Page 5 of Veiled Vows

I always want pancakes. What a rotten trick.

“Fine,” I groan loudly. “I’m up. I’m up.”

I’m not a morning person in the slightest. Definitely not when I’ve just spent the night dreaming of that gorgeous man wrapping his arms around me so tightly that I can’t breathe. Time and time again, I fantasize about reaching up and pulling down his balaclava so I can see what he really looks like.

Given how attractively built he was, I can pretend that he looks utterly dashing with a chiseled jaw, thick lips, and perfect white teeth, but in the end, nothing feels right. Nothing will ever feel right. I’ve thought about him every single day since my rescue, and the passing years haven’t dampened my desire or my determination to find him.

My parents were completely useless, of course. They spent a lot of time refusing to talk about my kidnapping and sending me to countless therapists who wanted me to evaluate my trauma and disconnect from my savior. I refused. He was like a knight in black armor, and I wanted to find him so I could thank him. They told me that I wouldn’t be able to heal if I didn’t move on, but they didn’t understand that thinking of him was the only thing that got me through the panic attacks and night terrors.

The older I got, the ways in which I thanked him in my dreams would change, and soon I was fantasizing about what was under hisclothes, not just his mask. Much to my mother’s alarm when I tried to confide in her about how I felt when seeking answers. She told me he was nothing more than a nobody, a mercenary for hire and that was all.

A man likethatisn’t a nobody.

But the years have ticked by, and I remain with zero answers. Only a memory.

Dragging myself from my bed takes more effort than I care to admit, but after a quick shower and a splash of makeup, I reach the dining table in time for a fresh batch of strawberry and white chocolate pancakes whipped up by our chef.

“You have to stop sleeping in so late, dear,” my mother, Bianca, says as I take my seat next to her. “Too much sleep is as bad as too little you know.” She touches my chin with her knuckle and turns my face left, then right, and sighs softly. “You look peaky. Are you taking your vitamins?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Hm. I’ll speak to our doctor and have him change your dosage.”

“There’s really no need.” My mother usually has the best intentions, she just doesn’t always think things through. Ever since childhood, she’s reminded me of a cloud that simply goes with the flow and often leaves part of herself behind. My grandmother used to scoff and say she was constantly away with the fairies, and as a child, it was rather endearing to have a mother who shared the same whimsical outlook on life as I did. As an adult though, it’s more challenging. Her floaty kindness can come off as rude, and she doesn’t always have a clear head when it comes to important decisions. She forgot me at school when I was really little more than once, until my father organized bodyguards.

Not that they were much use when I was fifteen.

“She’s fine, Bianca.” My father rustles the paper in his hand. “Leave her alone.”

“Your daughter looks peaky and you think she’s fine?”

“I think it’s nine in the morning and she’s in the process of waking up,” he replies, not looking up. “Not everyone wears a cake of makeup like you do.”

“Nonsense,” Bianca replies. “It’s the middle of June. Jasmine should beglowing, not looking like we’ve just stepped out of winter.”

I let their petty argument wash over me and focus on the stacked plate of pancakes in front of me, devouring the first in four bites. Chef has a knack for making sure the white chocolatechips are firm enough to satisfy but somehow gooey in the middle. I asked her about it once, and she chased me out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon.

“Plans for today, dear?” Bianca leans over me and fills my glass with fresh orange juice.

“None currently, why?”

“Well.” She sets the jug down and places her hand over mine, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she looks at me. “You know the Mancinis are hosting their annual summer party in just a few days, and they finally sent out invitations! I swear they make us wait so long because that woman gets a rush at seeing us all scramble for the best dresses in such a short time.”

My heart sinks slightly. The Mancini family is one of the biggest and most powerful Italian families in the country. If they are sharks in the ocean, we’re nothing but crabs at the bottom. Our family is powerful; there’s no denying that. But there’s always someone bigger.

“If I had my way, we wouldn’t be attending,” my father Enzo mutters while still being engrossed in his papers.

“Don’t be silly dear,” Bianca smiles, their earlier disagreement forgotten. “Everyone has to show face at these things, you know this.”

Ah, yes. One of the invisible rules of the Mafia that is never spoken aloud, but God forbid you break it and snub the biggest family.

“I have more important things to be dealing with,” Enzo replies.

Oh? I glance past my mother to my father as he grumbles into a hearty gulp of coffee. “More problems?”

My father’s work and this family’s foundation have always interested me from a young age. Learning where our money comes from and how our name can carry so much weight because of certain decisions fascinates me. My mother begs meto focus on more ladylike things rather than how the family is run, and each time I tell her that I can do both. Besides, this family is my inheritance, and I want to lead it to greatness one day. I want it to beourparties that people are mandated to attend andmyapproval that people seek with just a glance.

Such a prospect is so exciting.

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