Page 33 of Possessive Vows

My chest tightens as she wars within herself. I don’t know what demons she fights, but they give her many woes.

Moving on instinct, I pivot and press my back to the driver’s door. When her shoulders relax, so does the band around my chest.

The silent thanks she gives me as she meets my eyes is the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.

She walks past me with her shoulders rolled back and her gaze on her brother.

Fury rolls through me when I notice a bruise forming on her nape from her mother’s hand.

I didn’t show up fast enough. I failed her.

It won’t happen again.

I meet Giorgio’s stare over Camilla’s head. He quirks a brow. I flick a glance at Camilla and lift my hand to my nape.

A feminine voice calls from deeper in the house. Camilla rushes forward. Giorgio smiles and steps back to give her room to go to her sister, but his expression turns serious the moment he sees her bruises.

Discomfort flows through me as Camilla disappears from view. Even though we’re among the people she trusts, neither of us has been here before, and I can’t protect her when she’s out of arm’s reach.

“What did you do?” Giorgio demands in a low voice meant only for my ears.

“Not me. Bianca Vivaldi,” I say.

Storm clouds form in Giorgio’s eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I will hear this from Camilla,” he decides.

I nod.

I have never met Giorgio Vivaldi before, in fact, the few texts we exchanged overnight are the first time I’ve ever interacted with him, but no one who wants to survive in the mafia—whether from Russia or New York City—would stay ignorant of players as prominent as either of us. We’ve been aware of each other’s existence ever since Giorgio was born twenty-six years ago.

My father announced the Vivaldi heir’s birth when I was fifteen and already steeped in training to becomeubiytsafor my family. The Vivaldis’ first child was a girl and therefore not the heir they’d hoped for.

My balls shrivel as I realize Camilla is only a year older than Giorgio, which means she’s fourteen years younger than I am. I do not feel old, but we are from different generations.

I will use the experience I’ve gained throughout my years to protect her.

Giorgio uncrosses his arms and extends his hand to greet me with a handshake.

I take it.

We may not know each other, but God intertwined our fates and neither of us has wasted time since our worlds collided yesterday. He has no doubt learned as much as he could about me and my family in the interim.

“Thank you for keeping Camilla safe. We weren’t aware of the blind spot in the garden,” he says.

I nod.

He gestures for me to enter his home and turns his back to me to lead the way. The trust—and challenge—in his movement is not lost on me.

I shut the garage door behind me and follow him to the living room. Camilla sits on the couch with an infant in her lap and her sister plastered against her side. Two other women sit on the coffee table with their knees touching those sitting on the couch, and a young boy kneels on the floor by Camilla’s other side, everyone’s attention focused solely on the infant in Camilla’s lap.

My heart squeezes at the joy, wonder, and misery in Camilla’s gaze.

Nico Russo stands between the couch and the upholstered chair nearest his wife. His consigliere—Ermanno Mancini—sizes me up from behind the furthest chair while Giorgio’s consigliere—Fiero Capito—leans against the railing at the bottom of the stairs.

They’ve set up a protective perimeter around the females and youngsters. I approve.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Fiero stands and offers me his hand. I match his firm grip and accept his vigilance when he gives me a once-over.

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