Page 19 of Lethal Vows

I shut the door and nonchalantly shrug as I pick up my glass and down half of it. I’ll need this for my sanity to deal with him.

“I have a date and work a lot, so most of my food is at the office. And I didn’t say you could have any of that.”

I smugly watch his body go rigid. And I feel rather satisfied that I was defiant with a reminder that I’m not his in any way.

“Where is your date?” he asks, striding over to me and plucking the glass of wine out of my hand, pointedly downing the rest with an arrogant smirk.

“You should leave,” I say, offering him a sweet smile.

“We have established I’m not a man you can boss around.”

“And we established that I amnotthat woman.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Now, leave so I can get ready for my date. You’ve reminded me that I’m hungry.”

If looks could kill.

The beautiful storm that swirls in his eyes is powerful, damning, and cruel.

“I’d strongly suggest you don’t go on a date.”

“And I strongly suggest you leave.” I wave my hand to the door. “Yet here you are, still standing in my apartment.”

He’s all but crowding me now, but I hold my own. I won’t submit to anyone, even if they are a Monti.

“Your father promised you to me long ago,” he reminds me.

“That sounds like a you-and-him problem, not mine,” I say, taking back the glass, certain that it’s about to splinter in his hand any second now.

Suddenly, all that beautiful fury twists into a cruel smile. “Yes, I guess it is.” He brushes past me and stops when he gets to the door. I feel my body sag in subtle relief that he’s leaving. “Don’t suppose you would mind if I had your father killed for not upholding his end of the deal?”

The relief is replaced by a cold dread that washes over me at his words.

Did he really just threaten my father?

No.

No way.

He can’t be serious.

Can he?

“You can’t,” I say.

He pulls the door open and walks out but turns back to say, “I’d suggest you ask your father who I am, then tell meI can’t.” His smile is a violent promise before he closes the door behind him. That cold terror grips me only briefly before I remember who my father is, and I remember he can look after himself. But I find myself picking up my phone and calling my father anyway for a discussion. He answers after the second ring.

“Sweetie,” he answers cheerfully.

“Crue Monti. How dangerous is he?” I exclaim.

A deliberate silence, then, “Why are you asking?”

“Because he just left my apartment. Please tell me.”

I hear him curse under his breath and that’s never a good sign. “He puts us old folk to shame. He is ruthless. Couldn’t care less who he kills. Or why.”

“You promised me to him.”

“How—” He stops again. Did he really think I didn’t know after all these years? Sure, I’d overheard it in small talk and in passing—and I’d heard it directly from Crue himself—but I thought I’d laid that to rest when I didn’t marry at eighteen, and it wasn’t brought up ever again.

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