Page 16 of Corrupt Vows

“What? No!”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m still a fucking virgin, and you know it, you ass.”

My voice bounces off the ceiling and walls, shocking me out of my tailspin. I think of all the times we could’ve snuck around and all the creative ways he stopped it from happening. Several seconds tick by before Alfonso responds.

“Well, thank fuck you are. You’d better stay one until you’re married, too.”

I stare at my slack-jawed reflection as my best friend throws away our years of friendship.

“Nico Russo? The heir of the Russo family? Fuckin’ hell, Serenity, don’t bring that demon to my doorstep. Just stay a goddamn virgin so he doesn’t have a reason to come visit my father.”

He hangs up, but I can’t move. The line goes dead. My phone beeps in my ear and the screen turns off. I stare at my reflection and wonder if any part of my life has ever been real.

Nico Russo isn’t even officially part of my life yet, and he’s already isolated me from the entire world. Just the mention of his name destroyed a lifelong friendship.

It hurts.

I drop my arm and let my phone hang at my side as I walk toward the mirror on wooden legs. In a moment of weakness, I consider blaming Camilla for dumping her responsibility on me, but I can’t. She’s as much a victim as I am.

And cursing my parents is just a waste of energy. I’m too terrified to stand up to my father, and mamma would put me in my place before I lifted my heel from the ground.

I blink back tears as the most pathetic realization hits me.

In a world of online hook-ups, clubs on every street corner, and one-night stands as prevalent as alcohol, I’m a twenty-five-year-old virgin about to be sacrificed to a brutal, ruthless mafia boss. But that isn’t the worst part.

The worst part is knowing Alfonso was right. I can’t risk having sex with anyone else.

Nico Russo will be the one to take my virginity.

Chapter 6

Nico Russo

The metal chair squeaksas I lean back and check my watch. Two hours of torture, and we haven’t made nearly enough progress. I sigh and roll up my shirt sleeves.

These men aren’t from the same outfit as the lowlifes we killed in the factory a few days ago. While I appreciate their fortitude and dedication, I have somewhere equally important—but much more fun—to be.

I stand, grab a roll of duct tape from the table, and pull my knife from my belt.

“C’mon, gents, let’s wrap this up,” I say as I approach the fatty hanging by his wrists with his toes brushing against the floor. My men scramble out of my way.

Ermanno, who was using the big man as a punching bag, steps back and flicks the blood off his knuckles. I stop and glance at the splatter in front of me.

“Sorry, boss. Forgot you had somewhere fancy to be after this,” he goads.

Leave it to my workaholic second-in-command to gain a sense of humor the day before my engagement.

“Who funded you?” I ask the four idiots strung up around the room.

When none of them speak, I start naming neighboring families, punctuating each one with an ominous click of my heel as I step closer to the biggest man.

I cut off a strip of tape, enjoying the fear in my victims’ eyes as each sound echoes in the concrete basement. My men grab the goons’ hair and force them to watch as I stalk toward my prey.

I slap the tape over his mouth before he spits a bloody wad at me. The barrier isn’t to stop his screams—no one will help him down here, no matter how loud he yells—but his muffled cursing is an amusing bonus as I prevent him from dirtying my clothes. I grab the hair at the top of his head, keeping my arm away from his bloody face, and lift the tip of my knife to his eye.

“Anyone ready to talk?” I ask.

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