Page 4 of Convenient Mafia Vows

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I hold onto him, burying my fingers in his jet-black hair. He moves slowly at first, grinding his cock inside me, gradually building up speed until our hips are pounding against each other, and I swear I can feel him hitting the bottom of my spine. Why did no one ever tell me that this is what I’ve been missing out on?

When he comes, I kiss him hard, crushing my lips against him until his body stops shuddering and he collapses on top of me.

He falls asleep almost instantly.

I don’t move until I hear Sienna’s muffled ringtone on my cell phone which is still somewhere in the other room.

Extricating myself from underneath Danny, who is snoring gently, spreadeagled across the bed like a starfish, I tiptoe across the bedroom and locate my purse on the floor near the entrance. I check my phone, guilt tearing my chest wide open when I realize that I’ve had twenty-three missed calls from Sienna.

“Fuck!” I left the club without telling her where I was going, and she’s probably scared that she’ll read about my battered body being discovered in a dark alleyway on the news tomorrow.

I try calling her back, but she doesn’t pick up.

I try again, and the line goes dead.

Panic setting in now, I use the find-a-phone feature to locate Sienna’s position, and don’t believe it when I see that she’s on the Interstate just outside the city. I start again, thinking there must be a problem with the app, but she’s still there, and she isn’t moving.

I don’t waste a beat.

With one long lingering look at Danny sprawled across the bed, I drag my clothes back on, cussing myself for agreeing to the latex pants, and let myself out of the apartment. I might’ve just been fucked by the hottest guy in the entire city, but my friend is more important.

“I’m coming, Sienna,” I whisper to myself as I step outside onto the frosty street and hail a cab.

1

VICTORIA

Five YearsLater

Chaos erupts near the end of my shift at a ritzy diner on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It’s coming from outside, and I instinctively know that my kid brother Mason is involved; call it intuition. Call it bone-fucking-weariness or reaching-the-end-of-my-tether, or how-much-more-of-his-shit-is-he-going-to-throw-at-me. Because even before Roy, our chef, comes striding in, his eyes seeking me out, I sense that this has nothing to do with the Irish bar down the street kicking some rowdy football fans out at closing time.

Ignoring the sounds of a crowd jeering a fight without even realizing they’re taking sides, I set some drinks down onto a table of four—two couples—with a smile plastered onto my face and tell them that the bar is now closed.

Stay focused and upbeat until the last customer has left the premises, even if you feel like shit on the inside. I can’t afford to lose another job. Mason sure as hell isn’t bringing any money into the two-bedroom apartment we share since he got kicked out of his last place.

I hurry back to the bar with the tray of empties from the table I just served, but Roy takes it from me before I reach it. “Go, Vicky,” he says, his dark eyes flashing at me from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Killian’s spitting blood for your brother.”

I knew it.

Killian owns the diner. He’s a burly ex-boxer with biceps the size of rugby balls, and a temper to match his fiery red hair. He’s almost sixty but still works out every day, and when he blows, everyone generally finds a quiet corner in which to cower. Including me.

But this is Mason, and despite all the hassle he causes me, I still feel responsible for him. Who else is going to look out for him if it isn’t me?

I see the crowd gathered around the fight taking place on the sidewalk. Shoving through, I reach the ringside as Killian raises his fist and pummels my brother’s face, blood spraying the front of my white shirt. I let out an involuntary shriek as Mason’s nose seems to split, red smothering his nose and chin making him resemble a vampire at feeding time.

“Killian, stop!” I reach for his arm, but he shrugs me off and bats me away like I’m a fly who got in the way.

A young guy in green pants and a bowtie catches me before I hit the ground and stands me back up. “Stay out of it, lady, or you’ll?—”

But I’m not listening. Mason is curled into the fetal position on the cold sidewalk, and it’s clear that no one else is going to intervene even though he isn’t fighting back, and I left my cell phone back inside my purse in the diner. If I don’t stop Killian, the cops will be scraping my brother off the ground later.

“Killian, stop!” I’m trying to find a way to reach Mason beneath those swinging arms, but it’s like completing an obstacle course of moving parts. “Someone, help him, please! He’s my brother!”

Some folks turn away at the pleading in my voice—if they don’t watch, they can tell themselves later that there was nothing they could do. Others stay behind but keep their distance, unwilling to get blood on their clothes.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I leap onto Killian’s back, throwing my arms around his neck, and trying to steer him away from my brother as though he were a horse. But Killian wraps his meaty hands around my arms and flings me sideways, a minor inconvenience preventing him from finishing what he has already started.

I grit my teeth and wait for my body to slam into the sidewalk, but instead, with an unexpected whump, I hit the solid chest and arms of a guy wearing black motorbike leathers.

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