Page 1 of Dangerous Vows

PIETRO

BLOOD IN THE WINE

The bar smells like old wood and stronger wine—the kind that stains your lips and warms your stomach. I sit in the corner, my back to the wall, a glass of deep red in my hand. The grapes come from the old vineyard on the other side of Palermo, a place that’s been pressing wine longer than some countries have existed. It tastes like home. It just happens to be our wine, but that’s beside the point.

I glance around the familiar pub as I swirl the glass, watching the way the candlelight catches the rich color, the way the liquid coats the sides like blood clinging to a blade. The low murmur of Sicilian voices fills the room—old men arguing about the traditional sport of futbol—we call it Calico. Younger men talk business in hushed tones as if their deals aren’t already known by someone more powerful—like me.

Then, there’s a voice that doesn’t belong.

Loud. Slurred. Dripping with disrespect.

I don’t look immediately. I don’t have to. The tension in the air thickens, charged current crackling through the room as people shift in their seats. Eyes flick toward the source of the problem—a man in his mid-thirties stands. His gut is straining against his stained shirt, and his eyes are half-lidded. I know he’s had way too many drinks. He leers at the woman beside him, his other half judging by the wedding band on her hand.

“Shut your mouth,” he says. His words are thick, and his tone is loud enough to draw attention.

His mistake isn’t speaking. His mistake is who he’s speaking to.

The woman stiffens, shifting uncomfortably on her stool, her hands tightening around her glass. Her husband’s face is red, and his fists are clenched, but he doesn’t move. He’s a man without the self-esteem to be a man. He’s belittling a woman, and he reminds me of my father. I remember how he tried this shit with my sister, Bianca.

Is it fear that keeps him in check? Or wisdom. Because this man, the drunk one, works for someone, everyone here does.

Except me.

I set my glass down with a confidentthunk, and it cuts through the air like a gunshot because the room holds its breath.

I push back my chair and stand, rolling the cuffs of my Tom Ford shirt. My muscular forearms are exposed, and my tattoos dance in the dim light. My jacket is draped over the back of the chair, but I won’t need it.

The man notices me now, blinking through his stupor as I step forward. He looks me over, sizing me up, then scoffs.

“Che cazzo vuoi?” he mutters.What the fuck do you want?

I glance at his wife and nod. Her eyes are silently pleading with me not to make a scene, but I can’t help myself.

I don’t answer. Instead, I motion toward the door with a tilt of my chin. “Outside, asshole.”

He snorts, but there’s hesitation in the way his fingers twitch around his drink as he drains the glass. “Why don’t you sit down and mind your own?—”

I move fast, gripping the back of his neck as I drag him off the stool.

The wooden legs screech against the floor as he stumbles forward, and he uses his large hands as if they will help him regain his balance. No one moves. Everyone knows me and where I stand. Unfortunately, he’s inebriated, and he’s forgotten who he’s angered. It’s his terrible timing that does him in.

He knows how this works.

And no one will stop me.

I shove him toward the door, giving him just enough room to walk on his own. If he runs, he’ll make it worse for himself.

Outside, the night air is thick, carrying the sea’s salt. The street is empty, save for a stray cat watching from the shadows. It meows and disappears behind a dumpster as if it knows what’s coming.

The man turns, stumbling, fury mixing with confusion. “You don’t even know who I am.”

I roll my shoulders, pushing up my rolled sleeves and stepping toward him with my fist. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I work for?—”

I don’t let him finish.

The first punch is quick, a straight shot to the gut that doubles him over. The second is across his jaw, sending him sideways against the stone wall. His head cracks against the uneven brick, and he groans. His hands are pawing for something—balance, maybe mercy.

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