Page 33 of Brutal Vows

Maybe that is the point.

“Marissa,” Vitali greets her warmly. Fuck, why can’t he ever use that voice with me? Although he hasn’t made goodon his threats about taking my body when he sees fit, I might be inclined to him doing that if he spoke to me in the velvety chocolate tone he’s using with her. “I trust everything is prepared?”

“Of course, Don Vitali.” She refers to him by his title. Her gaze snaps to mine for a moment, her smile souring, before she pastes on another and directs her attention back to the man at my side. “Even the alterations you’ve arranged.”

“Grazie, bellisima.”

Something in me nearly explodes when he calls beautiful. A sensation I have no right to since I am nothing more than his captive and he is nothing more than my jailer. A jailer who will imprison me to him with his ring on my finger. If Vitali De Luca thinks he can force me to marry him and then parade women like thiscagnaaround, he has another thing coming.

“We’ll meet you back here in the morning,” Kenzo tells him. Vitali nods and watches as the two men walk toward a bank of elevators at the other end of the lobby.

Taking my elbow, Vitali drags me in the opposite direction, Dario trailing behind us. We stop in front of a set of golden elevator doors, and Vitali’ssottocapopresses his finger to an unsuspecting fingerprint detector that blends in with the wallpaper. This must be Vitali’s private elevator.

I’m proven right when the doors open and we step inside. There are no buttons. Just like Kenzo’s penthouse, all Dario has to do is place his fingerprint on another pad and the doors close. The elevator hums as it begins its ascent, the ride one of the smoothest I’ve ever taken. Most elevators, even ones this nice, tend to jerk and groan with the weight placed on the loading cables.

Not this one.

“Do you own the hotel?” I ask curiously.

Vitali nods. “This one and several others here.”

This isn’t his territory though. As far as I know, Vitali doesn’t have any power in this part of the country, so it is curious that he owns hotels. Most mafia factions don’t take kindly to having outside factions on their turf, even if it is a legitimate business.

“I thought this was Dashkov territory?”

Vitali gazes down at me in silence, his eyes thoughtful and unreadable, clearly weighing whether it’s worth his time to respond to my question. His expression is a mask, much like the stoic faces I’ve seen countless times before. I won’t be surprised if he chooses the same route my father often took, dismissing me with a casual disregard, or like Elio, who frequently opts for the same, leaving my questions unanswered and my curiosity unquenched.

“It is,” he confirms, stepping off the elevator once the doors open. “But we are all allies, and I often do business with him and the other families in the city. The hotels are mainly for my upper echelon clients, and we give Dashkov a percentage of the profit for doing business here.”

Interesting. My father wouldn’t dare allow another mafia family, ally or not, into his city so casually, even if they were to pay for doing business. I’ve always heard him say that if you feed one stray dog, another will follow.

When he sees that I am not going to ask any more questions, he nods his head to Dario and the two make their way deeper into the penthouse, whispering amongst themselves. And here I am, forgotten—again. I’m beginning to wonder why Vitali wants to make me his wife if he simply ignores me ninety percent of the time.

Then again, being ignored by my husband is better than the alternative my father had in mind. Sighing, I followsilently after them, taking in the grandeur of the suite around me.

My Jimmy Choo’s click against immaculate onyx black marble that glows under the gentle touch of the natural light that flows in through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows offering a stirring panorama of the busy waterfront below.

A flicker of refracted light catches my attention. Tilting my head toward the ceiling, I let out a small gasp at the chandelier dangling overhead. It is graced with countless Swarovski crystals that refract the sunlight into myriads of diamond-like rainbows. Below its glittering gaze is a spacious living area where the walls are swathed in exquisite silk wallpapers in soft academic tones. The furniture–plush velvet sofas crimson as cherries, their wooden fittings burnished and glossy–is arranged meticulously around a colossal fireplace of cut-stone. Nearby sits an age-old grand piano in lustrous black lacquer whose keys look as if they have never been played a day in their life.

Moving further into the space, I notice mahogany bookshelves line one wall full of an assortment of classic works and first editions – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Eliot – while priceless pieces of art decorated every other inch available. Renoirs smile demurely from above fireplaces, Picassos look on quizzically from shadowy alcoves, and Warhols boldly claim entire walls.

At one end is an open-plan kitchen gleaming under slick stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. My stomach takes that moment to announce its discomfort. Glancing around, and not spotting Vitali or Dario, I decide to help myself.

The kitchen is bursting with groceries from a well-stocked refrigerator to the overflowing wine cooler. Unsure if my captor planned on ordering dinner, I make thedecision to whip something up for the three of us. It isn’t hard. My father does like to say that women belong in the kitchen.

Misogynistic pig.

Even so, there’s a certain pleasure in cooking of my own volition, free from the pressure of impressing potential suitors with my culinary prowess for my father’s benefit. With a sense of anticipation, I gather the necessary ingredients and arrange them neatly on the countertop, preparing to make Lemon Chicken Piccata. The task is straightforward, and I find myself immersed in the process, finding a soothing rhythm in the precise slicing of lemons, the crisp chopping of herbs, and the gentle sizzle of chicken searing in the pan. The kitchen fills with the bright, tangy aroma of citrus mingling with the savory notes of garlic and butter, enveloping me in a comforting embrace as I cook.

An hour later, the dining room table is laden with a full dinner spread of the Chicken Piccata, an array of roasted vegetables, and delicate angel hair pasta. Poking through the wine cooler, I snatch a bottle of Pinot Grigio knowing that the acidity of the dry white wine will enhance the flavors of the sauce.

“What is all this, little deer?” Vitali’s velvet smooth voice causes me to startle.

Placing a hand over my thudding heart, I turn away from the table to face the unfairly gorgeous Italian man behind me. Dario whistles when he comes around the corner, catching sight of the spread of food I’ve lain out.

“Damn.” The younger Italian rubs his hands together and licks his lips, eyeing the food hungrily. “This looks good.”

Swallowing hard, I clasp my hands together in front ofme, my fingers twisting nervously. My teeth worry at my bottom lip anxiously.

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