Vicious Promise by M. James
Sofia
Once again, I’m in a bed.
When I come back to consciousness and feel the duvet under my hands, my first thought is that it was all a dream—the gunshots, the rescue, the man who stood in the doorway. A jolt of pure terror rushes through me as I sit up with a jerk, my hair falling around my face as I fight back the urge to scream. I have to escape, I have to get out of here, I have to--
And then, slowly, I become aware of my surroundings.
I feel the bedspread under my hands—they’re no longer tied. I can sit up—I’m not bound to anything. And the room doesn’t smell of lavender like the hotel, instead it smells clean, like fresh linens, and faintly smoky like—
Like a man.
The memory of the man in the doorway, blood-spattered and holding a gun, comes back to me. Who was he? Was he the one that Mikhail was talking about, when he’d said that someone would come for me?
I push my hair out of my face, looking around the room where I’ve found myself. The lights are dim, but I can see some details—I’m sitting in the middle of a massive bed, made up with a sleek black duvet, and a set of neatly arranged pillows in alternating black and white. The entire room is equally elegant and monotone—a blackout blind covers most of one wall, the floor is dark hardwood, and the headboard is black leather. Everything is dark and masculine, and the room reeks of power and money. I’m willing to bet that the iron and wood nightstand to my right cost as much as a month’s rent at my apartment, if not more.
Taking a deep breath, I try to slow my racing heartbeat. I’m not in the hotel any longer, which is a good thing. Hopefully I’m out of Mikhail’s hands as well, although I don’t know whose hands I’ve fallen into—if they’re better or worse, kinder or crueler.
Nothing could be worse than being trafficked,I tell myself. Wherever I am now, it must be an improvement on that fate.
I hope so, at least.
Standing up slowly, I make my way towards the wall where the blinds are drawn. My head swims a little, and I feel unsteady, but I manage to stay upright. Someone removed my shoes—I see the pumps tossed carelessly next to the bed—and the floor feels good under my bare feet, cool and smooth. Something about the sensation grounds me a little, calms me, and I take another deep breath as I reach for the blind to push it back and try to get some idea of where I am.
The blind doesn’t move at all, even when I tug on it. Frustrated, I push back one corner to peek around it, and stifle a gasp at what stretches out in front of me.
It’s not a window so much as a wall, most of this side of the room taken up by floor-to-ceiling glass that looks out over part of the city. The lights outside stretch out as far as I can see, the buildings that make up the city below scattered out in miniature. How high up am I? I think dizzily as I look down over it, and I have to back up for a minute to let the sudden vertigo recede.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
A deep male voice fills the room, and I spin around too quickly. I feel myself tilt dangerously to one side, but the man strides across the room before I can fall, catching me with broad, strong hands grasping my waist.
I look up into the greenest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen, and my heart flutters in my chest. His features are shadowed, but I can see the sharp line of his nose, the edge of his high cheekbones, the strong jaw. A strange sensation ripples through my body, and I can feel myself warming under his touch. My heart starts to race again, and I can feel butterflies taking off in my stomach, the tingling spreading throughout me, all the way to my fingertips as I steady myself with my hands against his chest.
And then I glance down, and see the blood on his shirt, crimson stains on white.
I jerk myself out of his grasp, stepping back so quickly that I nearly trip again. He doesn’t move to grab me this time, only watches as I sit down on the edge of the bed unsteadily, then crosses to the other side of the room.
“They’re electric,” he explains, pushing a button on the wall. With a low hum, the blinds begin to pull back, letting the light from the city come into the room, brightening it a little more. “There’s an equally stunning view in my living room.” He glances over at me, and I see his mouth quirk upwards with amusement at the expression on my face. “It takes some getting used to, I suppose.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. How much money does someone have to have in order to live like this? “How high up are we?” My voice squeaks at the end, and I wish desperately that it hadn’t.
“We’re on the very top floor,” he replies, his mouth still twitching as if he finds my shock funny . “You’re in the penthouse. My penthouse,” he clarifies. “There’s a pool on the roof, and a hot tub, if you’d like to see those.”
