Page 8 of Dangerous Vows

I am the only daughter of Stefano, and it didn’t take long for Miloš Petrovic to come sniffing around. It appears my life has been forfeited formy uncle’s dirty deeds, namely, blowing the human trafficking enterprise in which they were involved. When the deal was made, concessions had to be made, and I was the conciliatory gift for the Serbs.

My father told me I had to marry Miloš’s brother, Vukan. Not only is he a product of a culture and world I don’t understand, but he’s too old for me. But the Serbs are ruthless, more so than the Italians. Needless to say, my refusal went over like a downed periscope.

“If my father had a heart attack, it might slow down the men looking for me.” I’m just spitballing as I think out loud. I have no idea how all the inner workings of the mafia work.

She grins as she loops her arm through mine. “Let’s give him a real reason to be pissed then,” she says with a mischievous look in her eye.

Sarah was the “It Girl” when we were kids. She had the latest fashions and was always on top of every trend as it emerged. The fact that she’s changed and is still so down-to-earth still amazes me. She’s a beacon of hope for anyone seeking to break free from family traditions. We’re both proof that we don’t have to follow in our parents’ footsteps.

We hit the pavement. I love how it glitters under the streetlights as we walk through the crisp New York night. It’s spring, but it’s still at war with winter, and a chilly wind blows my dress around my thighs.

Sarah, ever the mastermind, has picked the perfect place—Velluto—a high-end lounge where the cheapest cocktail costs more than our weekly grocery bill. It’s a place I could never afford, which means my father’s people would never look for me here. They know I haven’t touched my trust fund.

Sarah hails a cab, and after we crawl in, she gives the address. The taxi speeds into the night, filled with the promise of debauchery. Maybe I’ll let my guard down and make some bad decisions. I’ve always been a straight arrow—a good girl, and look where it’s gotten me.

I’m sitting in the crosshairs of two warring mafia families, both of whom want to slap a ring on my finger and lock me in another cage with no promise of parole.

The taxi comes to a stop, and after Sarah pays the cabbie, we slide out and our feet hit the pavement. We take a brief walk and are greetedby a massive line of partiers waiting to get in. Sarah grabs my hand and pulls me to the head of the line amid the jeers and middle fingers of the clubbers impatiently waiting.

Sarah’s job as an airline stewardess has some perks. She’s savvy with the inner workings of the New Yorker socialites and has connections in all the right places. And tonight, I’m reaping the benefits. Sarah gives the bouncer a name, and after he gives us a once-over, because he’s a dude and we’re young, single women who are wearing dresses so short we probably flashed everyone just getting out of the cab, he lets us in. He lifts the velvet rope, and we duck under it.

Inside, the air is thick with expensive perfume and the sight of money well spent. Plush red velvet booths line the walls, crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow, and the people? They’re the kind who don’t check price tags.

A waiter sweeps by, offering champagne. I take a flute, swirling the golden liquid before taking a slow sip. It’s a subtle reminder of the world I left behind—one where glasses like these were set in front of me at a young age without an explanation. I abandoned all that, yet here I am, slipping back into it for a night.

“Dance floor?” Sarah nudges me, already swaying to the low thrum of music pulsing through the space. I drain my glass in two gulps, licking a drop from my lip. What can I say? I love champagne—and I can handle my liquor just fine.

The night’s chill doesn’t stand a chance. The warmth spreads through me, lowering my inhibitions. Now, I’m warm—in all the right places.

I exhale, setting down my glass. “Why not?”

We move through the crowd and join the bodies pressing close under the dim golden light. The bass vibrates over my skin, and I let go for the first time in months. I let the music take over, let my hips move in time, and let myself be just another girl in a sea of faces. Not a Moretti. I’m not a girl on the run. Just a woman out for a night, she might regret it in the morning. I’m young and dressed for a night of sin.

What’s one more reckless decision?

I have nothing to lose.

I’m immersed in the music as Sarah, and I dance to the newest song, and I smile. I’m free and living in the moment. This is what it’s like to be normal, and I’m relishing every minute of it.

I turn, close my eyes, and run my hands down my body suggestively.

Then, I feel it—a prickle at the back of my neck.

I slow, turning my head just enough to scan the room. Nothing obvious. Just the usual mix of people—men in suits sipping whiskey, women draped in designer dresses, and laughter echoing off marble walls. It’s all so normal. But I know better. I know when I’m being watched.

Sarah leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “Something wrong?”

I shake my head, but the feeling doesn’t fade. My father would never step foot in a place like this, but his people? They wouldn’t hesitate. I remind myself I’ve been careful.

We even took an indirect route here tonight, going a mile out of our way, to avoid a tail. I don’t use my real name anywhere. But paranoia is a shadow that never really leaves; tonight, it’s whispering in my ear.

But it’s my night, and I refuse to hide. It would be safe to leave, but I say fuck it. Ride or die.

So, I tip my chin up, smirk my lips, and keep dancing. If someone’s watching, let them. Let them report that Stefano Moretti’s runaway daughter is alive and unbothered, sipping champagne in a dress that screamsuntouchable.

Let him wonder how long I’ll keep slipping through his fingers.

Tonight, I’m free.

---