Page 52 of Bloody Vows
I’ll wonder forever if I don’t go. If there was an escape, and I didn’t take it.
My mind is made up long before I close my laptop and head back downstairs.
—
The next day,I dress carefully for lunch. I put on a long, slinky black maxi dress with a palm-frond design, a slit up one side, and thin straps. It’s flattering but not seductive, and I put my hair up, knowing that it shows off my slender neck and sharp collarbones but appears more professional. I keep my jewelry simple, put on a pair of espadrilles, and grab a straw clutch.
And then I head downstairs to ask for my security team.
Vitto, of course, is the one I have to talk to. He raises an eyebrow when I tell him I'm going out for lunch.
"Boss said you were to stay close to home while he's away."
"I'm going to lunch, not fleeing the country," I reply coolly. "And unless I'm mistaken, I'm still a free woman, despite what my husband might think. He said I could leave the house as long as I had the security he chose for me along with me. So, call them up."
Vitto looks at me, a flicker of irritation on his face, but he nods. I feel a rush of victory—at least I’m not completely powerless. Vitto might not want to obey me, but I’m Tristan’s wife, and he still has to listen.
“I’ll be coming along,” he says as he radios the other men. My jaw tightens instantly.
“Are you part of my security team?”
Amusement flickers at the corners of his mouth, which only pisses me off more. “You should be more respectful,” I snap, but he ignores me.
“Mr. O’Malley said that I should keep a close eye on you. Can’t do that if I’m not with you.”
I huff out a sharp breath. “Fine. But I need to go. I’m meeting a friend, and I’m going to be late.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a car headed downtown, Vitto in the passenger seat up front. The rest of the team is taking a separate car. When we get to Sol’s, a Spanish tapas restaurant, I pause as I step out of the car.
“You can all wait outside. I’m not going to have you hovering over me.”
Vitto’s mouth thins. “Ma’am, I don’t think...”
“You can call Tristan if you want. But right now, you answer to me. And I want privacy for my lunch.”
It’s a bluff. If he calls Tristan, I have no doubt that Tristan will tell him to sit right fucking behind me at lunch, which won’t work for this meeting at all. But I’m betting that he won’t want to interrupt whatever very important business Tristan is doing in Vegas.
It’s a bet that pays off. Vitto gives me a sharp nod, stepping away to relay instructions to the rest of the team. As he does, I walk into the cool, sleek interior of the restaurant, my pulse beating quickly in my throat.
The drive downtown gave me time to think about what Enzo might want. We met a few times before my father's death, formal meetings to discuss the potential marriage arrangement, always with my father in attendance. He'd been perfectly polite, even charming in a traditional sort of way. Everything a mafia princess should want in a husband—refined, connected, Italian. He wasn’t handsome, but he was polite, and I thought he might treat me respectfully.
He’s everything Tristan isn't.
But those meetings feel like a lifetime ago now. Before I knew what it felt like to have a man's hands on me, before I understood the difference between polite conversation and the electric tension that crackles between Tristan and me even when we're fighting.
Especiallywhen we're fighting.
Sol’s is busy with the lunch crowd, but I spot Enzo immediately. He's sitting at a corner table, looking every inch the sophisticated Italian businessman in his perfectly tailored suit. His dark hair is styled back away from his face, his soft jaw clean-shaven. When he sees me, he stands, that familiar polite smile spreading across his face.
"Simone. You look beautiful."
"Thank you." I let him kiss both my cheeks in the traditional greeting. His cologne smells old-fashioned, nothing like the crisp, modern scent of Tristan’s. Tristan always smells like a cool mist on a warm day, fresh and faintly salty. Enzo’s cologne is heavy, as if he inherited that from his father along with his wealth.
He pulls out my chair, ever the gentleman, and I sit down. The waiter appears instantly, as if he were waiting in the wings for me to arrive.
"Wine?" Enzo asks.
I smile. “I’d love a glass of red.”