Penthouse? In New York? This man must be a millionaire—a billionaire, even. Slowly I get to my feet again, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. Whatever is happening here—whatever reason there was for him to be there to pick me up out of that closet, whatever is going on between him and the Bratva, I know for certain that I want no part of it.
I also know that I’m never going to another fucking nightclub in Manhattan again.
“Thank you very much for rescuing me,” I begin, with as much dignity as I can muster. “But if you wouldn’t mind calling me a cab, I’d like to go home now.”
The man chuckles, low and deep. “You’re not going anywhere, Sofia.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Excuse me?” My voice cracks despite my best efforts, the fear of the last few hours coming back full force. “Who are you? How do you know my name? And what do you mean, I’m not going anywhere?”
He presses his hand to the wall again, and the recessed lights in the ceiling brighten, giving me a better view of everything in the room—and of him. I’d hoped in some small part of me, despite the circumstances and the evidence of the blood on his shirt, that he was someone other than the man I’d seen just before I’d passed out. But there’s no doubt now that he’s the same person.
The man smirks, his mouth twisting up on one side in his handsome face. He’s every bit as gorgeous as I’d thought initially, with thick dark hair cut short and expertly styled, sharp features, and a tall, powerful body wrapped in a perfectly tailored suit. If it weren’t for the blood, he’d look like any one of the men that I saw in the bars that Ana took me to earlier tonight.
Was that really tonight? It seems like ages ago that I was innocently wandering through Manhattan’s hotspots with my best friend. It doesn’t even feel as if it happened in the same week, let alone just a few hours before this.
He’s still watching me carefully with those intense green eyes, every bit as commanding as the men I saw earlier, the ones that made me so uncomfortable, who reminded me of alpha predators surveying their turf.
Waiting to claim their prey.
I’m not entirely certain that’s not what I am to him.
“I’ll begin with the first question,” he says coolly. “I’m Luca Romano.”
Romano.The name rings a distant bell. Closing my eyes, I think back, trying to remember where I might have heard that name before.
Faintly, I remember a tall and handsome man coming to our house for dinner. I can just barely recall my father introducing him to us, and I can hear my father’s voice in my head telling us that this was his best friend, a man named something…Romano.
There had been someone else there too—his son. A boy older than me, already almost a teenager when they’d come to visit. I can’t remember his name now, I can’t even remember the first name of my father’s friend, but—
My gaze snaps up to the man—to Luca Romano—as the breath leaves my body.
“Your father knew mine,” I whisper, my head swimming all over again. I feel dizzy. “Your father was my father’s best friend. I remember him coming to our house—” I stare at Luca. I want to say that I can’t believe it, but I can. It makes sense now—or at least a little of it does. “You were with him.”
“I was. I was at your father’s funeral, too. I remember seeing you there on both occasions.” Luca replies. He watches me from his spot near the window, as if I’m a frightened animal that might run if he moves too quickly.
“But why—” It still doesn’t entirely make sense to me. “Just because our fathers knew each other doesn’t explain why you were there tonight. It doesn’t explain how you knew where I was—how you know me. I don’t even remember being told your name before tonight.”
Luca smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something else in his face, an expression that I can’t quite read. “I know you because our fathers made a promise eight years ago, Sofia. A promise that now, on account of the Bratva, I have to keep. A promise that keeps you here, with me.”
“What?” I must have heard him wrong. “I’m not staying here.”
He lets out a long sigh. “Yes, Sofia, you are. You may as well begin to think of this penthouse as your home. It will be, very soon.”
“I don’t understand.”
Luca takes a step towards me, and then another. I can see the tension in his body, the muscles working in his jaw, and I’m suddenly very aware of how large a man he is. He towers over me by several inches, and I can see the muscles beneath the sleeves of his shirt flex as he crosses his arms over his chest, staring down at me with the imperious look of a man who has already made a decision.
“By the end of the week, Sofia, you will be my wife.”
