Page 1 of Corrupt Vows

Chapter 1

Serenity Vivaldi

I ignore Sebastian’s posturingas he scans the shop for potential threats before he squeezes his burly, tattooed body into a nearby chair. He sticks out like a sore thumb in my favorite upscale coffee place, but ever since my sister’s accident, my father insists I always keep a bodyguard nearby. It seems ridiculous as I sit surrounded by regular people looking for their morning caffeine fix, but nausea twists my stomach as I push away the memory of my father carrying my sister’s limp, bloody frame up the stairs nearly two months ago.

“Are you sure you haven’t already had a cup of coffee this morning?” Alfonso asks.

I shake my head at my childhood friend—and future betrothed—and lift my fancy disposable cup to show him.

“Nope. This is my first sip,” I say before bringing it to my face.

The steam itself nearly burns my lips, so I blow over the tiny hole instead of scorching my tongue.

Alfonso chuckles before crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat.

“No one should be this gorgeous first thing in the morning, especially after you stayed out so late last night.”

“For fuck’s sake, Alfie, I didn’t mean to stand you up. I already apologized, and it’s not like I was out clubbing or being stupid, so—”

“Sheesh, Nitty, calm down and learn how to take a compliment already,” he says before wrapping his long, thin fingers around his drink and taking several bold swallows.

I grit my teeth and pop the lid off my cup, needing to do something with my hands so I don’t wring his handsome neck.

Almost every woman who walks by does a double take when they see him. They leave smiling into their coffee with more pep in their step than when they entered. All I see is the boy who used to follow me around, playing house and reading books, just so his older brothers would leave him alone. He learned the power of my birthright early on.

No one wants to cross a mafia princess, not when she’s the daughter of the most powerful mafia dons in New York City. Not even when she’s a timid little bookworm who spends her days in a world of imagination.

Alfonso is no longer the scrawny child or gangly teen of my youth, and I’m no longer a girl with her head stuck in the clouds.

As Matteo Vivaldi’s daughter, I don’t have the same freedoms as most twenty-five-year-olds. Hence the bulky bodyguard breathing down my neck—not literally, because then my father would kill him—but Sebastian’s presence keeps things in perspective.

I may have limited freedoms, but at least I can choose who I marry. Camilla, my older sister, will never have that luxury. A lump forms in my throat, and I blink back sudden tears. Even though she’s still recovering from her car accident, our parents will announce her marriage to Nico Russo next week, a man more terrifying and powerful than my father.

I want to marry Alfonso. He’s like me—mafia royalty, but not the firstborn. As the fourth son in the Bonnetti family, he started college early and became the youngest lawyer in New York City, and even though he’ll work for the mafia, he’ll never live a dangerous life like the man my sister will be forced to marry.

My parents already secretly approved my decision to marry Alfonso. Our joining will strengthen both families. We may not have amazing chemistry, but he’s the only one I can see myself with. I gave him my first kiss, we’ve dated off and on, and I’ve never felt the need to find anyone else. He’s safe and comfortable, just what I need in a husband. We’ll have time to grow our attraction once we say our vows.

“So, how’s it coming? Are you going to show me your work this time?” Alfonso asks.

I sigh and inhale the steam wafting off my coffee, yearning for the rush of sugar and caffeine but unwilling to burn my tongue.

I missed our dinner last night because I lost myself in my art. With my second round of group critiques starting next week and my muse finally playing nicely, I’d spend every waking moment in the art studio if I could, but I’ve neglected my other duties for too long already.

I blink as guilt barrels through me. No matter how wonderful it felt to work on my sculpture, I should have been there for my sister last night instead.

“I take it your answer is no,” Alfie says with an exaggerated quirk of his brow.

“Probably not,” I mumble before blowing away the steam and taking a tentative sip.

He nods in acceptance despite the hurt flashing in his eyes. I open my mouth to apologize, but hiss instead as boiling liquid sloshes over the back of my hand.

He takes my drink and sets it on the table before yanking several napkins from the dispenser. With meticulous care, he wipes my fingers and tosses the napkins on the table. I stare at his masculine hands cupped around mine and swallow the lump in my throat.

“Sorry, Alfie. It’s nothing personal, I promise. I’m just not ready.”

“You’re aware art isn’t meant to be perfect, right? Like, there’s no right or wrong in expressing yourself,” he says.

I roll my eyes before meeting his.

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