Page 1 of Forbidden Vows

Chapter 1

Eileen

"Smile, Peach Bottom."

My sister’s voice is poison wrapped in silk, the kind of sweet that kills you slow. "You’ll make a passable Kuznetsov bride." Her lips curve—that razor-edged smile she’s perfected since we were kids. "And me?" A diamond-crusted finger taps her champagne flute. "Well, we always knew I’d marry a Karpov."

The nickname Peach Bottom—first hissed at me when I outgrew my Catholic school skirt at fourteen—still hits like a sucker punch. Back then, it was just cruel girls laughing as my hips split the seams. Now? It’s a blade to the ribs, a reminder of everything our world says I’ll never be:

Graceful. Obedient. Enough.

The Irish mob has a type—delicate dolls with collarbones sharp enough to draw blood. Girls who float through rooms like ghosts, their laughter a whisper, their bodies barely leaving an imprint on the world.

Meanwhile, my body is a rebellion in flesh.

Hips that don't quit, thighs that stretch designer silk into surrender, the kind of chest that makes old women clutch their pearls. "A real woman's body," my grandmother used to say, like it was a compliment instead of a life sentence.

The Infinity Lounge thrums with danger, a symphony of smoked glass and black marble, where fortunes are made and bodies disappear. Tonight, the champagne bubbles taste like swallowed screams.

"What if I want more than to pop out heirs for some Bratva captain?" I ask.

"Then you’d better learn to love the game more than your own spine, darling. That’s the only currency that buys survival here. Women like us don't get to want. We get to choose which chains suit us best. Ciara adjusts my emerald pendant—the last heirloom from our Dublin estate—with fingers that dig like talons. "The Donovans used to trade in Irish whiskey and warships," she murmurs. "Now we deal in daughters."

My sister leans in closer, her perfume—something venomous and obscenely expensive—clashing with the whiskey-soaked greed in the air. "And let’s be honest, with your… distinct silhouette, you should thank your lucky stars that any Bratva captain spared you a second glance."

I don’t blink. "Just say it. I'm too much woman for the Bratva.”

Her gaze drags over me, slow and surgical. "We’re Donovans, Eileen. In our world, crowns are reserved for the slender and silent. But maybe Sergei likes a challenge. Maybe he’ll even fund that little café dream of yours—the one Dad laughed out of the room." She shrugs, swirling her drink. "Take the win. The Kuznetsovs aren’t Karpov-level rich, but they’re close enough."

The condescension burns, but I’m done swallowing it. "Or maybe I’ll build it myself—without a man’s money or permission."

Before she can strike back, a shadow falls over us—Tommy Benedetto, all shark’s teeth and snake’s charm. "Ladies." His gaze lingers on me like a stain. "You two look… festive."

Ciara’s laugh is polished arsenic. "Engagements, Tommy. Both of us."

His smirk twists. "Both?" The disbelief is a slap.

For a fleeting heartbeat, I envision the sharp crack of my champagne flute against his smug grin. Instead, I bare my teeth with a smile. "Surprised? Sometimes the dark horses leave you choking on their dust."

Ciara interjects, too eager. "Join us for a drink?"

"Tempting." He adjusts his cufflinks, eyes never leaving mine. "But I’ve got a Siberian hellcat waiting. Promised me the authentic Russian experience."

Ciara’s giggle is brittle as spun sugar. "Always sampling the merchandise, aren’t you?"

Tommy’s grin stretches, grotesque. "Enjoy the night, ladies. Some brides get twitchy once they feel the collar click shut."

Fucking predator.

I rise, slow and deliberate, the silk of my dress whispering secrets against my thighs. "Funny, Tommy. In your world, men think they can leash us like dogs." I step closer, close enough to taste the cigars and rot on his breath. "But even a leashed bitch has teeth. And if you yank too hard?" My smile vanishes. "Shejust might tear out your fucking throat."

Silence.

Then—Tommy laughs, cruel and mocking. "I'm eager to see how you'll dress up as a bride — what a spectacle that will be."

His words slice through the air like a blade, an unmistakable declaration of war.

Ciara’s fingers dig painfully into my arm. "Eileen, he’s just teasing."

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