Page 5 of Twisted Vows

I am no longer Emma Lanza, the daughter of San Francisco’s most ruthless mafia don. My father can’t force me to marry thecruelest man on the planet, and I don’t have to watch my sister cower because of him ever again.

My name is Mia Rivera, and I’m a damn excellent nurse. Any hospital will be lucky to have me, so transferring will be quick and easy.

I hope.

Chapter 2

Fiero Capito

I snuff out my cigaretteon the base of the streetlamp and enjoy the sway of the nurse’s hips as she strides through the double doors. The bright noonday sun glares off the top of the trash cans and street signs. A vague sense of familiarity plagues me, but I can’t place where or when I’ve seen her before. I’ve never been to a hospital on this side of the city, especially not one so tiny and rundown, so it’s unlikely I know her. With her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, an impressiveapproach me at your own riskresting bitch face, and her ample curves, she’s a challenge I’d love to unravel, but she’s off limits.

She was one of only two medical personnel working in the emergency room last night, which means she must have helped treat Narciso Vivaldi, the traitor and scumbag who dared to attack Giorgio Vivaldi, the mafia don I’ve sworn to serve and protect for the rest of my life. Narciso is a liar and a snake, even stooping so low as to attack while Aurora and Tristan—Giorgio’s new bride and her eight-year-old brother—were in the crosshairs.

I’ll skin him alive, but not until after he leads me to the mastermind behind the cyberattacks on the Vivaldi family.

I sigh and flick my cigarette butt into the gutter as a suited goon saunters down the street, clearly watching the nursethrough the glass walls as she rushes deeper into the building. Just by the way he carries his bulky frame, I know he’s a brainless chump like most of Narciso Vivaldi’s soldiers. I scoff as he stops a few paces away from the entrance and cranes his neck for one last peek at the nurse before she turns out of sight. He fucking sucks at blending in.

Narciso may be a piece of trash, but he’s smart. The men he stole from Matteo Vivaldi—Giorgio’s father—have way more brawn than brains. The imbeciles will follow and protect him no matter what he does. All they care about is their next paycheck.

Which makes this idiot’s skulking even more dangerous. I flick my lighter open and closed before tucking it into my pocket and pushing off the streetlamp, gritting my teeth from the pain. A few days ago, I caught a bullet in the small of my back, and while the damage was surprisingly minimal, it hasn’t had time to heal. Add in the graze on my upper arm from a stray bullet during yesterday’s shoot out with Narciso, and dull pain throbs throughout my entire body.

If Narciso knows I’m following him, he may have sent the man to cover his tracks.

Sourness coats my tongue as I envision the curvy nurse lying in a pool of her own blood. It would be a shame to waste such a delicious body without sampling it first. I wonder how her voice would sound in the throes of passion. Low and throaty? High and breathy?

I bet I could make her do both. In the same session.

I run my tongue over my teeth before tucking the thought away and willing my cock to soften.

Wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, and a nondescript black jacket to blend in with the crowd—and the darkness once the sun sets—I saunter down the street across from the hospital, enjoying the way people duck and weave to avoid me. Prey instinctually avoids predators. I glimpse thegoon’s about-face in the shop window and smirk as he battles against the lunch crowd. The difference in the public’s reaction to the two of us is telling.

He’s lethal but stupid. I silently urge the pickpocket eyeing him to make a move, but the petty thief finds an easier target.

I don’t blame him. The man’s scars glint in the sunlight until he turns into the covered lane beside the ER. He’s the walking embodiment of meathead.

Staying out of sight, I duck into a tiny café and order a coffee before settling into the corner chair. With a clear view of the front and side entrances, I pull out my phone and stick earbuds into my ears but don’t turn them on so no one approaches me. I settle in for a few hours. When the lackey gets shooed away by security, I roll my eyes and toss my empty coffee cup into the trash. No one argues when I order a second cup and sit back down in the same spot.

A few minutes later, I walk several shops down the road and find a place inside to wait, making the side door of the hospital my focal point.

Over the next several hours, I visit stores at random, always staying within sight of the emergency room. The goon never leaves, and despite his furtive scanning of the crowd, he never once notices me. As the evening stretches into night, his expression darkens. My apprehension grows as time passes and he continues to wait. Every second he lingers solidifies my belief he’s here to kill the two who patched up Narciso yesterday.

A steady stream of patients flows in and out of the emergency room. The curvy nurse rushes into view often. She never sits behind the counter. Never slips into the nurse’s station for a break. Never hesitates when a critical case rolls through the door.

Backlit by the fluorescent lights, she gives the ambulance driver a farewell wave before turning toward the double glassdoors. After a solid eighteen hours on her feet, she still looks as fresh as when she walked in to start her shift. With the flood of patients finally winding down for the night, four of her colleagues clock out together and say good night to her as they pass. As she returns their greeting over her shoulder, she stiffens and looks right at me.

Leaning against a brick building under an unlit awning, I know she can’t see my features, but my heart gives a prolonged squeeze as her rich brown eyes search the shadows.

I doubt myself for the first time since I denounced my family. I thought she looked familiar, but how could I forget such a luscious woman? With an olive complexion and striking features, she’s an exotic wet dream in the flesh. I’m sure I’d remember every detail of our first meeting, so the sense of familiarity must be a fluke. The fierce glint in her stare hardens my cock and her ample curves heighten my senses. I long to kiss, nip, and lick her plump lips and slender throat.

A lanky egghead in a white doctor’s coat lopes out from the emergency exit and offers her a cigarette, pulling her attention away from me. I bite back a ridiculous wave of disappointment and cross my arms over my chest.

A ribald group of men dressed for the club and smelling of cheap cologne blocks my view as they stagger down the sidewalk, but I lean to the side and catch the nurse declining the doctor’s offer of a smoke. Her tight smile and worried eyes as she scans the streets reveal her sense of self-preservation. She gestures toward the hospital and says something to the doctor before heading inside alone.

The goon creeps in the shadows, trains his eyes on the doctor, then rushes forward. I stalk across the street and jab the butt of my gun into his temple. He crumples. I stick my pistol back in its holster and drag his heavy ass into the alley before anyone sees. I take the roll of duct tape from my inner jacketpocket, but as I wrap the bottom half of his face, he wakes and swings at me with sluggish, uncoordinated movements until adrenaline floods his system and he snaps to full alertness. He reaches into his coat, but I slam the side of my fist down onto his stomach and yank his gun out of his chest holster before he can palm it. With a few practiced moves, I field strip his pistol, enjoying the clank of metal against concrete as I scatter the pieces on the ground.

His angry growl as he fists the front of my jacket pisses me the hell off, so I bury my fist in his face a few times before pulling the knife from my belt and pressing it against his throat. He stills. I lean down into his face.

“Do you recognize me?” I ask.

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