Vow of Destruction (Destructive Ties #4)
Chapter 1
EVI
“And what happens if the Chiaroscuros find out?” My brother Cassio’s voice rises, his words suddenly distinguishable through the door as his tone approaches anger now.
I know I shouldn’t linger, but I can’t help the looming sense of expectation that glues my ear to the solid wood. With bated breath, I hover outside the sitting room of our family home, straining to catch the muffled tenor of my father’s voice.
“They won’t,” he says flatly, his gruff voice from years of smoking cigars easy to distinguish. “We will ensure that Evi knows exactly how much is at stake if they do.”
The rest of my family has been in there for nearly an hour, all talking about the one Lombardi they failed to invite into the room.
Me.
My parents never gather all six of my brothers for a meeting like this, especially when most of them are old enough to have moved out and are running their own houses by now.
But after seeing them burst through the front door in a flurry of tense expectation this afternoon, it feels as if the entire house is holding its breath.
The staff certainly have made themselves scarce in the wake of yet another meeting my parents attended with the Chiaroscuro brothers.
It’s all my parents can seem to think about lately—the fact that the once proud family that has looked down on mine for generations might just be in dire need of our help, and right in time for my eighteenth birthday.
For years, the Chiaroscuros have scoffed at my father’s attempts to unite our families.
Not that I can blame them. Even if I set aside the fact that the youngest of the Chiaroscuro brothers must be a decade older than I am, I’m sure their reasons for disregarding me as a potential bride are far more foundational than a difference in age.
My family is what the old-world Italian patriarchs would consider bottom feeders.
For generations, we have made our fortune by producing soldiers—lots of soldiers—and willingly sacrificing them to prove our loyalty to the great families who run Chicago, all in the name of climbing that impossible ladder that might someday make us great.
It’s why my mother was only allowed a break from pregnancy after she bore my father six strong, healthy sons before me—and it’s why each of my brothers is already knee-deep in children, all sons, of their own.
But my father has bigger plans than breeding soldiers.
Because I’m the first Lombardi daughter born in decades. And if he can convince the new Don to marry me, suddenly, our family won’t be cannon fodder anymore.
An alliance like that could guarantee my brothers positions as captains and save them from the more menial, more dangerous tasks of a common soldier.
It’s an ambitious plan, one I’ve been hearing about since I first learned that my purpose in life would be to forge an alliance, become someone’s wife and provide him with sons of his own.
Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind the prospect—especially if it would help protect my brothers.
But even from my sheltered position cloistered deep in our family home, I know the reality.
I’ll never be good enough to marry a Chiaroscuro.
They can accept us as their vassals, take our money, our support, our men, but not the prospect of marriage to a family as far down the ranks as ours.
At least, that’s what my father says when he’s had one too many glasses of wine. It’s the only time he speaks the truth.
But from what I’ve gathered with my ear against the door, perhaps the tides have shifted.
The Chiaroscuros’ efforts to reclaim their territory from the Yakuza have been growing more desperate.
And it’s clear from the numerous shifts in power within their family since Don Augusta died that they have no strong leader to bring their territory back into the fold.
So, against all odds, my parents’ persistence might finally have paid off.
“Evi, come in here,” my father commands, making my heart skip a beat as I jerk my cheek away from the door. I take a slow step back, easing my palms from the polished wood as I hold my breath so as not to make a sound.
He can’t possibly have known I’ve been here the whole time, could he? I trap my lower lip between my teeth, wondering just how much trouble I’m going to be in for eavesdropping.
Before I have time to decide if I’m going to make a run for it, my second oldest brother, Marco, throws open the double-doors I’ve been glued to for the better part of an hour.
Towering over me, he cocks an eyebrow, silently chastising me even as his lips quirk in subtle amusement, and he gestures me inside.
Cheeks warming, I silently obey, keeping my eyes on the floor to try and hide my shame over getting caught eavesdropping. Without a word, my brothers file out behind me, leaving me alone with my parents.
“I thought that was your shadow hovering near the door,” my father says coldly, distaste clear in his tone. “You should know better than to listen in on conversations you’re not a part of. You’re no longer a child, Evi. And I assure you that kind of behavior won’t be tolerated by your husband.”
“My… husband?” I ask, eyes flicking up to meet my father’s irate gaze.
“Are you trying to be cheeky?” he demands. “Or is this your best attempt at pretending you weren’t eavesdropping? I would have invited you into the room if I’d wished for you to know all the fine details.”
Yes, because God forbid I have a single clue about what the future of our family might hold. My father has made it perfectly clear over the years that a woman’s opinion is best kept to herself—if she insists on having one at all.
My eyes flick unwittingly to my mother, whose face is perfectly impassive, as always, a beautiful and serene manifestation of the ideal woman.
I’ve tried to emulate her over the years, but while I know how to perform the responsibilities of a wife, I’ve never been able to control my emotions like she can.
Women like us are born to please.
To serve our husbands and provide children for them.
That is all.
The rest is just a burden.
“Sorry, Papá,” I murmur.
“And yes, we have finally secured one of the Chiaroscuro brothers for you.” My father’s smirk shines with a self-satisfaction that tells me this was no small feat.
“If everything works out as we hope, this could elevate our family to unimaginable heights in the Mafia hierarchy,” he explains.
“But, Evi, everything pivots on this alliance. That means you must present yourself as the perfect bride.”
