Page 10 of Broken Vows

“Ciao!” the brunette calls out and waves as she looks up.

I follow her gaze, and alarm bells go off in my head.

Tasha Armstrong, the senator’s daughter—themerchandiseas we labeled her if only to distance ourselves in some way from the Don’s last, manic request—is standing at the railing, looking down at us as Matteo steps up from behind her.

Fuck. Whoever this unknown woman is, I can’t allow her to talk to the Tasha. The brunette, who has stripped off her heeled sandals, hurries up the narrow stairs on the side of the yacht,as if she belongs.

Trust a woman to come and fuck up my day. I might hate an unwilling virgin auction, but I can tell you who hates it more: other women. I’m half a minute behind the brunette and call my men off. They’ll have to wait down here in case she decides to run and we need to contain her.

I rush to the side of the yacht, following in her footsteps up the narrow stairs. She’s already disappeared onto the yacht’s main deck. As I scale the stairs two at a time I listen, but there’s too much other noise to make out words. I hear voices, though—Matteo’s and this woman’s musical tones as they introduce themselves, all friendly.

Until it’s not.

“Cara,” she says as I get my first visual of her on the deck. She’s trying to step up to Tasha. “Are you held against your will? Have they hurt you?”

Fuck me twice over. This is the last thing we need.

Matteo has his hand on the brunette’s shoulder, warning her not to approach Tasha. My brother looks exhausted.

“Gigi—” he starts as I rush onto the deck.

Gigi?

Fuck.Gigi Trapani.Don Trapani’s daughter. Her dad is the owner of the yacht Matteo had exclusive use of for the job he had to do in Sicily. Don Trapani is one of the older Mafia kingpinsin Italy. To think the old geyser can have such a beauty for a daughter. She can hardly be older than twenty-five. She also has an older brother and a younger sister, but that’s the only information we’ve bothered to collect.

“Need some help there, Matteo?” We need to manage this situation. Redirect whatever is going on in Gigi’s head. Silence her if necessary.

Fuck. This wasn’t on my to-do list today.

Gigi turns to me, indignation flushing her cheeks.

“I don’t care who the hell you are,” she hisses, her words laced with a British accent, “but you’re getting off my yacht. Right now.”

Nice introduction. “I don’t care who the hell you are, angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

Gigi crosses the deck in quick strides and pushes me hard on the chest, making me freeze in surprise. I’m solid, and her palm connects with my pec as if it’s a wall. It does nothing to me, but the heat of her hand spreads through the button-down I’m wearing.

“Leave!” she spits out.

Suddenly, that’s the last thing I plan to do.

A woman only gets to slap me once. When she hits first, it’s born out of fear that you’ll get the first shot in and won’t stop. I don’t play such games. In fact, I hate them. This one has to calm the fuck down, and Matteo already has his hands full.

So I do the only thing I can to take charge of the situation. I fist Gigi’s wrist, making her drop her sandals as I twist her into an armlock. She winces, and I hiss my own displeasure. I press my mouth to her ear, her thick hair against my lips, smelling of vanilla.

“Behave.”

She struggles, her sweet ass pressing into my groin, and it’s a split second before she does the next thing any woman does inthis situation: scream. I cover her mouth with my hand and look at Matteo where he’s clutching the railing, clearly as irritated as a storm cloud that needs to break but has to keep it together.

“Jesus Christ, Matteo.” I sigh. “Can you stop collecting hoydenish shrews? It’s bad for business.”

“Fucking curve ball,” he grunts. “Bring her inside so we can talk without an audience.”

5

GIGI

Panic floods my veins, but indignation overpowers it. This stranger has me in an armlock, his massive, callused palm pressed over my mouth. His fingers clamp down on my jaw as if he’s done this a thousand times.

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