Page 21 of Hateful Vows
I clench my jaw and look at the crowd but she steps right in front of me. Lucie takes hold of my hands.
“This isn’t real,” she murmurs, so low only I can hear her. “But you and I both know the price of being a survivor.”
Something passes between us as we regard each other. I don’t know what it is. And considering I’ve never had a friend, it’s hard to compare our strange interaction with anything I’ve lived before but my respect for her grows. And the knowledge that her marriage with Aleksei is fake makes me hate her just a little less.
Maybe that’s enough.
Everyone’s face is grave in the chapel, but none more than Aleksei. Yet, he does his duty, impassible and unfeeling. Lucie and him exchange pre-written vows in a monotone voice that betrays their lack of enthusiasm but no one seems to care.
“You may kiss the bride,” the priest says and I avert my gaze.
People clap forcefully, then we’re out of the church.
A gentle hand lands on my back and Dante stirs me towards a town car that will take us to the venue for tonight’s dinner, making me feel just a little more stable on my feet.
I just hope no one gets killed tonight. Or maybe I do.
TEN
DANTE
The atmosphere in the dining room of the restaurant, one of the very few that isn’t owned by any known crime families, is tense.
And people have fucking moved the tables I spent hours organising, and no one is respecting my seating plan. I’d kill every last one of them, but then mamma would be sad. And I can’t kill all my cousins, uncles, and capos, or our new Russian allies. Yet. At least, the dull, modern furniture looks a little brighter with all the flowers I had my wedding planner order and display everywhere. The bouts of luminous colours make the whole thing a little less depressing.
I always knew I would have an arranged marriage but why did everyone have to dress up like it’s a funeral? Especially on the Russian side.
Irina sits next to me at the main table, Aleksei on the other side, and Lucie next to him. They both look at the Bratva side with dark looks. Aleksei even set his gun on the table in a clear message. Anyone who makes trouble will pay the ultimate price.
“Who’s the lovely bride? She’s so pretty. Who is she marrying, Dante?” my mother asks and I tense. In the corner ofmy eyes, Irina leans forward. She isn’t smiling but her eyes are kind as she addresses my mother, seated next to me.
“I’m Irina, Mrs Ventura. I’m the lucky one marrying your son.”
I snort.
“My son?” My mother’s brow dips but then her eyes clear. “Of course,carina. Forgive me, I’m not like myself today. So many emotions.” She kisses my cheek and I signal to her driver to take her home.
“Is your mother okay?”
“She’s fine,” I snap. “Eat.”
“Don’t make me stab you with my fork,kozyol.”
Just like that, my foul mood at seeing my mother’s distress eases up.
I looked the word up on the translator app on my phone. It means “goat” in Russian. Many websites said it’s a lower level insult, more affectionate and aimed at mocking men, and their intelligence, but I like it. My little viper of a wife may be insulting me but she’s not calling me something too bad. And some passion is better than indifference. With the way she kissed me back at the altar, I know I’ll have her hooked and back for more in no time.
Already, I’m itching for another kiss. I’ll get drunk on it for as long as she’ll allow it. And if that’s all I ever get, my hand and I are about to get re-acquainted, because there is no way I’d ever touch another woman.
I turn my attention to Irina. She’s chewing the delicious food I selected for our wedding dinner slowly. She thinks I don’t see it when she takes a bite of something new and her shoulders relax when she finds it good. But I do. I watch her throat bob as she swallows and purse my lips, restraining myself from licking a path up the column of her neck. It’s a tragedy that she left it bare. Now that she’s married to me, I want to see her drapedin jewellery I bought for her. She’d look stunning in nothing but a river of diamonds. Seeing the ring on her finger squeezes something inside my chest. It’s a strange feeling. I like it.
“I can’t believe we’re aligning with the fucking Russians,” someone says and I raise my gaze, scanning the crowd of my men. A group of capos that worked closely with my father are huddled together, their faces hunched over in secret. But they’re close enough to be heard.
“It’s a disgrace,” another one adds. His wife tries to shush him, stealing glimpses towards our table and blanching when she sees me looking. If he were smart, he’d listen. But he continues. “Dante’s always liked whores but this is the lowest low. She’s not Italian, she’s an old hag and rumour has it she shags foot soldiers on a regular basis.”
“Maybe he’ll let us try her out, too, then.”
I’m up in seconds, pulling my gun out of its holster under my suit jacket and firing at the last asshole, right at the back of his fucking head. Brain matter and blood splash on his comrades’ faces, who look up in fear. A few women scream and everyone jumps up.
