Page 129 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

I square my shoulders and give him a tremulous smile, hoping it doesn’t come off as a grimace of disgust. He smiles back at me, and I want to gag.

He reaches out to finger a lock of my hair. “Look at all that red. That perfect soft skin just begging for my marks. Little dove, I can’t wait to fill up every damn hole you got.”

I’m sorry, I can’t do this. It’s going to be too hard to pretend I’m not picturing all the delightful ways I’d like to kill this monster.

Kira’s horrified gasp breaks the ensuing silence, but Sean, apparently, isn’t done trying to make us vomit, because he says, “You’re welcome to stay and watch me fuck your daughter, Ben. See that your down payment is well received.”

“That will not be necessary,” Benjamin mutters, a hard glint in his otherwise impassive face.

Sean shrugs, laughing—a grating, terrible sound. “Your call. Offer still stands.” Now, he faces the priest, who looks bored. Or stoned? I’m not sure which. “Let’s get this shit over and done with.”

The ceremony starts in a blur. I repeat strange vows that sound more like an initiation chant, spurred on by the gun aimed at Kira’s head. As the priest finishes, Sean produces a wicked-looking knife, its blade gleaming in the harsh light.

“Now, we seal our union in blood,” Sean growls, his black eye glinting with malicious glee.

He grabs my hand roughly, slicing a deep cut across my thumb. I bite back a cry of pain as he does the same to his own. Then, with a grip like iron, he presses our bleeding thumbs together.

“Blood of my blood,” he intones, his voice thick with anticipation. “Bound in life, bound in death.”

Before I can react, he brings my bleeding thumb to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the wound. I fight the urge to recoil as he savors the taste, a low groan escaping him.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine. “Just like I knew you’d be, little dove.”

Then, with deliberate slowness, he pushes his own bloody thumb into my mouth. The metallic taste makes me gag, but I force myself to remain still.

“There,” Sean leers, his fetid breath hot on my face. “Now you’ve got a taste of your king. Very soon, you’ll be choking on a lot more than that.”

The vulgarity of his words, the sight of my blood on his teeth, and the feeling of his blood on my tongue make my stomach roil. He pulls away, trailing his bleeding thumb across my lips down my chin, the side of my neck, and my arm, leaving a crimson stain on my white dress.

I know that this is only the beginning of the horrors to come.

Chapter Forty-Two

Adele

The “wedding reception” is held in a cavernous hall that stinks of stale cigar smoke and beer. Steel chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their lights harsh and unforgiving, highlighting the half-drunk, leering faces of the attendees.

They’re all men. Hard eyes glint beneath furrowed brows, tattoos snake across their skin, and metals glint from ears, noses, and lips. Their suits hang awkwardly on muscled frames as if borrowed from smaller, softer men for this rare occasion. But it’s their faces that chill me to the bone. Scars crisscross weathered skin—some faded with time, others angry and fresh—that tell of unspeakable violence and brutality.

Half-naked girls flit between the rows of guests, getting roughly groped, some dragged onto laps, and a few bent over tables. Still, they continue to serve. They don’t seem repulsed, nor do they resist. They’re simply . . . resigned.

I sit beside Sean at the head table, perched on an uncomfortable gilt chair. The crystals and stones in my dress catch the light, and every little movement and each breath is a reminder that I’m trapped in this nightmare.

The last three hours have purged me of any lingering wide-eyed innocence.

I’m now Mrs. Sean Hall of the Shadow gang. Wife to a depraved savage who can’t wait to get into my holes. I pinch myself again, hoping this has all been a bad dream.

But no. I don’t wake up. My husband’s hand still rests heavily on my thigh, his fingers digging into the flesh just above my knee.

The table before us is laden with untouched food—roast beef bleeding onto fine china, lobster tails curling in their shells, caviar glistening atop delicate blinis. The sight of it all turns my stomach.

Sean leans in close, his breath hot and sour against my ear. “Smile, little dove. This is our wedding reception.”

“Yes,” I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile.

“Yes, what?” he rasps, his fingers tightening on my thigh. I resist the urge to squirm away, acutely aware of the wooden spoon hidden in my bra which now seems about as useful as a piece of wool against the monstrosity that is Sean Hall.

But I have to try.

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