Page 34 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with my thoughts like a mobster in solitary.

I take a minute to mull over my ‘orders.’

Get her out of my system? Might as well try to win a marathon without a finish line. In hell. Wearing lead boots.

But I could marry Alina, then I wouldn’t need to try to purge my brain of her because Addy wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. Hell, she’ll probably have my head on a platter if she finds out I was spoken for when I fucked her three weeks ago.

Flashes of memory light up my brain. The way her body spoke to me, a language more compelling than any omertà. The way her cries echoed over the idling jet engine. The way she looked when she’d finally taken all of me—like she’d found Nirvana in the ninth circle of hell. The way she moaned as I spurted deep inside her.

And far above all that, how fucking right she felt as her heart pounded against mine, asking me to keep her safe. To keep her. Period.

Before I picked up the phone to call Nico, I knew he’d never agree to kill De Luca. Just as I know Nico heard me loud and clear. I’m not going to marry De Luca’s daughter. Not even if hell freezes over.

Which is why I know, without a doubt, that Nico is lying wide awake right now and planning contingencies. He probably has a whole playbook of ‘What To Do When Your Brother Goes Rogue’ scenarios.

What he doesn’t know, though, is that Chicago will be getting a lot of Red Wine—and very soon.

Because I’ve already lost it. I have every intention of breaking my word and taking what’s mine. Even if it means setting fire to this empire and watching the streets turn red.

Fuck me. I need another drink. Or ten. Something strong enough to make me forget I’m about to start a war over a girl.

Again.

Chapter Ten

Adele

“Ah, Adele! Ye’ve returned!” Ms. Ida, our full-figured, sixty-something-year-old housekeeper’s round face splits into a beatific smile as soon as she spots me in the grand foyer of our stately home. She hurries toward me, her heavy footsteps echoing on the marble floor, to envelop me in her signature maternal hug.

The air smells, as ever, of wood polish and fresh flowers, mingling with the faint scent of Dad’s cigars. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve missed home.

In a thick Irish brogue, she gently chides, “Yer Pa’s been worried sick over ye. I don’t tink he’s slept a wink in de past year.”

“I left just a little over a month ago, Ida,” I smile, feeling the warmth of her embrace seep into my bones.

“Aye, I know, but it feels like a whole year, child. Ye know he can’t help bein’ a worry wart, after everyting dat happened to his family . . . and yer poor ma and da.”

Guilt lances through me, sharp and cold. My Dad may have lied about being morally upstanding, but nothing can take away the grief of him losing his family in a single day. And nothing should come between me and the only father I’ve ever known.

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. “I’m sorry, Ms. Ida. We had a fight, but I’ve come to smooth things over.”

“Good on ye, child. Now what’ll ye be havin’ before lunch is done?” She proceeds to offer a range of snacks she has at the ready, her hands fluttering excitedly.

I have zero appetite, my recent debacle at work is all too fresh in my mind. Someone brought rum cake to work today and I must have overindulged because out of nowhere I’d gotten sick and thrown up in Doug’s office. The bitter taste of bile still lingers in my mouth.

Terrified of catching something contagious, he’d immediately given me the rest of the week off to sort out whatever virus was plaguing me. Suddenly with so much free time and worsening guilt, I decided to take a cab home.

“I’m not hungry, Ida. I had a big breakfast this morning, and it’s only after two.” My stomach churns at the mere thought of food.

She shakes her head, her gray curls bouncing, clearly not having it. “I knew it. Dat’s why ye’ve lost so much weight. Ye’re not eatin’ well. See?” She gently gathers my loose shirt in a hand so my small waist is obvious under my oversized shirt.

I smile, trying not to roll my eyes at her age-old mantra. It doesn’t matter that my boobs and ass more than make up for my small midsection or that no matter what she feeds me, my waistline never changes.

“Okay, fine, I’ll have scones,” I concede, knowing it’s easier than arguing. “Where’s Daddy?”

“In his office waitin’ for ye. He ran dere to wait de moment he spotted ye at de gates from de CCTV. Now ye know yer Pa. He’ll act all aloof, but he was tearin’ his hair out—what’s left of it anyway, so be gentle wit’ him,” Ida cackles as she moves toward the kitchens, her laughter echoing off the high ceilings.

I stand for a moment, staring after her. Ida’s knack for spinning reality has always been a constant in this house. Whether it was explaining away Dad’s absences or interpreting scathing words as a sign of deep, unspoken affection, Ida seems unable to see or accept any other reality except that of a loving family. I’ve known for a while now that her perspective isn’t always accurate, yet I can’t resist wanting to see things through Ida’s kind, rose-tinted perspective.

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