Page 11 of Brutal Vows

“I’m sorry about your dress.” The apology slips out, but I don’t know why. This wasn’t my fault. “Where’s your—”

I freeze as Fiero Capito, the second son of San Francisco’s most powerful mafia boss, stalks toward us. He’s no longer the young boy I met over twenty years ago, but there’s no mistaking his identity.

My father, Alvaro Giordano, worked several deals with his father when we were kids. As the fastest growing mafia family in San Jose, we traveled to San Francisco a handful of times. Even if it was a lifetime ago, there’s no way he won’t recognize me once he looks away from his bride, so the moment he grabs her, I slip away toward the clinic.

Fate cannot be this cruel. My stepmother banished my sister and me from our family in San Jose, so my brother sent us asfar away as he possibly could to New York City. What the hell is Fiero Capito doing here?

Broad shoulders catch my attention through a break in the crowd. No longer wearing his suit coat, the most handsome man on the planet’s tattoos leave dark outlines through his white shirts. His striking profile fills me with longing, but worms crawl in my belly as I realize he came around the corner with Fiero earlier. Which means he’s mafia, too. He shakes hands with a police officer. I spin on my heel and dart around the corner of the building, praying no one sees my hasty retreat.

Two cab drivers yell at each other in the middle of the parking lot. I lower my head but stay aware of my surroundings as I continue along the wall toward the back of the building.

Overwhelmed from a full day’s work, the shooting, and the unexpected appearance of a man I’d hoped to never meet again, panic scrambles my thoughts for a moment, but the connection with my sister twangs, snapping me out of a potential spiral. I shove my emotions behind a partition and glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me. When the few people within eyesight seem occupied with their own lives, I slip into the narrow lane between the buildings. Used mainly for deliveries and trash collection, the back alley sports a maze of dumpsters, metal rolling doors, concrete steps, and industrial doors.

The hairs on my nape rise. I skirt around the nearest dumpster and slide into the space between it and the stairs. My heart pounds against my sternum.

I stand wedged in the corner like a mouse caught in a trap for several moments, too scared to move. My purse is still in my locker at work. I have nothing. No ID. No apartment key. No cash.

When the uncertainty becomes unbearable, I tilt my head and peer over the steps, checking the area behind my officebefore feeling brave enough to look toward the mouth of the alley. Everything seems the same, so I inch forward and peek around the dumpster.

No massive, tatted mafia man stands blocking the exit, so I tiptoe a little further out and wait another few seconds before sighing in relief.

It’s broad daylight. We’re closer to the suburbs than city streets. The storefront is swarming with cops, reporters, and onlookers because of the shooting.

I’m imagining things. No one noticed me come back here. I’m fine. I’m safe.

The hairs on my nape refuse to relax.

Even though I know it’s locked, I take the stairs to the back door of the clinic and twist the handle. It doesn’t budge.

Knocking won’t help since everyone is probably in the front half of the building managing the crisis. I drop my forehead to the cold, dirty metal and just breathe for a moment, needing a few seconds of silence to center myself.

Relief calms the emotions churning behind my sternum. My sister went home early, so she missed the chaos. She was never in danger.

A horrible thought clenches my stomach.

What if the shooting was connected to the Russian mobsters and that’s why the Italian mafia showed up?

I scratch the idea. The shooter spoke Spanish, the mafia couple was in wedding attire, and the surgical team that worked on the Russian had no more surgeries scheduled for this afternoon.

With one mental hurdle cleared but a million more in line, I swallow the lump of emotion stuck in my throat and turn around.

Terror glues my sneakers to the landing as I meet eyes the color of steel. Even though we’re surrounded by shades of grey, his irises dance with icy hatred.

In his white shirt with his sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos on his muscular forearms and his wide shoulders straining the seams, the man I don’t have a name for stands at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at me.

I fight the urge to bolt. There’s nowhere to go. He’ll catch me within seconds even if I jump over the railing.

“Didn’t I warn you not to let me catch your lying, scheming ass in New York City ever again,bugiarda?”

I don’t know who he thinks I am or why he’s calling them a liar, but his low, menacing rumble reaches deep into my chest and shakes my bones. I shuffle backward on instinct as he ascends the stairs with slow, predatory grace.

My back hits the door. He lifts his dress shoe onto the top step.

I open my mouth to speak, not sure what I plan to say, but when he reaches for me, my body reacts. With his back foot still on a lower step and his arm extended toward me, his Adam’s apple—which has no business being so sexy—becomes the center of my focus. Years’ worth of training kicks in and I lash out, throwing my entire body into the uppercut toward his throat.

Pain travels up my arm, but I follow through, duck under his arm, and dart across the loading dock.

I grab the railing, jump over, and stumble through a halfway decent landing before turning at the last second and hitting my shoulder on the dumpster instead of my face. I shove off the filthy surface and dash around the corner. My heart pounds in my ears. I train my gaze on the mouth of the alley and will my legs to carry me faster.

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