Vicious Promise by M. James
Luca
The paperwork is signed. The ring is on Sofia’s finger. Carmen has all of her instructions to set the wheels in motion for the ceremony and reception on Saturday. Father Donahue has reluctantly agreed to see Sofia for her confirmation, despite how “irregular it all is.”
I should feel satisfied. Content, even, that the matter has been handled despite Sofia’s reticence, and that everything is falling into place.
Instead, as I sit in the back of my town car being driven to an appointment with Don Rossi, I feel more agitated than ever.
I was supposed to be the one in control of all of this. The one calling the shots, telling Sofia how things were going to go. And yet somehow, my lovely bride-to-be managed to make me feel that in the end, despite all the paperwork and all the demands and restrictions I’ve placed on her, that she has the upper hand.
Surely I don’t feel this way just because she’s told me I can’t fuck her?
I’ve never been hung up on any particular woman before. I lost my own virginity at fifteen, and I’ve been happily fucking my way through Manhattan ever since, first through the freshman girls at my private high school, and then once I graduated, well—I’ve been fucking my way through the rest of the city. Never once have I given any of them a second thought, except for a pair of blonde twins who are to this day the only women I’ve ever called twice.
In my defense, that was the first time I’d ever had my cock sucked by two women at once.
Maybe it’s just that you don’t like being told what you can and can’t have.
That’s as good a guess as any. But all I know is that I need to get over it. I can have just about any woman I want, so why is it rattling me so much that this one girl is stubbornly refusing to bend?
I know where I’d like to bend her—right over my knee the next time she opens her mouth to argue with me.
The thought comes out of nowhere—hell, I don’t think I’ve even ever done that with a woman before. I’ve tied a fair few of them up to my bed, blindfolded a couple—and there was that one threesome that involved some chocolate and hot wax—but other than that my sexual exploits have remained largely vanilla. Most women are turned on enough by my good looks and money to not need much else to get them wet.
But something about Sofia makes me want to do things to her that I’ve never even dreamed of doing. She makes me lose control of my emotions in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar to me, and she makes me harder than I’ve ever been in my life.
All of those individually are excellent reasons to stay as far away from her as I can. Together, they tell me that she’s a ticking bomb waiting to go off, blowing my carefully constructed life to pieces.
The day that I can put her in her own apartment and get her out of mine can’t come fast enough.
Both Franco and Don Rossi are waiting for me in his office, and Franco gets up the minute I walk through the door, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Luca!” he greets me enthusiastically, clapping me on the shoulder as I stride towards the desk. “And here I thought I was going to be the first one to get married.”
“Don’t rub it in,” I growl, sinking into one of the leather chairs in front of Rossi. “The Ferretti girl has already taken five years off my life, and it’s not even lunchtime.”
“Sounds exciting.” Franco winks at me. “Caterina—”
Rossi clears his throat, shooting Franco a look that tells him that he probably shouldn’t let whatever remark he was about to make regarding the Don’s daughter out of his mouth.
Franco flushes to the roots of his red hair, sinking into the chair next to me without another word.
I glance over at my friend. He’s always been the more extroverted of the two of us, likely because he’s had to overcome a lot in order to hold any position in the family. His father was a made man under Rossi, not someone of high rank, but someone well-trusted enough that Franco and I grew up together. But thanks to Franco’s red hair, pale freckled skin, and green eyes even brighter than mine, a lot of rumors and gossip dogged his childhood. He was born roughly nine months after the head of the Boston Irish family, along with a handful of his men, came to visit. I was barely out of the oven then, but everyone’s heard the story of how Franco’s black-haired, dark-eyed father took one look at his new son and demanded a paternity test.
The results came back that Franco, despite his unusual coloring, was as Italian as a good Bolognese. But still, the rumors persisted, and grade school started out miserably for Franco. He spent a decent amount of it being bullied, beaten up, having his lunch stolen, and hearing his mother called a “shamrock-loving whore” before he made it to seventh grade and managed to befriend me.
I honestly don’t remember what we bonded over. It might have been baseball cards, or it could have been a shared appreciation for the fact that Angie Greco was the first girl in our class to develop breasts. But once we became friends, there was no chance that anyone was laying a finger on him.
It earned me his loyalty, which has paid for itself in spades over the years—and now Franco has been rewarded handsomely with the Don’s daughter, and the place at my right hand when I inherit Rossi’s seat. It’s all worked out very well for him, and I know that he’s grateful.
These are the kinds of alliances that have to be made. It’s how our families have done things for centuries, how we’ve kept the Irish and the Russians from taking over, how we’ve held our place through the mob wars over the decades. We’ve lost battles, but in the end, we won the war. And for now, there’s peace.
But the Bratva are threatening that.
“It sounds as if my solution might have been easier,” Rossi says dryly. “I hope that the girl isn’t going to cause undue trouble, Luca.”
“She’ll be fine,” I reply quickly. Almost too quickly—I see the suspicion on Rossi’s face. “The rock weighing down her finger and the shopping spree that I had delivered to the penthouse should have made her more pliable by now.”
“You’ll spoil the girl,” Rossi warns. “Don’t let her think that she has the upper hand. She needs to know that you’re in control, Luca. That you hold the power of life and death over her. It’s the only way to be sure that she’ll comply.”
“She’s very aware,” I tell him firmly. If only he knew, I think, forcing myself not to shift uncomfortably in my chair. If Rossi knew that Sofia had already managed to set her own conditions—
He’d think I’m pussy-whipped. And maybe I am. By a pussy that I won’t even get to taste, let alone fuck.
Just the thought is enough to make my cock twitch rebelliously in my pants. But I meant what I said to Sofia. I’ve never forced myself on a woman—I’ve never even considered it. There are things that not even I can justify. So no matter how much I want Sofia, her precious virginity will remain untouched. There’s no question about that. All that’s left for me is to figure out how to get her out of my head.
