The Mafia's Stolen Vow

THE MAFIA'S STOLEN VOWS Dark Mafia Romance | Forced Marriage | Revenge | Obsession CHAPTER ONE My Father's Last Lesson The first man I ever killed died believing I was afraid of him. The second died believing I was harmless. The third never saw me coming. My father taught me that the most dangerous person in any room was rarely the loudest. He taught me to lower my eyes, soften my voice, and let arrogant men believe they were smarter than me. “People protect themselves against what frightens them, Isabella,” he used to say. “But they invite what looks harmless into their homes.” I was twenty-four when I finally understood why he'd spent my entire childhood teaching me how to become a ghost. And I was standing beside his grave when I discovered that he'd prepared me for a war he wouldn't live to see. The rain fell steadily over the cemetery, soaking the black dress clinging to my body. Around me, mourners whispered beneath their umbrellas. Men in expensive suits pretended to grieve. Women with diamond necklaces dabbed at dry eyes. Nobody was crying as hard as I was expected to. I tried. God, I tried. But my tears wouldn't come. My father was dead, and all I could think about was the bullet hole in the driver's window of his car, the overturned vehicle, and the fact that the police had called it an accident before his body was even cold. My father had enemies. Too many to count. Yet he had always promised me that no one would dare touch me while he was alive. Now he was gone. And I had a terrible feeling that someone had been waiting for exactly this moment. “Miss Vale?” I turned. A man in a charcoal suit stood behind me, holding a black umbrella. I recognized him as one of my father's lawyers, Mr. Bennett. He'd attended our house for years, though my father never allowed me to sit in on their meetings. He looked uncomfortable. “Your father left something for you,” he said. He handed me a small envelope. My name was written across the front in my father's unmistakable handwriting. Isabella. I pressed the envelope against my chest. “Did he tell you what it was?” “No.” “Did he say when I should open it?” Mr. Bennett hesitated. “Only after the funeral.” I looked at the freshly covered grave. My father had always been a man of secrets. Even in death, he couldn't seem to stop giving me orders. I slipped the envelope into my handbag. “Thank you.” He nodded, but he didn't leave immediately. “There is something else,” he said. “You should go home as soon as possible. And whatever happens tonight, don't open the front door to anyone unless you know who they are.” A chill crept beneath my skin. “Why?” He glanced over my shoulder. For one brief moment, fear crossed his face. Then he walked away without answering. I watched him disappear among the mourners. That was when I noticed the black car parked beyond the cemetery gates. It had been there since the service began. Its windows were tinted. Its engine was running. I couldn't see the person inside. But I had the uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching me. I lowered my eyes and walked toward my car. My father had taught me never to stare at a threat unless I was ready to deal with it. --- At seven thirty that evening, I opened my father's envelope. I was alone in the enormous house where I'd grown up, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of untouched tea beside me. The house felt different without him. Too quiet. Too empty. His reading glasses still rested beside the newspaper in his study. His favorite coat hung near the front door. A half-finished bottle of whiskey stood on the shelf. Ordinary things. Little pieces of a life that had ended too suddenly. I unfolded the letter. My darling Isabella, If you're reading this, then I have failed to keep my promise. I told you that you would never have to become what I made you capable of becoming. I wanted you to have an ordinary life. I wanted you to fall in love with a good man, build a family, and grow old without ever having to use the things I taught you. I'm sorry. My fingers tightened around the paper. I continued reading. There are things about our family that I should have told you years ago. I was afraid that the truth would destroy the little girl I wanted to protect. That fear was my greatest mistake. Your life is in danger. Do not trust the police. Do not trust anyone who claims to be protecting our family. And whatever you do, Isabella, never let Dante Moretti see what you really are. I stopped breathing. Dante Moretti. Even people who knew nothing about the criminal world knew his name. Thirty-one years old. Head of the Moretti empire. A man whose business interests stretched across the city and whose enemies had a habit of disappearing. My father had forbidden me from asking about him. When I was seventeen, I'd found a newspaper article about the Moretti family's war with another criminal organization. My father had taken the paper from me and locked himself in his study for three hours. When I finally worked up the courage to ask why, he'd given me an answer I never forgot. “Some families destroy everything they touch, Isabella. The Morettis are one of them.” And now his final letter was warning me about their heir. I read the last paragraph. If Dante comes for you, listen to what he offers. Do not believe what he tells you. And remember the last lesson I taught you. Never let a man decide whether you survive. The letter slipped from my fingers. For several seconds, I sat perfectly still. Then I heard the doorbell. Once. Twice. I looked at the clock. Seven forty-three. Mr. Bennett's warning returned to me. Don't open the front door to anyone unless you know who they are. The bell rang again. I stood, crossed the kitchen, and checked the security monitor beside the hallway. A man stood outside. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a black suit that fit him like it had been made for his body. His dark hair was slicked back, and his expression was so cold that even the camera seemed unable to soften it. Two men stood behind him. The visitor looked directly into the camera. As though he knew I was watching. My phone vibrated. An unknown number. I opened the message. Do not let Dante Moretti inside. Before I could process the words, another message arrived. If he asks about your father, lie. I stared at the screen. Then the doorbell rang a final time. I could have stayed where I was. I could have called the police, hidden in my father's study, or slipped through the back entrance. Instead, I walked to the front door and opened it. The man on the other side looked down at me. “Isabella Vale?” I swallowed. “Yes.” “Dante Moretti.” As if I could have mistaken him for anyone else. He removed one black leather glove, then reached into his jacket. My body tensed. His gaze dropped briefly to my hands. “You're frightened.” It wasn't a question. “I've just buried my father,” I whispered. “I'm not sure what you expected.” For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not sympathy. Interest. “I expected you to be smarter than to open the door to a stranger.” “You introduced yourself.” One of the men behind him glanced at his companion. Dante didn't look away from me. