Page 19 of Forced Vows

No one seems to think that's weird.

"Thank you," I call after her.

Don De Luca's lips tilt in the tiniest of smiles. Huh.

My uncle grunts. We've had the "Don't thank the staff for doing their jobs," conversation too many times for him to even bother anymore.

Big Sal is putting another mark against me in his mental tally. I just know it.

If he checks off enough negatives, will he advise his don to cancel the marriage part of the alliance?

Miceli pours a glass of water, drops a lemon wedge in it and hands it to me.

"What if I didn't like lemon?" I ask with enough snark that my uncle clears his throat again.

This time it's all censure. Ooops.

"Uncle Sal is the one who convinced me this blood alliance is good for la famiglia," the don says.

The sip of water I'm trying to take spills down the front of my black dress.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Did you take a class in mind-reading?"

"Your face is very expressive."

When I'm not thinking about it. Which is most of the time, to be honest.

"You like lemon." Miceli pats at the wet spots on my chest with a napkin. "You're too tart not to."

"Ha ha." I grab the napkin from him.

Memories from that night two months ago spin to the forefront of my mind again, but I shove them back.

This is now. And now my Ares is actually a Cosa Nostra underboss with a brother who sees way too much for my own good.

And apparently an uncle who went to the same school for hidebound patriarchs as my own.

Chapter 9: MICELI

Róise does her best to answer monosyllabically as both Severu and Uncle Sal subtly grill her. But I want more and I push for it.

She looks at me with pure dislike after I ask her to elaborate on something she said again.

"My plan was to be an actor. Now it's to get my degree and try not to kill the man I'm supposed to marry."

Uncle Sal and Brogan make matching sounds of disapproval. Sev looks amused, damn him. But I'm tempted to laugh too.

"I never realized Irish mob princesses were so bloodthirsty."

"I'm not a princess and I'm only half Irish."

Her uncle pounds the sofa arm. "You're a Shaughnessy. You're Irish."

This is an argument they've had before.

"Organized crime families are as close to royalty as you get in America." Severu stands. "Miceli, a word?"

"No need. I'm ready to sign the contracts now."

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