Page 32 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

I turn off the TV and sip my whiskey, savoring the smoky burn and knowing that the dismissal of the case is practically in the bag.

Dismissing the trial is only the beginning. Tommy Martelli is a dead man, no doubt, but a twinge of regret grips me when I think of his family. No one should have to pay for the sins of their father. I wonder just what strings I’ll have to pull to save Tommy’s sons from the grave their father dug them when my phone buzzes beside me with an incoming text.

I don’t need to look. I know it’s from my wife-to-be.

Alina De Luca is nothing if not predictable. She sends me a dirty text every night at precisely eleven-thirty. Which then makes me glance into my phone screen to see Addy. And then I go a little crazier every night.

And so with a wry smile, I glance at my phone display. Addy’s photo stares back at me as usual, a reminder of a world that should never have collided with mine.

My heart clenches, the familiar ache spreading through my chest. Three weeks ago, I’d taken that photo as she walked away from me, her fiery red hair flowing in the wind, my blood, sweat, and cum on her.

For twenty-eight months, I’ve tried to respect the Mob’s wishes and stay away. To keep her oblivious to the realities of her life. But every night, the lines blur a bit more. And then, three weeks ago, the universe dropped her right in my lap. And still, I let her go.

I feel like a fucking saint at this point.

Needing to drown the driving urge to do something about this aching emptiness in my chest, I crank up the volume of my AirPods until Metallica’s thunderous riffs blast through my ears. Then I open Alina’s text.

I cant wait.??????

Real classy, doll. What are we, twelve? I roll my eyes and run a hand down my face, suddenly feeling every one of my thirty-one years. Why do her texts feel so . . . juvenile? Each one is a reminder of the commitment I’m being shoehorned into.

The eight-year age gap between Alina and me feels like a chasm, even though it’s the same as the one between Addy and me. But that’s the thing with Addy, though. Her soul is . . . ageless.

If anyone had told me a woman’s scars would drive me insane with need, I’d think they were high as a kite. But no, suddenly, a survivor of a bullet graze to the pericardium is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

I fish the plain engagement ring out of my pocket and stare at it. I should’ve given it to Alina three weeks ago, the very day my red-headed witch waltzed back into Chicago and turned my life upside down again.

Screw it. I need to rip off the Band-Aid.

I dial Nico’s number, giving zero fucks that it’s almost midnight. Nico, until about a year ago would usually work out until midnight. But I know he’s not in the gym right now. He’s in bed with his wife.

Not that I blame the guy. He’s happier, wealthier, more efficient, and with a lot more allies. The entire organization is in a better place because he’s wrapped around that woman every night.

He picks up on the sixth ring. “This better be good,” he grumbles, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

“I can’t marry De Luca’s daughter,” I say, skipping the pleasantries.

Dead air. Then, “Are you shitting me? We’re fresh out of Vitellis to trade with. You’re the last horse in the stable.”

I snort. “Why even bother with the horse when I can provide a gallon of premium Vitelli juice to knock themselves up with?”

It’s a low blow, but I’m not feeling charitable right now. It’s not Nico’s fault that Alina changed her mind at the last minute, and no one knows the real reason why.

It’s been the story of our lives since high school. The girls want one brother until they meet his lookalike, and then they want him, too. After a while Nico and I started sharing just to save time. At first, it was fun. And then it became inconvenient. Now it just fucking grates on my nerves to be reduced to a walking service stud.

“Christ, fratellino, you sound like a whiny brat,” Nico yawns. “What, you’ve found a better bloodline to line up your genes with? Or are you just bitching about getting hitched?”

He sounds groggy, but I know he’s not the least bit sleepy. He’s just thrown me a challenge—daring me to admit something.

I say nothing.

“Dante, is there someone else?” Nico presses, proving me right, and for a moment, I wonder if one of my flight crew has talked.

No, it can’t be any of them. They know better than to breathe a word about the things they see. Not unless they fancy breathing through a new orifice. Sal, though? That motormouth would sing like a canary on crack if Nico looked at him funny. But Sal wasn’t there that night, thank fuck.

“No,” I lie through my teeth.

“So, what’s the problem? Alina’s a knockout, and this marriage is crucial for the family.”

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