.”

“Does your father beat you often?” Maeve asks.

"Not as much now." I shift uneasily and redirect. “If Ronan had offended the Don’s son at my age, Da would’ve beaten him bloody.”

“Your brother might've fought the Don’s son at fifteen and probably died.”

“Not Ronan,” I say, loyally. “He would’ve killed that pompous ass.”

My older brother works in Reno for my Uncle Enzo, the Underboss there.

Everyone said it was a big deal when he swore an oath to the Trio, though Da wasn’t happy.

I miss when we still lived in Nevada, too, nearer my De Luca cousins, particularly the girls.

I hate that the Trio’s in-fighting means it’s not safe for me to visit them.

But my Irish father didn’t like answering to my Italian mother’s brothers, especially Uncle Silvio, who is the Capo of Las Vegas, the Trio’s most powerful man in the West. We moved here six months ago before the war started.

“Did they let you perform during the ceremony as you hoped?” Maeve asks next.

I frown, twisting my lucky silver hair tie around my wrist. “No. Mom said it wouldn’t be proper.”

I love to sing and play the piano more than anything. Someday, I might see my name up in lights on Broadway – Frankie! – and no one will tell me what’s proper and what’s not.

“What news from the kitchen?” I ask Maeve to take my mind off my present disappointment. She always knows the latest gossip.

“The groom and his best man spit-roasted Truvy last night. That's why she’s got those new earrings today.”

I squirm at Maeve’s very crude description and the thought of sex for gifts between our guests and her sister who’s our cook.

The bride and groom’s wedded bliss doesn’t sound promising and, as the groom is from the Trio, they'll have the traditional Seconda Notte tomorrow night to guarantee fidelity’s failure.

“Their men are pigs.”

“Most men are pigs,” Maeve counters before raising a finger to silence me. Without warning, she hurls the empty whiskey bottle toward the brick wall by the backdoor. “Truvy, if you’re eavesdropping again, I’ll…”

But it isn’t Maeve’s big sister spying on us. It’s him!

Carlo Vicini and his brother Luca step into the garden eyeing the broken bottle at their feet and then the pair of us.

Neither man is someone I want to tangle with, but I shoot to my feet anyway.

“Sorry, my aim was off,” I say as if I threw the bottle.

I glance down at Maeve’s open mouth and subtly shake my head.

Carlo’s brow furrows as though he’s sniffing out the lie. “Was it your wish to hit us?” he asks at length, his dark eyes settling on me.

I gulp. Did it sound that way? “No! No, I was aiming for the garbage can.” Which is ten feet away from the men and currently covered.

“I hope you never handle firearms with aim like that.”

Luca laughs at his brother’s rudeness before giving Maeve a look that sends the maid darting off like a hare. Sweet Mother, he’s scary and that’s saying something coming from someone with De Lucas in their family tree. “You’re Silvio De Luca’s niece, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Yes, and Brian Donnelly’s daughter.” Their expressions make it clear they’re unimpressed by the fact. Should’ve figured. My father is a high-ranking man in the Black Rose Gang but not very admired by the Trio.

“What’s your name, Silvio’s niece?” Carlo asks, stepping closer. His eyes flick to my sore elbow while I can see the top of his Trio tattoo, the three-headed wolf, that covers his throat peeping out above his necktie.

“Frankie,” I say as a hiccup escapes. That’s even more embarrassing than stepping on his heel. “I mean, my name is Francesca. My mother says my nickname isn’t becoming for a girl on the cusp of womanhood but I prefer Frankie. It’s...” Why am I talking so much?

He smirks at my babbling, and there’s this stupid burst of butterflies in my belly caused by his proximity. Maeve was right. He is hot, and he smells good. Bad men should be ugly and stink if we’re meant to stay away from them.

“And how old are you, Frankie?” he asks, lips twitching as he notices my bare feet.

“Fifteen,” I answer, awkwardly slipping on Maeve's abandoned black flats.

“Still a little girl, one who shouldn’t be drinking with the help.”

Flushing, I nod despite his patronizing tone and wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my dress, feeling more and more queasy from the liquor and nerves. “I should go inside.”

“Yes, you should. Don’t let me catch you like this again while you’re underage. Understood?”

“Why? Are you going to spank me if you do?”

His eyes widen. Mine do, too. Why the hell did I say that?

Luca laughs. “She’s got spirit, this one.”

“More spirit than sense perhaps,” Carlo replies, coolly. “You are still a child, but don't ask the sort of men who are here today a question like that, Red. Okay?” I nod, flushing at the nickname he gave me with my red hair. “Now, for the last time… Go. Inside.”

Being as I’m not a complete idiot - no matter how much my mouth wants to prove otherwise today - I hurry to obey. I’ve just entered the bustling kitchen when I see three men dragging a fourth through the open backdoor. It’s the Best Man from the wedding. What on earth?

The kitchen staff remain focused on their work, too smart to be nosy. Even Truvy with her new earrings ignores them.

But I’m overcome with curiosity and can’t help watching from the window.

I see them stand the man up in front of Carlo.

He pulls his knife, holding it to the Best Man's throat.

I can't hear what he says, but the other men soon drag the crying Best Man toward the back of our garden.

Luca trails after them with a disturbing smile on his face.

Carlo starts to follow them but turns suddenly and catches me watching. With a firm expression, he points in the direction of where the wedding reception is still in full swing with his blade. The message is clear – go where you belong – and I don’t need to be told again.

I hurry to rejoin my family, grateful my father’s not high enough in the Trio’s esteem to worry about ever being married off to a man like Carlo Vicini someday.