Vows in Violence (Sons of the Mafia #5)

Chapter 1

Vivi

This church has always been a sanctuary, but tonight, it feels a bit like the gate to Hell.

I’ve always loved Our Lady of Pompeii, with its campanile and stained-glass windows that throw shards of brilliance across the nave in the morning. Those windows are dark tonight, though, and the space below me is silent, marked by shadows and the flickering glow of candlelight.

I stand and wait, as Carina Scarpetta did not so very long ago for her wedding, in the choir loft above the entrance at the rear of the church. From up here, I can look down and see everything—the beautiful marble columns, the familiar glossy wood of the pews stretching forward to the chancel, all of it framed by soaring arches decorated with frescoes and sculpture.

I used to sit in our family pew as a child, crane my head back, and stare until I located Saint Charles Borromeo, the loving reformer, until my mother tapped me sharply on the knee.

Pay attention, Vivi.

This is very different from Sunday mass, though, and it’s definitely not as nice as Carina Scarpetta’s wedding day.

There are no hushed murmurings of wedding guests floating up from the sanctuary below, no bridesmaids behind me tugging the train of my dress into place. There’s no pianist, no flowers, no ring bearer tripping over his little feet as he carries a satin pillow down the aisle.

Ivan and I have none of that.

No. Instead of being wed before friends and family in the full light of day, the time for our ceremony approaches midnight, and I stand here alone, waiting to exchange my vows in secret like some wanted criminal.

Ivan isn’t exactly anyone’s favorite right now, not the Five Families or the police, although he’s not officially wanted for anything. He’s skating a line of patience, though, with his open abduction of my brother and his flagrant extortion of me—my person, my body, my hand.

My foot taps at the floor, the sound impatient and echoing in the vast chamber. This is the first time I’ve been out of the house in weeks. Ivan says it’s too dangerous; the Commission’s assassins are just biding their time for the chance to strike.

I have a hard time believing such danger would make a difference to my fiancé, though. I’ve learned a lot about Ivan these past few weeks.

He doesn’t keep a steady routine. There are nights when the entire house bustles with the noise of his men and others when the house is empty and silent. Those are the nights I lie awake in my gilded cage, unable to sleep until Ivan returns. He’s made it very comfortable for me—a soft cushion of furs to lie on—but it’s a cage, nonetheless, one I’m consigned to every time Ivan leaves the house.

He doesn’t trust that I won’t find some way to leave him, I don’t think.

I don’t know why I don’t. I could have refused. Angel brought all of this mess on his own head; I could leave him to deal with it on his own. I’m sure if I told Ivan I had changed my mind, he would feel compelled to let me go.

Angel’s my excuse to stay, if I’m being honest with myself. There’s always been this pull …this connection between Ivan and me. I hesitate to call it love—I barely know the man. And what I do know is not flattering.

He’s suspicious and almost paranoid, and he refuses to put his trust in a single right-hand man. Instead, he has a group of several men in continual rotation, none of whom are privy to everything about him.

The things they do know…what I know…haunts me.

He is so very violent.

I’m not na?ve. I grew up in and reside in a world where violence, blood, and corruption are our daily bread. I don’t like it, and I deliberately choose to turn a blind eye whenever possible, but that doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of it.

The Dons I’ve known, though, were always good at ordering others to take care of the dirtier tasks. They kept their hands clean, maintained a degree of separation that was as comforting as it was delusional.

Ivan’s different, choosing a hands-on approach to leadership that is…disturbing. The thought of those same callused hands that have ended the lives of so many touching me tonight…

A full-body shiver races through me, and turning away from the nave, I walk over to the window and lean my head back against it. A stream of moonlight pours through the pane, hitting the full-length mirror brought into the room for me earlier in just the perfect way. The wash of ethereal light combined with the stark white dress I wear makes me look like a ghost.

The dress fits me to perfection, even though I’ve never once tried it on for a fitting. Ivan’s doing. Nothing, not the smallest detail, escapes his notice. Intricate beading swims along the bottom hem, making the dress look as though it’s covered in tiny, pearlescent drops of water. The beading twists up to wind around my waist and across the flat plane of my stomach, where I smooth my suddenly sweaty palms.

