Page 1 of Promise Maker

Prologue

I killed my mother.

And I manage to remind myself at least once a day.Technically, it wasn’t intentional because she died in childbirth. But eversince my father divulged the truth, in my mind, I killed my mother.

“That’s a nasty habit,” a raspy voice tinged witha sexy Italian accentscolds.

I turn my head, ready to tell whoever it is tofuck off, only to become speechless at the tanned, dark-haired, six feet tallAdonis.

He doesn’t look sixteen like me. Something abouthis demeanor screams mature, level-headed, perfect son.

His deep sepia eyes squint in the sunlight as hewatches me keenly. It rattles me so much I reconsider lighting the cigaretteout of fear of disappointing him.

“What’s it to you?” I roll my eyes and place thecigarette back into the pack.

He inches forward and plucks it from my handbefore I stick the pack in my clutch.

“What the hell!” I push from the wall. “What’syour problem?”

“Don’t ever smoke again,” he warns, tone firm.“It’s bad for you.”

I rest my hand on my hip. “Who are you, my father?Mind your business.”

“I know Mr. Brigham, Solari. He’s a well-respectedman—good friends with my father. You should be inside with him, mingling. Notout here sulking like a brat and doing stupid things.”

“I’m—” I bite my bottom lip and shift to the otherleg, pissed that this guy, though scorching hot, thinks he has any right tochastise me. Yet, I don’t have a witty comeback.

My annoyance simmers a tad when his lips tilt intoa butterfly-inducing smile. “If you’re bored, I’ll keep you company.”

“Pfft. We don’t even know each other.”

“We’ve met before.”

I wrinkle my brows, realizing his eyes do seemfamiliar. “I don’t remember.”

He smirks. “Probably because you had your headdown, sulking.”

I draw air through my teeth and turn away.

“Domenico Martelli.” He edges closer, and as anatural reflex action, I stagger back.

Slipping my cigarettes into his formal pantspocket, he continues. “You were eight. You looked utterly sad at the dinner,barely raised your head when your father introduced us.”

I flick through my memory bank.

It must have been the dinner party that Dad hostedthe day after telling me how my mother died.

“Remember now?” Domenico asks, pulling me out ofmy head.

I meet his gaze. “Yeah. You gave me the last pieceof your chocolate cake when I was sitting alone in the family room.”

That results in another smirk.

Domenico Martelli, son of Emanuele Martelli—along-time friend of my dad’s.

I recall Mr. Martelli is a revered and powerfulman, as are many at the luncheon, even if some have cleaned up like my dad.

“So, now that you remember who I am, how have youbeen, Solari Brigham?”

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