Vicious Promise by M. James
Luca
Ihave my own appointment with Father Donahue this afternoon, and I’m dreading it. I already know that he’s going to chastise me for the way I’m handling the situation—and he’s probably the only man in all of New York, hell, the only one in the fucking world who could get away with chastising any one of us.
But more than that, I know my feelings for Sofia are far from pure. So far, in fact, that I’ll be surprised if I don’t catch on fire the minute I walk into the church.
The nave of the church is empty when I walk in, except for the balding, black-robed priest sitting on the front pew. Father Donahue stands when I walk in, one eyebrow raised as he sees me walking towards him.
“No matter how many times I see you, Luca, it’s always startling not to see the little boy I remember.” He grips my hand when I extend it, covering our grasped hands with his other as he looks up at me. He’s grown bent over the years, what hair he has left grey, but his dark eyes are still sharp and piercing as ever.
“I’m not a child anymore,” I say curtly, taking a seat next to him in the pew. “And I’m not interested in a lecture today, Father.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” he says wryly, sitting down gingerly once again. “But you know what I think about all of this.”
“Actually, I don’t. But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“I was the one that witnessed the vow between Giovanni Ferretti and your father all those years ago, Luca. I know as well as you do what Giovanni wanted for his daughter. But he extracted that promise because he saw no other way of keeping her safe.”
“And I’m marrying her because there’s no other way of keeping her safe.” My voice is flat, completely without emotion. “I’m not sure what it is that you think I should be doing.”
“No other way?” Father Donahue tilts his head, looking at me with those sharp, keen eyes. “Nowhere that you could send her, no way to keep her safe in that fortress you live in, other than to make her your bride? Force her into your bed?”
The last part stings. “I may not live a life of celibacy like you, Father, but I’ve never forced a woman. I don’t intend to start with my new bride.”
“So Sofia is willing?”
“Sofia and I have come to—an arrangement.” It’s all I can say without revealing that I’ve made concessions to my future wife that Rossi would lose his head over. A priest is supposed to be able to be trusted with secrets, but Rossi has ways of getting secrets from men that could gain him the nuclear codes, if he wanted them.
Father Donahue looks unconvinced. “I can’t imagine that Sofia is pleased with any part of your ‘arrangements.’ And this wedding is taking place faster than I can condone. Even Sofia’s confirmation—”
“I can’t keep her safe otherwise,” I say sharply, cutting him off. “I know you think that I should be able to find a way, but there isn’t one, Father. Rossi’s solution is to have her killed. Easy, neat, no fuss. Then the Bratva wouldn’t be able to get their hands on her, and I wouldn’t be wrestling with a reluctant bride. One person fighting me on this is enough, Father, I don’t need you to stand in my way too.”
“I’ve already agreed to perform the marriage, on the basis of my friendship with both your father and hers, if nothing else,” Father Donahue says quietly. “I’ve been loyal to the Rossi family for many decades, Luca, ever since I was spared in the Irish purge, and the Italians took the city again. I was left alone with my church and my faith and my place here, and I have not forgotten it. But there are some sins that I cannot absolve, Luca. You know that as well as I do. You haven’t left the confessional with absolution in many years.”
“I know.” The words come out hard and biting. “It’s the life I lead, Father. I’ve never had any choice in the matter. You know that.”
Father Donahue shrugs. “There is always a choice.” He pauses, looking at me thoughtfully. “I wonder, if Giovanni knew the kind of man you would grow up to be, if he would have promised his daughter to you?”
The words sting unexpectedly. “I’ve tried to do my best within the confines of the life I was born into,” I say tightly. “I’ve never hurt a man beyond what was necessary to find out what I needed to know. I’ve never killed someone out of anger—in fact, I’ve never laid a hand on anyone, man or woman, out of anything but necessity.”
“Yes. Business.” Father Donahue shakes his head. “It’s a difficult life you lead, Luca. So many ways that you have to justify the blood on your hands, so many codes and rules to make sure that you can sleep at night.”
“I sleep just fine,” I say stiffly. “Often with a woman on either side of me. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Father?”
The priest smiles. “No. I wouldn’t. But I would not trade lives with you for all the pleasure and all the luxury in the world, my son. I think one day you may understand why.” He takes a deep breath, looking across the nave at the altar, the crucifix, and the unlit lantern behind it. His gaze turns back to mine, and he holds it for a long moment, until I want to shift uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t, but I can’t help but feel that he’s looking into my very soul, that he can see something there that even I can’t.
“For Sofia Ferretti’s sake,” he says softly, “I hope you do.”
He stands, looking down at me, and something in his face makes my chest tighten. I’ve never been afraid of anything, but there’s some knowledge in his expression, almost a foreshadowing that sends a tremor of what I imagine is fear through me.
“I’ll bless your wedding and perform it, for Giovanni,” Father Donahue says, in that same quiet voice. “And I’ll turn my face away from all that you and the Rossi family does, as I have for decades. But if ever the day comes that you wish to truly atone, Luca Romano, you know where I am.”
He turns to walk past the pews then, disappearing into the dark, cavernous arches of the nave. And I sit there for a long moment, the weight of everything I’ve ever done suddenly falling heavy on my shoulders, all at once.
* * *
I go backto the penthouse afterwards, instead of my office. I don’t know why, exactly, except that I know Sofia won’t be there, and I want the peace that it offers while it’s empty.
But when I walk through the front door, the silence feels almost oppressive.
Almost—lonely.
There’s no reason for me to miss her. No reason for me to wonder how her appointment is going—for a wedding dress, of all things, why on Earth would I give a shit about that—to wonder if I’ll see her when she comes back or if she’ll just lock herself in her room after the way the conversation went down last night.