I’ll be a married woman tonight, even if it isn’t the wedding I dreamed of as a little girl. I’ll be Ivan Romanov’s.

But he will be mine.

The door opens, and I look over to see one of the nuns in the doorway. “It’s time,” she says.

My mouth dries. Closing my eyes, I take in a deep breath, feeling the air expand my rib cage and making me feel, just for a moment, larger and stronger and more powerful than I am, even with this frantic fluttery feeling in my chest.

Like fireflies knocking against a glass jar when they’ve been captured. Lulu and I used to catch them in the summertime, out on the lawn. I always let them go after my sister had gone inside. I hated the thought of them dying in that jar, searching frantically for a way to escape into that great wide open right on the other side of the glass.

I open my eyes and press my lips firmly together, then gather the skirt of my gown over my forearm. I may be frightened, but I’m a Valachi, and I’ll be damned before I’ll let Ivan or anyone else see as much. This is my world just as much as it is Ivan’s.

Carefully, so I don’t trip on the dress, I follow the nun down the stairs. At the bottom, I pull the veil over my face, even though it makes no difference. There’s no one here to see me, and God knows Ivan has stared at me countless times from across the dining room table, nothing but brooding silence between us.

At the doors leading to the sanctuary, the nun holds out a hand, halting me. “Wait here until you hear the music, child.”

We’ll have music, at least. How nice.

“Those are for you,” she continues, pointing to a bouquet of petunias that sit on a gold filigree table next to the wall.

“Petunias.” Picking up the bouquet, I finger one of the delicate, fuchsia-colored blossoms. My mouth twists. As messages go, it’s an interesting one. Despite their sweet appearance, petunias are symbolic of anger and resentment.

Does he expect me to resent him? In my own way, I agreed to this.

With a sigh, I drop my wrist, letting the bouquet sag against my thigh. All of this reminds me too closely of my friend Rowan’s marriage scant months ago. Although she and Enzo are good now, I remember her own resentment at her lack of choice. Is this just the way things are for daughters of the Five?

Are we so disposable that choice is a unicorn?

It feels that way. Here I am, after all…listening for music I didn’t choose, in a gown I’ve never seen…

…about to marry a husband I never would have chosen. As fascinated as I am by him, I can see Ivan clearly enough to know that he will never love me. And I know it’s naive of me, but I never wanted a marriage without love.

At the end of all the romantic movies and books, the girl’s always walking down the aisle to marry the love of her life. These scenes have always made me think of happiness like bubbles. That girl is walking on air. She’s floating.

Maybe she could even fly.

I feel like I’m thigh-high in a black, swirling tide, trying desperately to slog my way to shore. The tide is like a weight, though, dragging me back and threatening to pull me under every time I lift my foot.

It’s easier just to stand and let the water rise.

The organ begins to play a song I do not recognize. It starts with a slow, almost sad cadence. Taking another deep breath, I push the doors open and step through them, feeling the veil tugging at my head as I drag it behind me with the train of my dress.

I focus on the end of the aisle, where Ivan—

My step falters, and I squint through the mesh of the veil. The church is dim, lit as it is by candles instead of electric lights. They throw everything into a kind of sordid darkness that seems appropriate for the occasion, and yet it’s not too dark for me to see that Ivan is not standing at the altar waiting for me.

Where is he?

After another brief hesitation, I square my shoulders and continue walking the aisle. It’s appropriate, I suppose. So far, every step I’ve taken since Ivan Romanov claimed me as his has been lonely. Why should my wedding be any different?

At the chancel, I turn and face the rows of pews. Movement catches my attention, and turning more fully, I see Angel walking in from a door to my right.

“Angel!” The petunias fall, forgotten, to the floor, as I go to him.

I know in a heartbeat that leaving Angel to his fate is something I could never do. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and he looks worse than before. Yellow bruises on his face, revealing the healing of old wounds, are interspersed with fresh, black and blue bruising. I touch them gently. “What has he done…?”

