Page 4 of Twisted Vows

I force down the rising tide of emotions and know my survival will depend on destroying the part of me that still searches for angels where only monsters exist.

CHAPTER TWO

If she is hell, I am the devil dancing in her flames.

Maxsim

The Maserati hums to a stop and I cut the ignition. Silence settles around me like a heavy weight as I study thecaposlingering outside the Bianchi mansion.

“The new normal,” I mumble bitterly as I step out and hear the crunch of gravel under my shoes. The crisp night air sharpens my senses, and I take a long breath.

The Bratva and Cosa Nostra are holding hands like snakes, waiting for the other to strike first, so staying sharp isn’t an option.

I approach the door, and a Mafia soldier tips his head, a reluctant gesture of respect tinged with the wariness that follows me into rooms. The low murmur of conversation greets me as I move into the ballroom, accompanied by the clink of glasses and the soft strains of jazz from a hidden orchestra.

The Bianchi estate is a Sicilian marvel—frescoed ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and Renaissance art worth more than some countries.

The old guard and their wives watch over everything with hawk-like eyes. The tension is subtle, but it’s there. The Bratva may be an ally, but old habits die hard, and I can’t help but notice acapo’shand tighten on his glass as I pass.

A servant glides by, offering a tray of champagne. I wave it off, not interested in dulling my senses. This isn’t a celebration—it’s a chess game, and I must be prepared for the next move.

Positioning myself in a quiet corner, half-hidden in the shadows, I have a clear view of the entrance as well as the entire room. Nearby, a group of men laugh confidently. Idiots. They don’t realize how transparent they are—jockeying for positions like clumsy schoolboys. Tipping glasses of whisky like water, I listen to them gossip.

“Did you hear about Santoro?” One lieutenantwhispers to another, his voice barely audible over the din. “Word is Sal’s pulling strings to get his son betrothed to Ari.”

“Makes sense since he’s not content just running New York. He’s consolidating power. I’ve heard whispers that he’s meeting with people outside the family. Could be dangerous for all of us,” the second replies, shaking his head. “Sal’s always been ambitious. And Giovanni is just a pawn in his father’s game.”

Before I can dissect what it means, another voice cuts in. “Moretti’s also getting restless,” this from a man standing in a group by the bar. “He’s itching for a bigger slice of the pie, and rumor is Santoro’s giving him permission to take it.”

Sal Santoro. Cunning, ambitious, and dangerous. His resentment toward André and his ascension to the throne isn’t exactly a secret, but hearing it whispered openly is new.

As I contemplate the ramifications of what I’ve just heard, I see Ari Bianchi move through the room.

How does she do it?

In a room full of predators, she is the most intriguing.

Dressed in a sleek, dark gown that clings to her figure, the fabric catches the light with every step. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the strong lines of her face, one that is both beautiful and cold.

My pulse quickens uncomfortably, and I would bet one of my billions that most men in the room focus on her beauty.

I don’t. Physically attractive women are a dime a dozen and rarely catch my attention. What intrigues me is strength, something she has in spades.

My eyes follow her as she moves through the room, greeting guests with a smile that never reaches her eyes. The menreact with both admiration and concealed envy. They don’t know how to handle her, and she uses that to her advantage, keeping them at arm’s length while making them think they have a chance.

I consider the rumors about her impending match. Would Franco really condemn Ari to a future with a man like Giovanni?

My brother, Alexey, approaches from across the room, his expression as unreadable as ever. He’s dressed in a tailored suit, his presence commanding respect as the crowd instinctively parts for him. The nearby group of lieutenants falls silent as Alexey passes, their conversation dying mid-sentence as they steal cautious glances at the BratvaPakhan.

Alexey stops beside me, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. There’s a silent understanding between us as we exchange a brief nod.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks, his voice low, meant for my ears only.

I don’t bother with a response. Alexey isn’t looking for one. “The alliance is holding,” he states quietly. “But there’s tension. Not everyone’s happy with the arrangement.”

I glance at him, then back at the crowd. It’s not surprising. An alliance of this scale is never easy to maintain—too many moving parts and egos at play. If even one person in this room decides they’d rather see the alliance fall apart, it could spell disaster.

“And the Bianchis?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

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