No reason for me to almost regret that I hadn’t taken her up on her offer of dinner last night.
I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done. There’s no room for it in my life. There’s too many things that I could regret if I allowed it, too much blood, too much death. If I allowed myself even an ounce of regret, even a second, it could swallow me whole. Paralyze me, make me incapable of action without questioning my decisions first.
And in this life, that’s a death sentence.
I walk up the stairs, but instead of going in the direction of my room, I find myself turning down the hall, walking past the guest rooms, all the way down to the one that I designated for Sofia. It’s no coincidence that it’s the room furthest from mine. I didn’t want her close, didn’t want the temptation of knowing she was only a door or two away. I wanted there to be as much time as possible for me to talk myself out of it, if I ever found myself heading towards her bedroom.
The fact that she somehow has so much sway over me, that I would even need to safeguard myself against her, is more unsettling than anything I’ve ever seen or done in my life. No woman has ever made me feel as if I might lose control, as if I might not be able to stop myself from being overwhelmed by desire. I always, always have the upper hand when it comes to women. Even in bed, even in the very height of passion, I always know what I’m doing. There’s always intent. I’ve never lost myself in pleasure.
On the surface, almost nothing about the room has changed. The bed is neatly made, there’s no personal possessions scattered about—all of Sofia’s things are still back at her apartment. It’s all clean and tidy, but as I stand in the middle of the room, something about it feels different. When I breathe in, I can smell the scent of shampoo and detergent and cleaning products, the faint hint of whatever the stylist used on her hair still lingering, but there’s something else there too. I can smell her in the air, that soft powdery sweetness of her skin that I inhaled when I held her up against my front door, and I’m suddenly hard all over again.
Achingly, throbbing, rock-hard, standing in the middle of my fiancée’s bedroom.
I feel like a fucking pervert.
The closet door is hanging open, and I walk over to it, noticing something lying on the floor. When I pick it up, I realize it’s the tiny black dress that she was wearing the night that I rescued her from the Russians. Just the sight of it brings back the memory of seeing her lying in my bed, of feeling her soft curves pressed up against me as I held her up against my door. It brings back the memory of her lips on mine, of one single, searing kiss that told me that for some inexplicable reason, when it comes to Sofia Ferretti—
I’m the only one who is well and truly fucked.
I clench my fist, wadding the dress up in my hand, and without thinking bring it up to my nose. It smells like her, like the sweet floral perfume that she’d had on, like that soft powdery scent of her skin. My cock throbs angrily, the memory of breathing that scent in as I pinned her wrists above her head flooding over me, and I feel momentarily unhinged.
Out of control.
Overwhelmed with lust like I’ve never felt before.
Before I’ve realized what I’m doing, my hand is inside my suit trousers, wrapping itself around the aching length of my cock and yanking it out into the open air, stroking feverishly as I breathe in Sofia’s scent. All I can think about is what else might have happened that night if she’d given in, if she hadn’t bitten me, if she hadn’t stopped me. I can imagine myself picking her up, shoving that tiny black dress up her thighs and pulling her panties aside, sliding my fingers into her to feel how wet she must have been before shoving myself into her as deeply as I could, letting her feel what it was like to have a man inside of her for the first time.
My fantasies spin out of control as my hand speeds up, feverishly stroking myself as I imagine carrying her upstairs, bending her over my knee with that dress shoved up above her pert little ass, bringing my palm down on it again and again as she writhes in my lap, squirming against my hardening cock until she learns her lesson not to run, not to deny me. I imagine pushing her down to her knees between my legs, watching her open those full lips for my cock. I can feel my groin tightening as I imagine pushing myself into her mouth, feeling the warm, hot pressure of it as I teach her how I like to be sucked, watching that soft pink tongue slide down the length of me until I’ve had enough, until I’m ready to bend her over the bed and shove myself inside of her at last, looking at her reddened cheeks, still stinging from my palm, a reminder that she’s mine, mine…mine.
“Fuck!” I moan aloud as I feel my cock throb in my fist, my hips thrusting forward as I squeeze the head of it in my palm, feeling myself come in a hot rush into my hand as I stand there in the doorway of the closet shuddering, my muscles rigid with the intense pleasure of the sudden, violent orgasm.
And then, as the last shuddering, hot drops spill into my palm, reality comes back like a slap in the face.
What the fuck?
What the hell is wrong with me?
Even with as active of a sex life as I have, I’ve jerked myself off plenty of times. Sometimes the mood just hits and there’s no time to make a booty call, sometimes you just need the clarity of a good, quick stroke. But never, since the day I discovered what my cock could do, have I ever stood in a woman’s closet and stroked myself to a climax while breathing in the scent of her perfume from her fucking dress.
It’s a step up from her panties, I suppose, but still.
What the fuck is she doing to me?
I’m not a teenage boy, to lust over the idea of fucking a girl—any girl. All it would take is a phone call, and any number of my one night stands would trample each other to be the first one in my bed if I were feeling horny on a Sunday afternoon. And for fuck’s sake, I just came from church.
There is no reason, not a single one, for me to be standing and clutching my wilting cock in my hand, sticky with my own cum, fantasizing like a lonely seventeen-year-old about the one girl who refused me. Who turned me down.
Who told me that I wasn’t allowed to touch her.
Me.
“Fuck.” I mutter the word aloud again, this time with an entirely different inflection as I drop Sofia’s dress back onto the floor, striding to the bathroom as quickly as I can to clean up.
I don’t know how Sofia’s gotten into my head. Worse yet, I don’t know how to get her out.
But I’m going to have to figure out a way, and fast.
Because this has gone too far.