My stomach sinks even though I already know where he’s going with this. Because I’m terrible at secrets. Terrible at lying. My face gives me away every time.
“You’re not to breathe a word about your… condition. Under no circumstances can the Chiaroscuros find out about it before your wedding night. Is that understood?”
After years of hearing my parents say that I’ll only ever be a burden to our family because of my “condition”, I honestly don’t know what to say.
The truth settles like a ball of lead in my stomach as I think about the kind of damage our dishonesty might cause the already struggling Chiaroscuro family.
From the outside, I might look perfectly healthy—perfectly normal. But I’m far from it.
I’m broken, damaged goods. And the only way my father could sell me off was to pretend I’m not.
The entire foundation of my betrothal has been built upon a lie. One I’ll be carrying with me into my marriage bed, it would seem. How long does he expect me to hold onto such a massive secret? My husband will figure it out eventually.
“For how long?” I ask softly, my heart lodging firmly in my throat, and again I find my eyes wandering to my mother, though I know she’ll be no help to me.
“For as long as necessary,” he growls. “As long as you can get away with it.”
“And when the Chiaroscuros do find out?” I ask, interlacing my fingers in front of me to stop them from trembling.
“Hopefully, we’ll have established our family name in the higher ranks by then, and they’ll look past it.
They can’t punish us for it if no one finds out we knew before we signed the marriage contract.
So, if you have any devotion to your family, you will take the truth to your grave.”
“Yes, Papá,” I murmur, swallowing down the anxiety and guilt as my eyes drop to the floor once more.
“Good. Now, go get cleaned up and ready to make a good first impression. Your betrothed will be arriving for dinner in…” He glances down at his Rolex. “Just over an hour.”
My pulse quickens at the unexpected news.
I don’t even know which of the five Chiaroscuro brothers I’m supposed to be marrying, let alone how I’m supposed to impress him, and I have very little time to prepare myself.
“May I ask who I’m supposed to marry?” I ventured, glancing up from beneath my lashes.
“Considering all three of the older Chiaroscuros have recently been taken off the market,” my father grumbles, no small amount of resentment in his tone, “it’ll be one of the twins. Hopefully, the right twin.”
“The… right twin?” I ask hesitantly, knowing full well that he could decide the detail isn’t critical knowledge to my role and, therefore, something I don’t need to know.
“I’ve tried for years to ensure you became the wife of the new Don, but that title has been getting tossed between the brothers like a hot potato lately, and the clock is ticking now that you’ve turned eighteen, so we’ll take what we can get while the opportunity is available.
Sandro has agreed to marry you in exchange for our assistance with their Yakuza problem. ”
“Yes, Father,” I murmur. Unlike the oldest Chiaroscuro brother, Leo, who was a notorious playboy before he got married, I know next to nothing about the twins, and a nervous anticipation unfurls in my stomach.
“You may go,” my father says dismissively as he waves me away.
With a nod, I turn and depart, heading straight for my room to get ready.
It doesn’t take long to touch up my natural-glow makeup and change into an appropriate tea-length cocktail dress—a soft yellow A-line dress that I pick because the cheery color will lend me confidence and the heart-shaped neckline will subtly accentuate my curves.
I was taught from a young age that a woman should be prepared to host at a moment’s notice—and my father has strict expectations that I present myself as the ideal wife at all times.
So, after years of training for this moment, it doesn’t take me long to regain my footing—despite my quaking knees.
Slipping into a pair of nude patent-leather pumps, I give my reflection a quick once-over to ensure everything is in place.
Then I head to the drawing room to soak up a few lingering rays of sunshine that spill through the wide picture window, warming my skin and calming my nerves.
Taking slow breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth, I try to steady my racing heart, and I place a hand on the windowsill as I stare out at the sprawling green acreage of my family’s land.
We’re not a poor family by any means, and having a property this size in Chicago would certainly put us in the upper class, but none of that matters when your family name is what determines your worth to the Don.
A shiver races down my spine as I feel the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders.
I have to make this alliance happen—for the sake of my brothers. Because I love them all.
I love their children, the families they’ve made for themselves, and I couldn’t stand the thought of losing one because I failed them.
My heart skips a beat as I catch the distant sound of wheels crunching down the gravel driveway, then the front doors opening.
“Rafael. It’s good to see you.” My father’s deep voice booms from the entryway, a note of false warmth lacing his words.
I don’t quite catch the low response, but the calm poise in the man’s voice makes my pulse flutter.
“And you must be Sandro,” my mother says, her voice smooth and welcoming.
“Signora.”
The rough response contrasts with the first voice, confirming that two distinctly different people are here for dinner, and as I run the names my parents said through my memory, I realize that both the Chiaroscuro twins must have come tonight.
Oh, God. What if I can’t tell them apart?
From what I’ve heard, they’re identical, and a wave of nerves rushes through me as I imagine making a complete fool of myself by proving incapable of properly distinguishing my husband-to-be.
My mortification would be agonizing if they decided to call off the wedding because of it.
Evi, you need to calm down, I coach myself.
At the rate I’m going, I’ll drive myself to hysterics before I even meet my betrothed.
Soft voices mingle with sharp footsteps that echo off the marble floor of the entryway, announcing their approach, and I nervously smooth my dress down before forcing my shoulders to relax.
Then, taking one last fortifying breath, I turn to face our guests.
And as my eyes land on the dark, towering figure that fills the doorway, a shock jolts through my body, stealing the air from my lungs.