Page 48 of Brutal Vows

I offer him a small, hopeful smile and nod. Yet even in that intimate moment, my mind conjures the vivid, almost taboo image of kneeling eagerly before him, surrendering to the wild, unyielding force of his thick, commanding cock as it plunges into the depths of my throat. I know he won’t be gentle, but I crave that ferocity, that raw, unapologetic hunger for me to be used exactly as he desires.

“Come on, you little vixen,” he teases, his head shaking playfully, a smirk dancing at the corner of his lips as if he knows every hidden thought. “Let’s get you clean.”

Twenty-Seven

Vitali sits in his office,the muffled sound of his phone conversations drifting through the half-open door, while I meander around the kitchen, my stomach rumbling in anticipation. The countertops are generously spread with breakfast options, and my eyes linger on an assortment of Italian pastries that instantly make my mouth water. I reach for asfogliatella, its golden, flaky layers forming a delicate shell around a sweet, creamy filling that promises pure delight. Placing it gently on a small, white plate, I set it on the kitchen island, its inviting aroma filling the air as I turn my attention to the quest for caffeine.

Just beyond the main kitchen, tucked into a cozy serving nook, I find a coffee bar that rivals most American cafés. It boasts a sleek, top-of-the-line espresso maker, gleaming under the soft kitchen lights. I swiftly engage the machine, flipping switches to heat it up while reaching for the portafilter resting beside a jar filled with rich, dark pre-ground coffee beans. The earthy scent rises as I fill the portafilter, tamping it down with practiced ease.

Crouching down, I open the small fridge nestledbeneath the bar and survey the neatly arranged assortment of milks. My hand settles on the whole milk, its creamy promise unmatched by the alternatives.

“You certainly can’t milk an oat,” I murmur to myself with a chuckle, pouring the precise amount into the stainless-steel milk pitcher. With the familiarity of an old habit, I immerse myself in the ritual of crafting a latte, the whirring of the steam wand a comforting symphony to my morning routine.

Soon, I’m leisurely sipping on my creamy latte at the polished dining room table, a half-eatensfogliatellaresting temptingly in front of me. Don’t judge; it’s already my third one this morning, and each delicate pastry bursts with layers of flaky goodness and a hint of citrusy sweetness. Now, however, with my stomach pleasantly full and my latte nearly finished, a wave of boredom washes over me.

Vitali’s penthouse, a sleek expanse of modern luxury, isn’t exactly designed for entertainment, at least not the kind that keeps me engaged. The spacious living room boasts a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, but I’ve never found joy in the passive act of watching movies or shows. In my father’s house, such idle distractions were discouraged, replaced by more meaningful pursuits that demanded attention and intellect.

He lacks a library filled with books, and the entire place is already immaculate, leaving nothing to tidy up. Well, perhaps the bedsheets could use some attention, but I’m not quite prepared to tackle that task just yet.

“This is for you,” Vitali’s voice breaks through my silent contemplation.

Startled, I nearly jump out of my skin. “Dio mio. You scared the crap out of me. You should wear bells when youwalk. You’re far too stealthy for someone with your build,” I exclaim, my heart still racing from his unexpected presence.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says with a warm smile, placing a brand-new iPhone on the table in front of me. Its sleek design catches the light, and I can’t help but admire its smooth glass finish. “I’ve already programmed my number and a few others in there as well. Dario’s is in there, so if you ever need anything and can’t reach me, you can call him.”

“Right. Thank you,” I reply, my voice a blend of gratitude and awe. I nod my head, my fingers lightly tracing the polished surface of the phone. It’s the first time I’ve held a device of my own, and the novelty of it must be evident on my face because Vitali leans closer, his presence reassuring and familiar.

With a swift swipe of his finger, the screen comes to life, revealing a photo from our wedding. In the image, he’s kissing me, his hand is woven into my hair, eyes closed, capturing the deep desire of that moment.

This was the instant we became husband and wife, a memory etched in the pixels of the phone, symbolizing a new beginning. If only it meant something other than just another strategizing play on his chessboard.

“This is where you make your calls,” he explains patiently, pressing the vibrant green phone icon that stands out against the sleek screen. His fingers move deftly, guiding me through the process of setting up my voicemail with careful instructions, ensuring I grasp each step.

He also demonstrates how to add and edit contact information, navigating the menus with practiced ease. As I explore the list of contacts, I realize that it’s not just him and Dario on the phone. There are nearly a dozen names, each one a thread connecting me to this new world. I spotVanya’s, Evaline’s, Adrian’s, Kenzo’s, and several others from yesterday’s gathering at McDonough’s.

Tears well up at the corners of my eyes as he plants a gentle kiss on the side of my head, a tender farewell before he departs, leaving me to become more familiar with my new device. The room feels quieter as he steps away, his presence lingering like a soft whisper.

He still has several meetings to attend, and he’s leaving me alone for a few hours, the air filled with a sense of loneliness and solitude, while he ventures out with Adrian and Kenzo. Sighing, I grab a bottle of water and make myself comfortable on the large couch, cuddling up with one of the blankets from the closet as I scroll through my phone.

I’m thrilled to discover that he has downloaded a reading app just for me. With a grin, I eagerly select a romance novel and dive into its pages. Soon, I am lost. Lost in the dark, gritty underworld of Matthew Rizzo’s world, a notorious mob boss who rules the streets of Chicago with an iron fist.

His seductive power and his fierce authority have me spiraling down a vortex of danger. This isn’t even my reality, yet I’ve become intertwined with the raw allure he holds. Immersed in his world, caught up in their twisted mafia romance.

My eyes dart across each word, each sentence, drinking in the intoxicating narrative like a deliciously dangerous elixir. Pages fly by as though they are seconds ticking away, yet each one etches itself vividly into my mind; painting a bewitching tableau of ruthless men and their daring loves.

His fingers dance across Silvia’s moonlit skin as if it were his own personal canvas. The description of their forbidden tryst sends chills racing down my spine, lighting a strange warmth deep within me. I can’t help but mirror heremotions as if they are my own—she is just as fiery and vulnerable as me.

The room around me spins into a blurry background while Silvia’s encounters intertwine with my imagination. Matthew’s magnetic pull draws me closer, and for a fleeting moment, I harbor a longing to be Silvia, to feel his rough edges against my eager skin.

“God,” I murmur softly, unaware of how tightly I’m gripping my phone. “Why can’t this be real?” The weight of that longing is more intense than I expected. Although I’m experiencing my own mafia story with Vitali, unlike the mob boss in my novel who would sacrifice everything for his beloved, I am merely a pawn to my husband.

I drop my phone onto my lap and let out a heavy sigh.

As I glance out the large window beside me, I’m surprised to see the sun much lower in the sky than I anticipated. How long have I been engrossed in reading?

My eyes find the clock on the wall—it’s almost dinnertime. The room is now cloaked in a dim haze, the morning sun replaced by the relentless passage of time. I’ve spent hours absorbed in Matthew Rizzo’s perilous world, and the thought makes my stomach churn.

The entire day has slipped away. Have I squandered it? Or perhaps, in this lonely and shadowed existence, it was the best way to pass the time. Immersing myself in a world far removed from my own. After all, real life in the mafia isn’t nearly as thrilling. Maybe experiencing Silvia’s bittersweet romance with Matthew Rizzo wasn’t such a waste after all.

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