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his mouth lifted. It wasn't a smile. It was the expression of a man who had discovered something mildly entertaining in a world that rarely surprised him. “May I come in?” I should have refused. Instead, I stepped aside. He entered the house as if he already owned it. Perhaps, in his mind, he did. --- Dante stood in my father's study while I remained beside the door. He didn't touch anything at first. He simply looked around the room, studying the shelves, the desk, and the framed photographs. Then his eyes settled on a picture of my father and me taken when I was twelve. “Your father was a difficult man to understand,” he said. “You knew him?” “Better than you think.” I hated the way he said it. As if he knew something about my father that I never would. “Why are you here?” Dante turned. “To make you an offer.” “I don't want anything from you.” “That's unfortunate.” He placed a folder on the desk. “Your father owed my family a considerable amount of money. He also possessed something that belongs to me.” “My father wasn't a thief.” “No,” Dante replied. “He was something much more dangerous.” I stared at him. “What does that mean?” “It means that the man you buried today left behind problems you aren't equipped to handle.” Anger rose in my chest, hot enough to make me forget my carefully rehearsed fear. “You don't get to come into my home and insult him.” The room went silent. Dante studied me for a long moment. Then he took a step closer. I forced myself not to move. “There's the girl I came to meet,” he murmured. My heart struck hard against my ribs. “What do you want?” He opened the folder. Inside lay a marriage contract. My name appeared beside his. For several seconds, I couldn't understand what I was looking at. Then the words became clear. Marriage. One year. Confidentiality. Obligations. A financial settlement. I looked up at him. “Is this a joke?” “I don't joke about marriage.” “You expect me to marry you?” “I expect you to understand the position your father left you in.” He turned a page. “Your family's debts will be settled. Your property will remain yours. You will be protected from the people who are currently searching for you.” “Protected from whom?” Dante's expression hardened. “That's not a question you want answered tonight.” “Then I won't sign anything.” He closed the folder. “You will.” The quiet certainty in his voice frightened me more than a threat would have. I looked toward the front door. His men were still there. Then I looked at the contract. My father had warned me that Dante would come. He'd told me to listen to the offer. He'd never told me to accept it. “Why me?” I asked. Dante didn't answer immediately. He walked toward the desk and picked up the photograph of my father and me. “Because your father stole something from my family twenty years ago.” “What?” “A truth.” He put the photograph down. “And you're going to help me recover it.” I shook my head. “I don't know anything about your family.” “Then you'll have nothing to hide when I ask you questions.” He slid a pen across the desk. “Sign.” I stared at it. My hands began to tremble. Not because I was afraid of Dante. Because I was beginning to understand that my father's death hadn't been the end of something. It had been the beginning. I picked up the pen. Dante watched me with the unwavering attention of a predator observing an unfamiliar animal. “You're not going to ask for time to think about it?” he asked. I lowered my eyes. “I don't have anyone else.” It was the perfect answer. It was also a lie. I had spent years learning how to recognize the moment a person stopped seeing me as a threat. Dante had just reached that moment. I signed my name. He took the contract, examined the signature, and closed the folder. “Good girl.” The words made something cold move through me. I raised my eyes. “Don't call me that.” His expression changed. Only slightly. But I saw it. The surprise. The interest. The first tiny crack in his certainty. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping until only I could hear him. “Careful, Isabella. You have no idea what you've just agreed to.” I looked at the man who had come to claim my future. And smiled. Just a little. “Neither do you, Mr. Moretti.” For the first time that evening, Dante said nothing. --- He left twenty minutes later. His car disappeared through the gates, and the house fell silent again. I waited until the sound of the engine had faded before returning to the study. Then I locked the door. I crossed to my father's desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and removed the small brass key hidden beneath a false panel. The key fit a lock beneath the desk. Inside was a black metal box. I opened it. A photograph lay on top. My father stood beside a younger Dante Moretti, both men dressed in dark suits. They were not smiling. On the back, in my father's handwriting, were four words. The night we made the deal. Beneath the photograph lay a second letter. I unfolded it with hands that no longer trembled. Isabella, If Dante has married you, then the first part of my plan has succeeded. But if you are reading this, it means I am dead, and the person who killed me may already know what you are. You must find the original ledger before Dante does. Because the truth about his father's murder is not what he believes. I stopped. The final lines were written in darker ink, as though my father had pressed the pen harder against the paper. And if Dante ever discovers who killed his brother, he will come for you. Not because he hates you. Because he will believe that loving you was the greatest mistake of his life. I lowered the letter. Outside, somewhere beyond the gates, a car horn sounded in the distance. I thought about Dante's cold eyes. His certainty. The way he'd looked at me when I told him not to call me a good girl. He believed he had just married a frightened woman with a dead father and a mountain of problems. He believed he had purchased a year of my life. He believed I was the easiest way to get revenge. He was wrong about all three. My father had spent my childhood teaching me how to survive men like Dante Moretti. I folded the letter and placed it inside my dress. Then I opened the black box once more. At the bottom lay a small photograph I'd never seen before. It showed a woman with my eyes standing beside Dante's father. On the back were two words. His mother. And beneath them, a date. The date of my birth. I stared at the photograph until the truth began to take shape in my mind.