“Hush. I’m fine.” Angel takes my wrists in his hands and lowers them, glancing around. I follow his gaze and realize that I’m considerably less alone than I thought. Blending into the shadows, approximately two dozen men stand sentry along the church walls.

I return my attention to my brother. “You’re not fine. What have they been doing to you? Where have you been?”

A slight smile twists Angel’s lips. “Shh. Minor inconveniences. Not enough to break me, I assure you.”

“Stop trying to play macho man, Angel. I can talk to Ivan; I can work something out. I can—” Tears sting my eyes. Honestly, I don’t know what more I can do. I’m marrying the man. I’m giving him every piece of me. I don’t know what more he wants from me.

“There’s nothing more you need to do, Vivi.”

With gentle fingers, careful not to snag the delicate lace, Angel lifts the veil away from my face and kisses my cheek. My breath catches at the scent of his cologne. It’s the same one my father used to wear.

“You are not marrying a kind man tonight, tesora . He’s not the man I would have ever chosen for you. But we can’t control everything. Just…be a good wife to him. Don’t tempt his anger. You were trained for this. As much as he hates me, he needs you for his plans.”

Despite my earlier bravado, a sob rises up in my throat. My brother is here, someone stronger than I am. I can lean on him, if only for a few minutes. “I’m scared, Angel.”

Leaning forward, he kisses my forehead. His voice is stern when he answers me. “You are a Valachi. We do what we must, even when we are scared.”

As if in response to some silent signal, the priest emerges from a door behind the chancel, dressed in robes and carrying a Bible. At the altar, he signals to me, and a slightly hysterical giggle escapes.

Does Ivan mean for us to marry without even being here?

Angel picks up the petunia bouquet and presses it into my grasp, squeezing my hand closed around it. “You can do this.”

I can’t. I shake my head. Even to me, the gesture feels frantic. “I can’t do it, Angel, I can’t—”

He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me toward the priest. “You must.”

He kisses me once again before he sits down in the first pew. From the corner of my eye, I see him wince as he makes himself comfortable on the wooden bench.

I face the priest and wait, my eyes darting between the various doors at the back of the church.

I have seen Ivan three times a day, every day, for the past several weeks. He has kept me in a gilded cage in his home when he is not there and sometimes even when he is.

I should be accustomed to the cruelty that swims just beneath the surface with him, but I have never been more afraid of him than I am right now.

But he doesn’t appear. Time ticks by, and the doors do not open. My fingers on the petunia bouquet cramp, and my lower back begins to ache from standing so still. Even the sentries start to shuffle in their places, their legs no doubt getting numb from the wait.

I can’t look at the priest. I keep my eyes focused on the nearest candle, watching the wax melt and slowly gather at the base.

Hope mixes with disappointment and puddles in my stomach, slow and warm, like the wax. Maybe he changed his mind. Perhaps he rethought everything and realized that he didn’t need to marry me in order to get what he wanted. Maybe I’m not good enough, and he doesn’t want me after all. Maybe Angel and I can leave…leave New York and start a new life somewhere where even the Commission can’t find us.

We could live a simple life. Have normal jobs. Support each other and finally figure out who we might have been if we had never been born Valachis.

A boom of sound breaks me from the dream—the double doors to the front of the church crashing open. I jump, spinning around to see Ivan storming in like some marauding berserker, his face a thundercloud. He strides boldly through the inner doors I left open earlier and down the aisle.

As he nears, the man becomes a monster. The flickering light of the candles reveals dirt on one shoulder, his collar completely undone, a tear in the sleeve of his shirt.

None of that matters. The blood splattered across his chest, up his arms, and even on his face matters, though. Who did he kill before he came to marry me?

If any of it offends the priest, he says nothing. He’s not stupid.

Ivan stops next to me, smirks at Angel, and grabs my hands in a rough grip. Some of the blood on his hands is still wet, and I watch with a kind of horrified fascination as the fabric of my sleeve absorbs it.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Angel,” Ivan says. My gaze flashes up to be pinned by his amber-eyed stare as he turns his attention fully upon me. “Let’s get on with it.”