Page 62 of Forced Vows

She thinks they're ruthless, cold-blooded killers.

The Gambino dona is not wrong.

But her husband is the same. Only according to her, none of the men in the other Five Families are as brutal as the De Luca's. She says there are rumors that Miceli's cousin murdered his fiancée for the mafia, that all the De Luca men would kill their own wives for the sake of the syndicate.

But if Salvatore was ever engaged, it never went public. And I don't see Severu killing his wife for the sake of anything, or anyone. He'd burn down New York first.

But what about Miceli?

Would he kill for me? Or kill me for expedience?

Chapter 21: MICELI

When Róise steps out of the bathroom with her cousins, early guests are starting to arrive.

She joins me near the elevators to welcome her friends and enemies. Such is the mafia life.

Sliding my hand around her waist, I anchor Róise to me. If I wasn't paying attention, I would have missed her quickly indrawn breath.

She still wants me. I still want her.

It should be a match made in syndicate heaven.

But I don't believe in fairytales. And if Róise does, she'll figure out pretty fucking fast that I'm nobody's idea of Prince Charming.

Chapter 22: RÓISE

My face hurts from smiling by the time most of the guests have arrived.

"That's enough." Miceli leads me away from the elevator, his arm still firmly in possession of my waist. "Any latecomers can find us."

"Don't you mean me?" It is my party after all.

"I'm the host. You're my girlfriend." His mouth twists on the last word.

My tummy tightens when he says it. "Your girlfriend? Really?"

"Get used to it. You'll be my fiancée soon enough."

"So romantic," I jeer.

"If you're looking for romance, you signed a contract with the wrong guy."

I believe him. Even that night in Portland, he wasn't romantic. Passionate and intense? Yes. Mr. Romance? Not even close.

"The fact we signed a contract says it all, doesn't it?" Even if Miceli didn't belong to a syndicate I despise, this kind of marriage is the last thing I want.

We veer toward the bar. "You know how this goes. You grew up in the mob."

"I grew up believing I would get to choose my own spouse." Or if I would marry at all.

He stops at the bar. "What do you want to drink?"

"I'll have my birthday cocktail," I tell the bartender.

Miceli orders a whiskey, neat.

A few seconds later, the bartender puts Miceli's rock glass on the bar and presents me with a pink concoction served with a maraschino cherry in a martini glass.

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