Page 30 of Twisted Vows

A wave of emotion slams into me, squeezing my chest.

Turning my head, I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. I still feel it. Everything inside me aches and burns. All my cells are calling my husband’s name.

A dangerous weakness I can’t afford.

Huffing out loud breaths, he collapses on top of me. “Real life just kicked fantasy’s ass.” He lifts his head. “You are a witch.” Pressing a kiss to my head, he stays still for a second. “And I am under your spell.”

“Good,” I reply quietly. Feeling exposed in a way I’ve never have.

“This—” He rolls off me. “It’s... unexpected.”

“Unexpected?” I raise an eyebrow. “Like finding a grenade under your pillow kind of unexpected?”

“More like realizing the grenade didn’t explode,” he counters, pulling me into his arms.

I close my eyes and wonder if what just happened will ensure my safety or destroy me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kneel or fight.

Giovanni

I step into the dimly lit club, the bass from the music thumping through my chest like a second heartbeat. My eyes scan the room, cutting through the haze of smoke and flickering lights. Bodies move to the rhythm, but I ignore them and move toward my usual booth in the corner.

Gratefully, I drop onto the leather cushion and hear it groan as I loosen my tie. It’s aFamigliaspot, but I take nothing for granted and study the room again.

My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. Sal’s messages can wait. Or maybe they can’t, but I will decide when the time’s right.

The jazz track changes, low and lazy, and the front doors swing open. Emilio Moretti strides in. No rush, no wasted movements. He’s a man who’s fallen from grace, reduced to a soldier after years of playing the game wrong, but you’d never know it by looking at him. Black suit, sharp as a blade, and the kind of face that tells you he’s been in a few too many fights but never lost the important ones.

I straighten in my seat as his eyes sweep the room, calculating. When he spots me, his lips curve—not a smile, exactly, more like a weapon he’s considering using.

“Giovanni,” he says as he slides into the booth across from me, his voice smooth, practiced. A cigar dangles between his fingers.

“Emilio,” I reply, leaning back like I own the place. “You’re late.”

“You’re early,” he counters, striking a match. The flare of the flame illuminates the hard line of his jaw as he lights the cigar. The first puff clouds the air between us.

I pick up my whiskey, swirling it slowly, pretending his little power move doesn’t bother me. It does, though. Just like everything lately.

“I was surprised to get your call.” He studies the cigar. “Thought you would be back in New York by now.”

“I still have a few things to take care of.” Like fucking Franco. The man thinks he’s untouchable. That handing Ari to the Russians secures his throne. But thrones crumble, and even the most trusted consigliere can bleed. My time will come. I’ll make sure of it.

Emilio’s eyes narrow before he leans back, smoke curling around his face. “Sure you do.”

The words lands like a challenge, and my jaw tightens before I force a smile. This is how these meetings go—small talk that feels like a knife, everyone testing to see who’s holding the sharpest edge.

The conversation stays shallow at first, a game of verbal fencing. Emilio comments on the whiskey. I lie and say it’s imported from a private distillery, though I doubt he cares. But the dance doesn’t last long before he cuts to the point.

“Another Russian in the family,” Emilio says, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “It could’ve been you.”

There it is. A jab wrapped in silk. My jaw tightens, but I force my grip on the glass to stay loose. I let the whiskey burn on the way down, hoping it drowns the bitterness crawling up my throat.

Could’ve been me. The words dig deeper than they should. Like a splinter lodged under my skin, impossible to ignore.

It should’ve been me.

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