Page 15 of Forbidden Vows

With everything I’ve heard coming down the pipeline, I know it’ll get a whole lot worse before it gets better. My brotherand I have a pretty good handle on the organization, but we’re not invincible or indestructible. All it takes is a few precise, calculated hits, and the scales could tip. Keeping Tommy Benedetto alive and bringing the Donovans into our fold are the first two of many steps we’ll need to take.

Otherwise, the sharks will taste blood.

Chapter 4

Eileen

For two months, I’ve been replaying that night in my head. Reliving the most intense moments of my life, from the scare with Tommy Benedetto to the lovemaking with my mystery man. Now I find myself staring at the plus sign of a pregnancy test, sweating bullets as I try to wrap my head around the whole thing.

“This is one hell of a clusterfuck,” I mutter as I toss the stick in the bathroom bin and proceed to wash my hands.

I’m pregnant. And I don’t even know the father’s name.

Ciara has been droning on all day about finally meeting her fiancé tonight. I can hear people downstairs already, their voices mingling with the music of a small orchestra. Laughter. The clinking of glasses.

“Well, at least I know why I’m nauseated all the time,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Kuznetsov’s only part of the reason.”

It’s not that I don’t like him. He’s… nice. But he unsettles me, and I don’t want to marry him. I have little to no power overmy own life as a Donovan. I’ve known that for as long as I can remember, but still.

“Eileen, are you drowning in there?” Ciara calls out.

I roll my eyes. “I’m just retouching my makeup!” I shout back. “Go get yourself a drink or yell at the waiters or… something!”

I listen to the sound of her Jimmy Choos recede as I take another look in the mirror. My breasts were already quite large, but now they’re struggling against the bra I’m wearing underneath a maroon evening dress. The fabric is a soft satin blend, and it’s pinched in a manner that gives me an hourglass figure. Thank God there are no visible signs of my pregnancy yet.

How in the hell am I going to explain myself out of this one?

My father will explode.

I’ll never hear the end of it from Ciara.

And Sergei… I doubt he’ll want to marry me once he learns I’m carrying another man’s child.

I have to get through tonight first, take it one step at a time, so I can preserve my sanity.

I smile at the mirror and practice my host-friendly smile. We’re expecting about a hundred guests in the ballroom of our mansion—each a member of high society and the mob. In the Donovans’ ballroom, deals are made, futures are decided, and alliances are built.

“There you are,” Ciara scoffs as I meet her downstairs in the kitchen.

Around us, waiters with ruby-red velvet vests over white shirts and black pants buzz around like busy, breathless bees—carrying hors d’oeuvres and champagne platters out, bringing empty ones back in, refilling, then stopping by the chef’s counter for updated instructions.

“Wow, I feel like I’m in a Michelin-starred review,” I say and laugh lightly, glancing everywhere.

“Not with these canapes,” Ciara says, pointing at three large plates resting on the table between us. “Look at them! I couldn’t let the waiters go out with this garbage.”

“I don’t understand; what’s wrong with them?” I ask, looking rather confused as I try to identify the problem.

They look like simple but elegant snacks—disk-shaped pastries with a dollop of cream cheese whip and different sorts of sauces drizzled on top. If anything, my mouth is watering, and I could easily consume one plate all by myself. I can’t help but wonder if I’m already experiencing cravings or if I’m just hungry.

“I specifically asked for ricotta cheese mousse, and they used goat cheese!” Ciara exclaims, sounding like it’s the end of the world.

“And how is that bad?”

“Because I asked for one thing, and they delivered something else. It’s disrespectful.”

“But tasty.” I try to take the edge off, but Ciara isn’t biting, pun intended.

She gives me a sour look. “You look puffy,” she bitterly strikes back. “Also, you’re not taking this seriously. My engagement party needs to beperfect, and it’s anything but. Just earlier, I learned that we won’t be serving my favorite Bordeaux. Daddy had them replace it with some Petrus from 1985. Yuck!”

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