Page 201 of Forced Vows

Róise yawns and flops bonelessly down onto my chest. My arms come around her automatically.

"If only the rest of the world realized how much politics is involved in organized crime." She's snoring lightly before I can answer.

~ ~ ~

I win the rock, paper, scissors, but Henry Caruso has done a runner.

I'm tracking him down, but for all his stupid decisions, he has the instincts of a prey animal to hide.

At least this time I know no one in our organization nabbed him up already.

Not like Salvatore did with Lorenzo before bringing him to The Box.

Feeling the way I do about Róise, I understand my cousin's irrational behavior, but that doesn't make me any less annoyed with him.

Which is why I call him at three o'clock in the morning to ask if he has Henry Caruso sitting somewhere on ice.

He tells me to fuck off and hangs up.

I call again to ask if he's sure. He sends my call to voicemail. Which means he's awake. That's all I want.

If I have to be awake looking for the piece of shit, Henry, he can be awake regretting pulling that stunt with Lorenzo.

Chapter 70: RÓISE

On one of the hottest days in July, Miceli asks me to meet him in his office.

Thinking it probably has something to do with the wedding, (which is pretty much dominating all my conversations with moma and my cousins right now) I wear summer weight cargo pants cropped to capri length and a short-sleeved top that exposes my midriff.

So far, no one has tried to tell me I have to dress like an old lady to be an underboss's wife. And honestly, if they did? I'd ignore them.

Because the way I dress drives Miceli wild. And just as important, but not as exciting, my style works for me.

Miceli isn't alone when I enter his office. An elegant woman who could be thirty or fifty (I'm not great at guessing ages.) is sitting in one of the armchairs, a cup of coffee in her hand.

My fiancé's eyes warm when they land on me. "Róise." Placing his hand on my back, he guides me to a chair near the other woman. "This is…"

And he introduces me to an agent from the freaking oldest talent agency in the United States. Not only the oldest, but one of the biggest.

I stare at him. "I don't understand. I thought—"

"She's here to discuss career opportunities for voice actors."

"Voice actors." My voice loses volume and I have to clear my throat before repeating the words. "Voice actors."

Sheesh, why didn't I think of that? It's not like I haven't taken any classes on voice acting. It's just…I was so busy fighting against the change in my life, what I thought I could do pretty much shrank to volunteering in a youth theater program and reading aloud to my grandmother.

"I could be an audiobook narrator," I say with excitement.

"Among other things," the agent says. "And you can do it anonymously under your stage name."

For the next hour we discuss what those things are.

When she's ready to leave, she gives me her card. "Contact me after you graduate. We'll discuss particulars and get you signed up with the agency."

She makes it sound easy, when I know it's not. No one just gets signed on with this agency. Heck, getting to talk to an agent with her weight is about as likely as meeting a unicorn in Central Park.

A real one. Not a person or horse in costume. That's not unlikely at all in New York.

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