Page 61 of Forced Vows

Kara grins. "Maybe he wears red silk boxers."

He doesn't. Those are black too. And they're made of the same knit silk my favorite t-shirts are.

I don't say that. My cousins know about my act of rebellion in Portland, but not that Miceli is the man I had sex with. I was too complimentary of my one-night stand.

Now, I know he's Italian mafia, a freaking underboss who set two guard dogs on me that I can't shake. I don't want to compliment him on anything, especially his sense of humor and sexual prowess.

"Time to spill," Kara demands. "How did your lip gloss disappear?"

"He kissed me happy birthday," I grudgingly admit.

Fiona whistles. "Must have been some kiss."

Not wanting to dwell on how good of a kisser my not-quite-fiancé is, I dig in my small pink handbag.

I hand the keycard to Fiona. "This will open any of the private rooms. Use it when you need to get away from the crowd."

"Thank you, Rosy." Fiona hugs me tight. "I'm probably going to disappear as soon as the guests start arriving."

"We'll cover for you with dad, don't worry," Kara says. "Mamo will help."

Fiona nods. "She always does. I wish I wasn't like this."

"You are who you are, Fiona, and we love you exactly as you are," Kara says fiercely.

What we all witnessed and experienced eleven years ago affected each of us differently.

I hate mob life and the Italian mafia most of all. Funny, not funny, that I'm marrying into the very syndicate that killed my mom. Kara, who used to be the dare-devil rebel among us turned into a subdued rule follower who willingly married a stranger at eighteen.

The youngest at six, Fiona lost her trust in the world around her. She anticipates trouble all the time. Everywhere.

Therapy might help but Shaughnessy mob princesses don't see psychologists. Or therapists. Or counselors.

We soldier on.

Like my grandfather did eleven years ago when his life was under threat. Did he realize the danger he was putting the rest of us in?

After the shooting, our family never again traveled together to an event.

It happened outside the hotel where the wedding reception had been held. We'd left all together and were heading toward the limos parked in the waiting area.

It happened so fast, my memory is a blur. Loud pops. Red paint spraying everywhere. (Only later did I process that it was my mom's blood.) Mom falling to the steps in front of me. Dad dropping to his knee beside her, his gun out and pointed toward the car already speeding away.

I think he shot at it. I don't know.

My hip hurt. Later, I found out that I'd been struck by a chip of cement from the steps when one of the bullets hit them instead of vulnerable human bodies.

None of the mobsters were hit, but my mom died before the ambulance arrived and Fiona spent two weeks in the hospital. The bullet grazed her temple and knocked her unconscious.

She woke up thirteen days later and gone was the precocious six-year-old who never met a stranger and whose curiosity led her into constant mischief.

She had her first panic attack when they tried to make her go back to school.

"So, he kissed your lip gloss off and you're going to pretend it was nothing?" Kara teases, bringing me back into the present with a thump.

"It was nothing. He's a playboy. We all know that." Courtesy of mamo's intelligence network among the many syndicate wives she counts as friends.

Of course she hadn't got that tidbit from Aria De Luca. Aria is fiercely loyal to her children. But the wife of the Gambino don isn't nearly as charitable toward the De Luca men.

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