Page 32 of Vow to Corrupt You
“So,” she says, swallowing hard and gazing at her bleeding palm. “What was the point of that?”
“I told you. It’s a tradition.” With my hand on the small of her back, I lead her to the restroom so she can wash the blood from her hand and tend to her cut. “Each Don or Donna who marries is to introduce their spouse to the society. Marriage is considered something sacred in our world. That way, I don’t have to keep the society a secret from you.”
“Lie to me.”
“Exactly.”
We enter the restroom, and I turn on the water for her, gently pulling her palm under the running water—the crimson red of her blood contrasts sharply with the white sink.
“Did your initiation look the same?” she glances at me.
“No,” I smirk at the memory, of all the torture I had to go through to prove I was worthy of being a member. “Far from it.” I turn off the faucet and grab a towel, drying her hand. “It was very brutal and difficult. It was a process that took many months during which I had tasks to fulfill. I even had to kill and endure so much pain that many before me had given up.”
She swallows. “Is that why you have the scars on your body?”
My jaw hardens. “No. At least not all of them.”
“I see.” She presses the towel to her hand. “Then why was it so easy with me? Why did they trust me so easily?”
“Because I, the fully initiated God, chose you as my wife.” Her eyes flicker between mine like small, restless flames. “I vouch for you.”
“Aren’t you scared I will betray you? The society?”
“Even if you don’t care about me, I know you care too much about your family to betray me or the society.”
She nods, and her gaze drops to her hand. “I think it stopped bleeding.”
I take the towel from her and caress her palm. “Perfect.”
For the next half hour, the members of the society extend their congratulations on our nuptials and welcome Serena to the society. Eventually, Serena engages herself in a conversation with Oskar Wilczynski, Polish Mafia leader, Alexei Morozov, the boss of Russian bratva, and his wife, while I talk to Aric over a glass of whiskey.
“Do you trust her?” He takes a casual sip, but a tense pause follows.
“What do you mean by that?” My expression hardens, but I show none of the wrath beneath the surface of my cold exterior. “I hope you’re not suggesting there are any doubts about my wife because I’d hate for you to have an enemy in me, Vold.”
A smirk forms on his lips behind the crystal glass while he takes another sip, unmoved by the threat in my voice. “I couldn’t care less who you choose to marry,” he says with a heavy Norse accent. “But others talk. They say it was risky of you to marry an outsider, especially one whose twin brother sought your demise.”
My jaw tightens imperceptibly.
Of course, Vold would be the only one decent enough to tell me to my face rather than whisper behind my back. He’s an honorable man in every sense of the word. He doesn’t waste words and speaks only when necessary, and carries the Nordic coldness with him like a Viking, as they call him, wherever he goes.
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
Aric nods, knowing far too well the implication of my statement. In the world we live in, trust is a luxury none can afford. “Understood,” he murmurs, finishing his drink.
Instinctively, my gaze shifts to Serena, her face as pale as a flake of snow. The Russian spouses or the Polish bachelor no longer in sight. Instead, Rodrigo Castro, a capo of a Colombian drug cartel, says something to my wife, his facial expression screaming anger, hatred.
“No deberías estar aquí, no eres nadie, una perra,” Rodrigo shrieks in Spanish, his voice carrying across the room.
Did the filthy bastard just call my wife a nobody and a bitch?
In an instant, my muscles tighten beneath my tailored suit, my jaw clenching with restrained fury. I didn’t have to grasp the whole meaning to know he’s insulting my wife, and no one insults what’s mine.
Before I can even think, I shove past Aric and seize Rodrigo by the collar of his expensive suit, my grip like a vise as I push him against the nearest wall. The room falls silent, save for the crash of a sculpture of Athena holding an olive branch in her hands, shattering into pieces at our feet.
“Serena is now Mrs. Romano,” I rasp darkly, pinning him with force against the wall. “You will show her the respect she deserves, or you will learn what it means to face my wrath.”
Castro scoffs. He’s known for his arrogance and superiority toward others. He likes to believe he stands above others in power and stature. His bitterness over my rejection of his proposal to merge our families through marriage to his sister fueled his disdain for me and, now, for my wife.
