Page 130 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

Adam’s Apple, Brachial Plexus, Eyes, Jugular, Balls. I silently chant then swallow hard, willing my voice not to shake. “Yes . . . my King.”

He grins, revealing his chipped front tooth. “That’s a good little dove. You’re a quick learner.”

Oh, you have no fucking idea.

As I scan the room, my eyes searching desperately for Kira, worry gnaws at my insides. She’s disappeared since Sean and I exchanged vows.

Sean’s voice suddenly rises above the din of clinking glasses and murmured conversations.

“Tomorrow, we link up with our Boston boys and take out those Chicago rats for good. What kinda dumbass name is ‘The Outfit’ anyway?” He throws up air quotes. “They deserve to be wiped off the fucking map for the shit they pulled. Killing children while in bed? That just ain’t right no matter how you slice it.”

A chorus of agreement rises from the surrounding tables. I’m numb enough to school my features into a mask of indifference, but I want to laugh at the thought of this gang taking on the Outfit. They might win in a drunken brawl. But in an all-out war? They stand about as much chance as a snowman in a sauna.

I catch sight of Benjamin at the far end of the room. He’s sitting next to a lean, graying man with deep grooves along his forehead and bracketing his mouth. I recognize him as one of Benjamin’s long-term clients from my childhood. Benjamin’s head is slightly inclined toward him, a gesture of deference I’ve rarely seen.

There’s something striking about this man. He exudes a polished, authoritative air, reminiscent of . . . Nico.

Is he the Irish Mob Boss?

My mind races. Why would he choose to align with this suicide squad here? Does he even comprehend the magnitude of what he’s up against? That the Fortress alone houses enough weapons to annihilate an entire state? That they command billions in both legal and illegal funds, with tentacles reaching into the police force, FBI, and political spheres?

A serving girl arrives bearing a tray of champagne flutes. The bubbles catch the light, reminding me of happier times—of lounging by the pool with Dante, his laughter echoing off the water. The memory triggers a physical ache in my chest.

I reach for a glass, desperate for anything to dull the edge of this nightmare, not caring that I might puke. But Sean waves off the servant.

“No alcohol for my little dove,” he announces loudly into the room, his eyes gleaming with malice. “She needs to know what a real man feels like. You’ll want to feel my cock for weeks, dove, until I come back for you.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the nearby guests. I feel my cheeks burn anew with humiliation and anger. From across the room, I catch Benjamin’s eye. Even he looks ill and regretful. After all, he was my father for eighteen years. No man wants to see his daughter with an animal.

Adam’s Apple, Brachial Plexus, Eyes, Jugular, Balls.

As the night wears on, I find myself thinking of Dante, of Nico and Sal and Enzo—father of six, and the rest of their soldiers. Compared to this lot, they’re like royalty. The contrast is stark and painful.

I continue to play the naïve, dutiful wife, averting my gaze and smiling shyly whenever Sean looks my way while my mind races with possibilities. I know I will kill him tonight. Somehow.

He’ll underestimate me; I’m small, and I walk with a limp. He’ll not expect any aggression. Benjamin is right under his roof, waiting to take the army he paid for back to Boston. And probably most importantly, Sean is half-drunk and horny. The hand on my thigh is trembling slightly, and his erection is disgustingly obvious. His reflexes are very likely shot.

No, the problem isn’t killing him. It’s surviving after I do. I’ve worked out hundreds of scenarios and there isn’t one where I don’t end up dead by morning.

Eventually, Sean stands, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, making me jump. He pulls me up roughly by my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh, and I relish the pain, letting it harden my resolve.

“Time to retire with my dove,” he announces to the room, eliciting a chorus of lewd cheers and whistles.

As we make our way out of the hall, I catch one last glimpse of Benjamin. His face is a mask of regret, but he doesn’t move to intervene. The man I once called father turns away, abandoning me to my fate.

Adam’s Apple, Brachial Plexus, Eyes, Jugular, Balls. Please give me a fucking chance.

The walk to the bedroom is a blur of dimly lit corridors and the sound of Sean’s heavy breathing. When we finally reach the room, he shoves me inside, slamming the door behind us. A massive four-poster bed dominates the space. Heavy curtains block out any moonlight, leaving us in the artificial glow of ornate lamps.

Without being told, I begin to strip.

“Oh, little dove,” he licks his lips, his black eye gleaming like a dark gem. “So well trained. I can smell your fear, y’know. Eager and scared. Are you wet?”

“I—I . . .” I make myself stutter.

“Are you?” He barks.

“I’m not . . . sure, My King,” I whisper.

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