Page 3 of Broken Vows

For almost a decade, I’ve lived under the radar, not attending any events as a Trapani daughter, aMafia princessfor the taking. I’ve stayed as far away as humanly possible, made myself vanish in a way, and surely, this must pay off now.

“One day, I’m going to insist, Gigi, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

I close my eyes, refusing to believe my own ears. Things can’t be this dire?

“Can you talk to her about the bodyguard?” Don Trapani says, not giving me the gap to counter him. “She isn’t going to be happy.”

Trust me, no eighteen-year-old is happy to be watched twenty-four-seven by some random guy who’d take a bullet for her.

“I will.”

Now my whole body is tensed up, my shoulders hitched to my ears. I’ve been walking on eggshells for decades, and it’s exhausting. Now, I’ll have to get it into Carla’s head that the freedom she knows is like a carpet. Ready to be ripped right from underneath your feet by the people you trust the most.

I’d hate for her to learn this lesson the hard way.

2

STEPHANO

Sweat runs from my brow and temples into my eyes and down my cheeks. I force myself to ignore the sting that comes with it. To keep my focus even beyond this discomfort. My body is drenched. The ref rings time, and I back off. He tosses me a towel, and I wipe down while I hop on my feet. Another round and this guy will be out for the count.

The bell rings again. We bump fists and start to circle each other. I go for him, grappling at his hands, wrestling until I get my arm around his neck. He is just as sweaty as me, and it’s hard to get a solid grip. We’ve been at this for thirty minutes, give or take. We call itthe death spar, or until you’re so physically exhausted you want to die.

I’m not sure how this type of cage fighting evolved, but being a Scalera, I created what I wanted. What I needed. A form of mixed martial arts where everything goes except fists. You can kick a man to death, but you can’t punch him in the face.

Let’s just say, it hasn’t hit the mainstream yet. Not that I care. This is my gym, and I make the rules. Fist fighting on its own is allowed, and I will hit a punching bag for hours when I feellike it. It’s thisfeel like itpart I need to keep under control. I’ve always been happy to hand out punches. Too happy.

I knee my opponent in the stomach, and he folds into me. I feel his grunt vibrate against my chest, but he isn’t out yet. He tries to flip me, and we fall, roll over each other until I have him pinned. He struggles, but I gain inch by inch. Eventually, I have my legs in such a way that I could choke him if I wanted to.

“Fuck it, Steph, what pissed you off?” my opponent grunts.

Life in general.

“Tap out,” I huff, squeezing his chest with my thighs.

“Jesus.” He taps, and I roll off him.

For a moment, we’re both on our backs, and then I laugh as I glance at him. “You’ll do better next time.”

As I sit up, I spot my brother Matteo where he’s walking past some of the boxing rings. He’s in his usual suit, so obviously not here to sweat.

I spit out my mouthguard and stand as he toes the edge of the ring.

“Still running your version of Fight Club down here?” he says with a cocked brow.

“You should try it out some time. The rules are simple, you’ll get it.”

“Fuck off, Fanny,” Matteo says with a grin. “This no-fists thing doesn’t do it for me.”

I hate this nickname but don’t bother to tell him off. I roasted him first.

“No fistsis the ultimate control challenge. Any man can use his fists.” Keeping them out of a fight makes you master a lot of other things. Yourself, foremost.

He shrugs. “Do you have time?”

“Sure.” It’s not often that Matteo walks into my gym at midday wanting to have a talk.

I collect my water and towel and give my opponent a handshake. “Same time tomorrow?”

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