Page 32 of Risky Vows

Massimo married me to fulfill a duty—the need no longer exists if my brother is well. I'd like to say that my mom will still honor the deal, but I know her better than that. She looks for anyloophole to her advantage, and sometimes, she doesn’t have to look very far.

Will Massimo want to divorce me? I quiver. Will he want to… hurt me? Peg me as a traitor? I want to be optimistic, but in Massimo's world, traitors pay for their sins. I haven't kept the truth from him for a day or two. It's been almost a month.

Damn it. Our marriage is on the line, and he doesn't know it. Fuck. I hate this secrecy.

"You said your parents are attending?" he asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Yes."

My mom made sure she'd be in town for this. Aldo Gallo's birthday bash is a big event, and she wants to show her loyalty to the family.

"Do you think I look okay?" I ask. I am wearing a black, one-shoulder, mermaid-style dress. I thought I looked good when I saw my reflection in the mirror before we left; my hair styled wavy to the side, and the makeup on point, thanks to the artist who came over and did it for me. But I'm always on edge whenever I attend these social events with Massimo. I've only been to a few of them, but they were enough to get the idea.

Navigating a room with him is hard. Most women look at him, drawn to him, no doubt still surprised he's now off the market. And when he walks, there's an awareness around him, and people take notice. I always wonder if the people he shakes hands with are business partners or potential enemies. The energy of deference to Massimo is the same.

He always looks so damn good—like right now, with the double-breasted vest suit that only he has the shoulders to pull off. The man is delicious.

"You're stunning. I'll show you later."

I run my finger down his nose. "I bet you will."

He catches my finger with his mouth and nips it. "Always good to have something to look forward to at the end of the night, rat."

Anthony stops at the entrance, and Massimo steps out of the car, stretching his hand toward me to help me out. As with most of his father's events, hired uniformed security looms, and no press is present even though he's an important figure in Chicago. There are rumors about his father's dealings, and people know who he is. His father loves privacy, and if I were a mobster, I would too.

Still, life bustles around us as other guests step out of their cars, and the uninformed, stylish staff leads them into the impressive home.

I've been here only a handful of times, but it never stops impressing me. The large foyers, the gold-accented furniture, and the accents. The dramatic curvy stairs and impressionist art on the textured walls.

Tonight, the party is outside on the impressive terrace. Special lights give it a festive yet intimate feel, and I hear they'll have a burlesque show later.

A big stage occupies the center, with a life-size martini glass. The décor is very Dita Von Teese-esque, with lots of gold and red accents and sparkles all around.

"Didn't know your dad was so risqué," I tease, cocking my head in the direction of the stage.

"He has his moments. That was my birthday gift to him."

"Aren't you a cool son?"

Moments later, my parents see us sharing a drink by the set-up bar and walk over our way.

My mom is impeccable in a vintage Dior silver dress that matches her excellent physique and high heels. My father wears a black suit, and Mom has done something to his hair because it's all slicked to the side.

"Massimo. Nice to see you," my dad says.

Massimo nods at my mom, and she smiles back. They small talk for a while, and then my mom turns to me.

She gives me the same look she's been giving me since childhood. That long, lingering glance layered with criticism and disappointment. My body has a visceral reaction to it, a nauseating sensation settling in the pit of my stomach.

But this time, instead of looking away, I square my shoulders and meet her stare dead-on.

"What a great decision for you to wear black, honey," she says, low enough so I only hear. "It's flattering to your, hmmm, Rubenesque figure. If I were you, I'd always stick to dark colors."

So many times, I've ignored her passive-aggressive comments. But a quick look at the man next to me gives me pause. He's done more for me than my parents ever did. He killed someone for me. I can't keep being on the receiving end of my mom's perpetual negativity. So I lean closer and tell her with the most casual voice I can muster, "Thanks, Mom. I find you extremely brave, too, wearing such a flashy dress at your age. It's like they say, age is just a number."

She squints her eyes at me. "I find my outfit very appropriate."

"Then that's all that matters," I say and slap on a smile. "That's what self-confidence is, right? Loving yourself and not caring about what people think." I wink at her and watch her shift her weight from one side to the other, probably confused. She's used to taking disses at me, and after a lifetime of those, I got used to the way she is.

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