Page 2 of Forbidden Vows

I wrench away from her grip, my momentum carrying me into the solid mass of Paddy’s chest. His brow, lined with old scars, furrows deeply in concern.

"Miss Donovan—"

"Bathroom, Paddy," I cut in sharply, already striding away.

The hallway envelops me, the club's vibrant pulse now a distant murmur. A sudden flicker in the smoked glass catches my gaze—my reflection, a striking vision in emerald silk.

The dress embraces each defiant curve, accentuating a body sculpted by passionate dances through tumultuous nights, not timidity. My glossy red curls tumble provocatively around my shoulders, setting off my creamy skin and fierce green eyes that smolder with unyielding spirit.

I shove through the back door, gulping the alley’s frozen air like a lifeline.

Think, Eileen. There must be a way out.

Above me, the sky is a hollow black sheet, Chicago’s neon greed devouring every last star—a perfect echo of how my family aimsto devour my dreams, leaving nothing but emptiness.

I press a hand to my chest, as if I could claw back the ambitions they’ve stolen. I belong on sunlit streets, scouting the perfect storefront, breathing in the fresh aroma of espresso beans. I should be scribbling menu ideas on napkins, collaborating with contractors, creating something truly mine.

Instead, I'm caged in a gilded cage, mindlessly selecting bone-white china patterns like a docile doll.

But dolls don’t bleed.

And I haven’t finished fighting.

I stand in silence, savoring a fleeting eternity. Minutes had barely slipped by when the scene before me drastically changed.

The alley erupts in metallic screams.

I whirl around to see Tommy Benedetto—this time, he's being hauled between two Bratva enforcers, his body flung about like a defeated boxer clinging to the ropes. Blood paints his designer stubble, that pretty-boy face now a swollen mess. His left eye pulses shut, the color of rotting plums.

"Wait—you've got this wrong!" Tommy's voice cracks as they throw him face-first into a rancid puddle. The pale blue Tom Ford suit drinks up alley filth like a sponge. "I got money! Fuck, I got—"

The bigger enforcer silences him with a steel-toe kick to the ribs. I hear something crack. The other screws a silencer onto his Makarov with terrifying precision.

"Andrei said quick," he grunts, Chechen accent thick as Siberian frost.

Fuck. Bratva enforcers.

My lungs turn to ice. Three stumbling steps back—clang—my heel meets the trash can. The gunman's head jerks up. Moonlight slithers along the barrel as it swings toward me.

Run bitch!!

But my legs refuse to obey.

“Wait! You don't know who—"

"Don't care." His trigger finger pales.

Suddenly, a scent hits me—bergamot and gun oil—an instant before an iron-clad arm snakes around my waist.

I'm airborne, stilettos kicking empty air as some mountain of a man hauls me backward. My silk dress rips against brickwork.

The lead enforcer's eyes widen.

I’m tossed into a Porsche 911's butter-soft leather.

The car door slams shut behind me. In the confined space, my kidnapper’s presence overwhelms—all broad shoulders and restrained power.

His tailored suit strains across biceps earned through more than just gym sessions.

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