But if I ever find out that anyone other than me has touched her—
I’ll kill him.
The girl has doomed herself to a life of celibacy. And if playing the nun ever gets to be too frustrating—well, I’ll be right there to ease the burden. For one night only, of course.
But what a fucking night it would be.
Rossi clears his throat again, and I realize that I’ve been lost in my thoughts for too long. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “It was a long night.”
Franco cackles at that, but Rossi ignores him studiously, a faint expression of annoyance passing over his face. “I simply asked if you wish anyone besides myself and Franco to come up the morning after your wedding to witness the bridal bed. Seeing as how Sofia has no parents to vouch for her—”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say smoothly. I knew this issue would come up, after Sofia’s insistence on a chaste marriage, but I’m prepared.
“Tradition insists—”
“I’m well aware of tradition.”
“Then you know that we need proof of consummation. Of Sofia’s—”
“Sofia isn’t a virgin.” I speak the lie with absolute assurance, even knowing what it could cost me if Don Rossi ever discovered that I lied to him. The subject of the lie wouldn’t even matter that much—only the act of it.
Even as I say it, I know I must have truly lost my mind.
Why am I willing to put so much on the line for this girl? She should mean nothing to me. Our impending marriage is born of nothing but a father’s desperate plea for his daughter, and my father’s weakness in the face of friendship. I didn’t make the promise. I was never consulted about any of this. And yet not only have I agreed to wed the girl, but I’ve just lied to the most powerful man in not only the North American continent, but half of Europe as well. A man who trades in life and death like they’re penny stocks, who scruples at almost nothing in his own quest to maintain the dynasty that he’s built. If his only child had been born a son, I’d never be elevated past underboss. Worse, I might have been demoted in favor of that fictional heir’s own choice for his right hand. Sent off to be a capo in Philadelphia, or something equally cringeworthy.
Instead, Rossi chose me as his heir, and I’ve just told him a bare-faced lie.
And why? I could have insisted that Sofia go to bed with me on our wedding night. I can tell myself that I’d conceded because of my fear that she’d refuse the marriage and wind up dead, but I don’t for a second truly believe that Sofia wouldn’t have traded her virginity for her life.
The truth that I don’t want to admit to myself is that I gave in because from the moment I caught her trying to run out of the apartment, I knew I didn’t want to take her unwillingly. I didn’t want to fuck her while she laid there cold and compliant, doing her duty the one time.
No, if I ever take Sofia Ferretti to bed, I want the hellcat that I had pinned up against my front door. I want the woman who declared passionately to me that I’ll never see her naked, dripping wet underneath me while she begs for my cock. I want her aching for it, desperate, ready to take me in her body in any way that I’ll give it to her. I want her pleading for me to let her come.
I want to wring every ounce of pleasure that I can out of her perfect body, until she’s addicted to what I can do to her. And then I want to get my revenge for the way she’s made me feel these past twenty-four hours—and no doubt will continue to make me feel until I can get her the hell out of my penthouse—and never touch her again.
No matter how much she begs me to.
Just the thought of it has me rock-hard all over again.
“It certainly is a struggle to keep you present today, Luca,” Rossi says dryly. “Is the thought of your bride’s lack of innocence that distracting?”
I sit up straighter, willing my stubborn erection away. Luckily I’m sitting down, and it’s not overly obvious, but still—
“It’s not important to me,” I say flatly. Another lie.
Rossi looks unconvinced. “And she told you this? You trust her?”
I snort. “Of course not.” At least that’s the truth. “I had Dr. Carella come and examine her after I took her out of the hotel room. The doctor confirmed to me that there was no sign that she was untouched.”
Another lie. I’ll have to make certain that Dr. Carella is thoroughly aware of what her answer should be, if Don Rossi ever thinks to check with her regarding the state of Sofia’s virginity when I brought her back to my apartment.
Rossi looks thoughtful. “Was it the Russians?”
I can see the wheels turning in his head, and I know exactly what he’s thinking. I owe Rossi a great deal—my position, my wealth, my power—but for the first time, I’m truly sickened by him. He’s not concerned in the slightest for Sofia, or what might have happened to her. But if any Bratva man had violated Giovanni’s daughter, that would be cause to wipe the stain of them from the face of the continent.
Rossi is trying to avoid a war, on the face of it. But deep down, I know he would welcome the excuse to cut a bloody swath through them all.
“No.” My tone is curt and firm. “She wasn’t harmed physically, beyond some superficial bruising to her face and wrists. There were some lingering effects from the drugs, but she wasn’t—assaulted.”
Rossi looks mildly disappointed, and I have the sudden, violent urge to lunge forward and punch the expression off of his face.
The thought startles me. I’ve often been a violent man, but never an impulsive one. It’s part of what has made me such an excellent asset to the Rossi family. I’ll do what needs to be done, but always with a cool head and no emotion behind it. The fact that my gut is churning with disgust at the knowledge that Rossi would gladly exploit Sofia’s potential abuse is just further proof that I need to put some distance between myself and her. I’ve always known that he was willing to order her killed if need be—so why does this surprise me?
“A shame,” Franco says cheerfully. “It’s been a while since you’ve gotten to be the first one in, eh?”
I glare at him. “I’ll leave that to you,” I tell him sharply, ignoring Don Rossi’s expression at the reference to his daughter. “Proof of consummation won’t be necessary,” I continue, turning back to face Rossi.
He frowns. “This marriage needs to be legal,” Rossi cautions. “There can be no question that Sofia Ferretti is your wife in all ways.”
I smile blandly at him. “Of course,” I say simply, my expression giving away nothing. “Have you ever known me not to take a woman to bed, if I have the opportunity to get her there?”
