Page 3 of Forced Vows

A flicker of some dark emotion tells me he does too. Or at least he suspects.

Was it my voice that gave me away?

Is this worse, or is it better that I don't have to tell him?

Dropping his gaze to my arm, he sees the distinctive tattoo. Two butterflies that starts off vibrantly colored at the top and fades to grayscale at the bottom of their wings. The symbol of two souls lost to this world too early.

Underneath are two dates. My parents' deaths.

I got the tattoo as soon as I turned eighteen and could sign the consent form for myself.

"Cazzo." His tone is low and angry.

I know what that word means now too. Fuck.

Cursing? Angry? What does he have to be mad about? I'm the one who got played by fate. Not him.

It all started with that damned doctor's report.

Chapter 2: RÓISE

Two Months Previous

Patient's hymen intact.

Fury knocks the lid off the simmering cauldron of emotions I've kept in check for the past week.

With a primal yell, I throw my phone against the wall with all my force. It hits with an unsatisfying thud before dropping, unharmed to the floor.

Darn indestructible phone case.

Chucking it at the window wouldn't give me any more satisfaction. All the mansion's windows are made with double glazed bullet resistant glass.

Throwing my head back, I scream again until my voice gives out.

It doesn't help and now my throat is sore.

It's bad enough that my uncle is forcing me to marry into the Italian mafia. The Cosa Nostra is responsible for my mom's death and probably my dad's too.

Uncle Brogan says mom's death is one of the reasons we need to cement an alliance between our family and the Genovese mafia.

To stop the same thing from happening again, despite the truce between the Shaughnessy mob and the Five Families of New York.

But this? This nod to the archaic customs of the Italian mafia? It pours fuel over the fire of rage that's been smoldering inside me, its eruption inevitable.

Patient's hymen intact.

Unless he's different than every other made man I know, my future husband isn't a virgin. The fact that I am has nothing to do with personal conviction and everything to do with circumstances of birth.

No way was I going to pop my cherry with an ever-present bodyguard lurking nearby. I've dated. Kissed some. Touched some. A very little of some, to be honest.

Again, refer to the lurking bodyguard.

I haven't found anyone I liked or trusted enough to go to the trouble of slipping my bodyguard's protection for the necessary privacy. Ergo, an intact hymen discovered by the doctor I believed was checking for pretty much everything else.

A couple of days after I reluctantly agreed to marry into the Genovese mafia (I would rather do almost anything than marry my enemy.), Uncle Brogan informed me that I would have to undergo a medical exam, including genetic testing.

He's the boss of the Shaughnessy mob and the only man who could have convinced me to agree to this travesty of a wedding. Not because he's the boss, but because of who will pay the price if I don't.

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