Page 13 of Bloody Vows
Truthfully, I don’t want to marry anyone. But that’s not a choice I’ve ever been given, or was ever going to be given.
I am not the kind of woman who gets aroused by dominant, dangerous men. I've always preferred sophistication over brutality, elegance over raw masculinity. The men I've noticed in the past were cultured, refined, the kind who could discuss art and literature over dinner at the finest restaurants. And even then, I’ve never really felt anything for them, only a sense that I could bear being around them, if necessary. Until I met Tristan O’Malley, I had no awareness of what being aroused by someone might feel like… and I refuse to think that he’s the one who brought that out of me.
Tristan O'Malley is everything I despise. He's rough instead of refined, raw instead of sophisticated. He's the kind of man who takes what he wants without asking, who sees women as conquests rather than equals. He's exactly the sort of primitive, knuckle-dragging caveman I've always sworn I'd never let touch me, even if I had to argue with my father endlessly to prevent it.
Now, if I don’t surrender to him, I’ll die.
I push myself up from the chair and begin pacing the length of the library, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor.There has to be a way out of this. There has to be some alternative I'm not seeing.
I could run. Take whatever cash I can get my hands on and disappear, start over somewhere far from Miami where neither Konstantin nor the O'Malleys could find me. But I'd be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, and I'd be giving up everything my father built, everything that makes me who I am. I have no idea how to survive on my own, or how to evade the kind of men Konstantin would send after me. I knew that earlier, when the idea first occurred to me.
I could refuse and take my chances. Maybe Konstantin is bluffing. Maybe he wouldn't really kill me over this. But I saw the look in his eyes when he delivered his ultimatum, and I know better than to bet my life on maybes. The Russians are brutal, and Konstantin is not a man to be tested, diplomat or no.
I could try to make a deal with someone else, find another family willing to take me in and protect me. But who? With my father and Don Genovese both dead, Konstantin is the undisputed power in Miami. Anyone who went against his wishes would be signing their own death warrant. No one will go against him, no matter how much they want me or what comes with me.
No matter how I look at it, I keep coming back to the same horrible conclusion: I have no choice. None at all.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, and I have to grip the edge of a bookshelf to keep my knees from buckling and taking me down. This is really happening. Tomorrow, I'm going to have to look Tristan O'Malley in the eye and agree to marry him. I'm going to have to sign the betrothal papers and pretend I'm grateful for the privilege.
The anger is shifting now, morphing into something darker and more desperate. This isn't fair. I've spent my entire life being the perfect daughter, following the rules, accepting my place inthis world without complaint. I've been dutiful and obedient and everything a mafia princess is supposed to be, and this is what I get in return?
A forced marriage to a man who sees me as property?
A life of submission to someone who doesn't even pretend to care about my feelings?
The loss of everything I am, everything I might have been, given away to a fuckingIrishman?
"It's not fair," I whisper, and the words sound pathetic even to my own ears. Since when has fairness ever been part of this world? But I thought, at least, I would marry another mafia heir. A man my father respected. A manIcould respect.
And then it hits me, all over again, that my father was not really a man I could respect, either. That someone he chose wouldn’t have been. That all along, no matter the outcome, my choices have been complete and utter shit.
I sink back into the chair and let my head fall into my hands. The fight is draining out of me, leaving behind a hollow ache that feels almost worse than the rage. At least anger gave me energy, gave me the illusion that I could somehow fight this. But this just feels like defeat.
Or acceptance, maybe. The stages of grief. I almost laugh out loud.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "Simone?" Nora's voice is gentle, concerned. "May I come in?"
I quickly wipe my eyes and straighten my shoulders. "Come in."
Nora enters carrying a tray with a cup of tea and a small plate of cookies, her weathered face creased with worry. She's been with our family since before I was born, more of a mother to me than my own ever had the chance to be. If anyone deserves to know what's happening, it's her.
"I thought you might need this," she says, setting the tray on the desk. "You missed dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to keep your strength up." She settles into the chair across from me, her dark eyes studying my face with the kind of penetrating gaze that comes with age. "Tell me what happened today."
I want to lie, to make up some story about business meetings and estate planning. But I've never been able to hide anything from Nora, and I don't have the energy to try now.
"Konstantin gave me an ultimatum," I say flatly. "Marry the Irishman he picked for me, or die."
Nora's face doesn't change, but I see her hands tighten in her lap. "And what did you tell him?"
"That I need time to think. He gave me twenty-four hours. But we both know there's only one answer I can give."
"The O'Malley boy," she says thoughtfully, then chuckles when I look at her with surprise. “What? I hear things. The staff tells me what they hear, too. And I caught a glimpse of him. He's handsome enough."
I let out a bitter laugh. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
