Vicious Promise by M. James
Luca
My head is pounding, loudly enough that I don’t think I heard a single word of what my secretary just said to me. It’s been pounding since I woke up this morning with the hangover of the century, sandwiched between two gorgeous naked blondes, breathing in the heavy scent of perfume and sex.
That, in and of itself, was strange. I don’t usually allow women to sleep over—I prefer having my California king all to myself, and no questions to answer in the morning. No what are we or when can we do this again or even will you call me? No awkward breakfasts in which I pretend that I’m going to call and she—or they—pretend to believe me.
Most of them don’t come home with me expecting more than one night of passion, though. I’ve been Manhattan’s most notorious playboy since the minute I was old enough to legally fuck, and even more so once I had a penthouse to call my own. At thirty-one, I’ve had more nights with one or more women in my bed than without. They just rarely stay over. In fact, I can only think of a few occasions—and those were usually somewhere else, on weekend benders when I did little other than stay in bed, fuck to my heart’s content, and order room service and champagne in between.
Eight years ago, I was given a get-out-of-jail free card, a pass on holy matrimony for the rest of my life, and I’ve enjoyed it to the fullest. I intend to continue doing so—but these days, there’s more meetings and business trips and fewer hazy weekends in Ibiza.
Which brings me back to my pounding headache, and the secretary that I should probably be paying attention to.
“Franco called—he wants to know if you’ve got his bachelor party booked. He was very insistent that it be out of the country, somewhere with fewer restrictions on—”
“I’m sure I know what Franco wants.” I rub a hand over my face. “Look, just make the arrangements, and run them by me before they’re finalized, okay?”
“Yes sir.” The secretary—I think her name is Carmen---shifts from one foot to the other. “And the engagement party—”
I look directly at her, bypassing her generous cleavage to gaze straight into her eyes. “Let me be clear, Karen.”
“It’s Carmen, sir.”
“I don’t care.” I sit back, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through my temples. “I don’t give a fuck about the engagement party. Call Mrs. Rossi. It’s her daughter’s party, for fuck’s sake.”
“Yes sir.” She almost bobs a curtsy before fleeing out of the door, and I make a mental note to check when she was hired. I vaguely remember my last secretary being more capable.
I peer at my computer screen, flipping to my calendar, and that’s when I see exactly why Karen—Carmen—brought up the party. It’s tomorrow night, and I have to be there, even though I’d rather put my balls in a vise than go to Caterina Rossi’s engagement party. But I don’t have a choice, because not only is she marrying my best friend, but her father is my boss. The Don of the Rossi family, head of the Northeast chapter of the Italian Mafia, and the boss of New York City.
And I, like it or not, am his heir.
It’s a fate that I would have avoided if either my father had lived, or Rossi’s wife had given him a son. But my father, Rossi’s underboss, died seven years ago hunting down his best friend’s killer, and Rossi has only one daughter, a point of contention between him and his wife.
Without some sort of tie to the Rossi family, my life would be in danger the minute that Don Rossi went six feet under. I have no blood ties to the family, only Rossi’s fondness for my father and insistence that I should be his heir. In a perfect world, I would marry his daughter, giving me the unquestioned right to his seat. But I’ve been promised since I was twenty-two to a woman I’ve never seen and will almost certainly never marry, bound by a vow that our fathers made without ever bothering to ask either of us.
So instead, my best friend and future underboss, Franco Bianchi, is marrying Caterina. With her husband as my underboss, there will be no chance of a civil war breaking out among the underbosses who would want a shot at the highest-ranking seat. They would have to get through Franco to get to me, and once he’s married to Caterina, no one will question his right to his position.
If anything, marrying her should get him my future spot as the Don. But I would trust Franco with my life—and I will be, once Don Rossi dies.
But for now, Rossi is alive and well. My responsibilities, however, are still extensive, which is why I’m still in my office at nine p.m.. As I toggle away from my calendar, an automated email alert pops up, letting me know that a deposit has been transferred to another account, under the name of Sofia Ferretti.
Sofia. I hover the cursor over the alert for a moment, and then move it away. There’s no point in looking at it—I know the exact amount, the same that’s been transferred to that account for the last three years, ever since Sofia turned eighteen. It pays for her housing, her food, and her utilities, with plenty left over as an allowance. Her tuition is paid separately every semester. And once she leaves Manhattan, as I’ve been told she plans to do, the money will follow her to whatever bank account she opens next.
I’ve also been told that she’s tried to evade the money a number of times, which seems irrationally stupid to me. The idea that anyone wouldn’t want such a large sum is baffling, and if it were up to me, I’d be happy to put a stop to it. But I can’t, because of a promise. The same promise that tied me to Sofia eight years ago, a girl then and a woman now who is a complete stranger to me.
I don’t even know what she looks like. I remember a chubby, round-faced pre-teen, with acne and a proclivity to keep her nose buried in a book. Not exactly the erotic picture that one would hope for when thinking of one’s future wife. I would hope that she’s blossomed into something more palatable since, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. The circumstances that would lead me into wedlock with her will almost certainly never occur. And until that day hopefully never comes, I’m free to do whatever I like, without the burden of marriage. When I die, my seat will pass to Franco’s eldest son, and the position of Don will once again belong to a son with Rossi blood in his veins.
It’s all very neat and tidy. But there is a certain faint curiosity that I feel every time I see the alert. What does my fiancée look like now? What sort of woman has she grown into? Her mother was astoundingly beautiful, and if she took after her even a little—
But now, as always, I shake the thought away. I have the attention of nearly every woman in Manhattan; I don’t need one more. Especially not one that would tie me down for life, turning me into the husband and father that I was never meant to be.
No, it’s better if Sofia Ferretti remains a mystery to me, and I to her.
Still, as I pack up and prepare to leave my office for the night, I can’t quite shake the memory of a pale twelve-year-old girl, staring at her father’s coffin as it was lowered into the earth, and the look on her face as she clutched her mother’s hand.
There was a promise made on that girl’s behalf, a promise that I inherited.
And if the day does come, I’m going to have to make good on it.
