Page 18 of Vow of Vengeance

There’s that dirty four-letter f-word again.

Why does it keep coming up with this girl?

She goes quiet, and we stare out our respective windows. As we get closer to the lake, I question my decision to bring her here. I wanted my revenge, and I needed a bride. She’s a means to an end. I glance over at her, where she sits perfectly frozen, her beautiful face deep in thought.

She’s so young—teasing me about my name—yet seems like an old soul. An emotion deeper than lust stirs in me, reminding me of our kiss. I can’t deny the intensity of our connection, even though we have nothing in common.

Yet, there I was, driving by that day when she just happened to be taking out the trash, and seeing her made something shift in me.

Could it be fate that’s brought us together?

A bitter man with issues. A barely legal virgin. A forced marriage.

“You want to know about the Villa.” I distract both of us from our thoughts by returning to answer her question. “It started as one home—a white mansion on the shore of the lake. The house was called the Villa. Now, there are more houses, built like the firstto house Italy’s family branch as it grows, but the name hasn’t changed.”

“And everyone there belongs to the mafia?” she asks.

“Mafia is a complicated word. You mean a member of the Bachmans. And yes. Well, no, not exactly,” I explain. “We have staff on site who we call ‘Bachman friendly.’ They’re our trusted allies, but not part of us. To become a Bachman, you join by marriage or initiation. When men are initiated, they legally change their last name to Bachman, leaving the old name behind with their past life.”

“Isn’t that incredibly difficult leaving everything behind?” she asks.

“For most of us, it’s easier than you’d think. People attracted to the Bachmans tend to be missing something from their lives—searching for their chosen family.” My voice drops as I admit this. “Although we tend not to realize that’s what we’re looking for until it happens.”

Her words are warm. “That’s… nice. I like that.”

Clearing my throat, I move on, shocked that I opened up about something so intimate. Subject change. History lesson time. “The Brotherhood originated in New York in the early 1900s. The family would rob from the rich and redistribute the wealth among the people.”

“Like Robin Hood.” She sniffs. “I would loooove to see you in tights.”

“Stop,” I warn.

She chokes back her laugh. “Are you sure ‘redistribute’ isn’t a word you use to feel better about your crimes?”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “Anyway, that was a long time ago. Now, we mainly make our billions by investing our millions.”

“Investing the money you stole,” she corrects, “to make more money.”

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

“Dastardly,” she says.

I balk. “We have plenty of programs to help the less fortunate.”

“Like the Bachman Education Fund you use to buy students for wives?” she quips.

Ignoring her dig, I answer, “The Higher Education Fund. Yes. Exactly.”

She narrows her gaze, her brain constantly on the move. “But you have enemies like the mafia, right?”

I drum my fingers on the seat beside me. How much do I tell her? Eventually, she’ll need to know everything the other wives know, but she’s already going through nervous spells. Tonight is too soon to explain that we don’t always play well with others.

“It’s nothing you have to worry about. Especially if you follow our rules?—”

The screeching of tires from another vehicle on the road cuts off my words. This road is always quiet this late at night, and the sound makes the hair on my neck stand up. With the privacy screen in place, I can’t see the road.

“What was that?” She stares out her window.

“Maybe someone swerved to avoid hitting a deer,” I offer, knowing it’s unlikely. “Hold on. Let me find out.”

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