Vows of Violence

Sienna's POV The invitation had called it a masquerade of elegance. To me, it felt like walking into a cage made of gold. Gowns that cost more than my tuition swept across the marble floors. Laughter tinkled like crystal. People didn’t talk—they purred. Everything smelled like money and vintage perfume, the kind that lingered on expensive skin long after the party ended. I adjusted the silver tray in my hands and forced a smile as I passed flutes of champagne to strangers in black masks and diamond cufflinks. My name tag was tucked away. My shoes pinched. The corset-style uniform made it hard to breathe. But the money? It would cover three weeks of rent. And that’s what mattered. A soft jazz quartet played from a balcony above. Velvet curtains draped the windows. Candles glowed in antique holders. If sin had a scent, this place wore it like a second skin. “Eyes down, mouth shut, no mingling with guests,” the supervisor had hissed when we arrived. I’d planned to follow that rule. Until he walked in. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood near the marble staircase, wearing a sharp black mask that left only his mouth and jaw visible—clean lines, sculpted shadows. His tux fit like it was stitched to sin. He didn’t smile. Didn’t drink. Just watched. Watched me. I looked away, my throat dry. My hands shook slightly as I poured champagne into another flute. Maybe he was looking through me. Maybe I imagined it. Then I turned again—and he was gone. I ducked into the side hallway to breathe. The lights were dimmer here. Quieter. I leaned against the wall and exhaled, loosening the top hook of my uniform dress. The hallway smelled like citrus and spice and something darker, heavier. I froze. He stepped out of the shadows. Slow. Deliberate. My heart kicked against my ribs. “I’ve seen you spill three drinks,” he said, his voice smooth as whiskey, low as threat. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted attention.” “I—I don’t,” I managed. His mask tilted slightly. “Shame.” He took two steps forward. I held my ground. He reached past me, his fingers brushing mine as he plucked a full glass from my tray. “You shouldn’t be here,” I said, breathless. His eyes were unreadable. “Neither should you.” He turned, nodding toward a carved wooden door just beyond the hallway. A sitting room, unoccupied. He opened it. Looked at me once over his shoulder. Then disappeared inside. I stared at the closed door. In the stillness. My brain screamed, Don’t. My body moved anyway. The sitting room was dimly lit, heavy with sandalwood and cigar smoke. No music. Just silence and danger. He was by the window, back to me, sipping from the flute. “You followed me.” “You knew I would.” He turned. There was hunger in his gaze—but not desperation. Control. Precision. Like he already knew how this night would end. My breath caught as he set the glass down, walked forward, and stopped with barely inches between us. He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “Take off your panties.” I blinked. “What?” “Lift your skirt,” he said, his voice dropping. Take off your panties. I want to feel you soaking for me.” “I—” “You don’t have to say yes,” he murmured. “But if you’re going to stand here, looking at me like that, with those soft little thighs pressed together like they’re begging to be touched…” His hand slid along my waist. Down. I gasped. “…then don’t pretend you’re innocent.” My fingers trembled as I lifted my dress. I wasn’t even wearing lace—just plain, cotton panties. Embarrassing. Honest. He didn’t flinch. He hooked one finger beneath the band, dragged them down my legs slowly, then dropped them at my ankles. He stepped closer. His belt clicked open with a clean, slow sound that made my core throb. His member pressed hot and hard against my thigh. I moaned—soft and helpless. “Turn around,” he ordered. I obeyed. “Hands on the wall.” The cool surface kissed my palms. I felt the air shift as he stepped behind me. One hand gripped my hip. The other slid between my legs. His finger slid through my slick folds. “F*ck,” he whispered. “You’re already soaked.” I whimpered as he teased my c**t, slow circles, lazy pressure. “Beg for it.” “No.” His hand smacked my ass—once. Firm. Not cruel. “Try again.” I swallowed. “Please…” He aligned himself. Pushed the tip of his member against me—thick, hot. “Please what?” I hated him. I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything. “Please. Make me cum.” He thrust into me in one savage stroke. I cried out, forehead against the wall, one hand flying up to muffle the sound. He filled me completely. My body stretched to take him, greedy and desperate. He f****d me hard. Unrelenting. One hand around my throat, the other gripping my waist like I might vanish. He whispered filth into my ear—dirty promises, things no one had ever dared say to me. My orgasm hit hard and fast, stealing the breath from my lungs. I clenched around him, shaking. He didn’t stop. “Take it,” he growled. “Take every inch.” And I did. When he came, it was with a soft, lethal growl, like he’d been holding back for years. He didn’t kiss me. Didn’t ask for a name. He tucked himself away, adjusted his cuffs, and turned toward the door. I pulled my panties up with shaking hands and ran out the back before I could change my mind. --------------------- Backstage, the world spun slower. My skin still hummed with the memory of his hands. My lips were swollen, and my panties clung damp between my thighs like shame. I moved on autopilot, stacking empty glasses and folding linens with shaking fingers. No one noticed. Or maybe they were too polite to ask why I looked like I’d just walked through a thunderstorm. I was about to leave when a coworker waved me over. “Check this out.” She pointed to the flat-screen TV mounted above the bar. The engagement announcement just hit. Can you believe they got engaged at the party?” I barely glanced up. Until I heard it. “Tonight, we remind New York who owns it.” The voice hit me like a bullet. Deep. Smooth. Low and cold as poured whiskey. His voice. I froze. Onscreen, a tall man stood in a crisp black tux beside a flawless woman in a blood-red gown. His dark hair was slicked back. His jaw was sharp. He wasn’t smiling—but he didn’t need to. That voice. The same one that had just ordered me to put my hands on the wall. The same one that had whispered into my ear while he f*cked me from behind like I was already his. My blood went cold. The camera zoomed in. He turned slightly toward the mic—and for a second, I saw it. The sharp curve of his mouth. The faint scar above his right brow. It was him. The masked man. The stranger who'd just filled me so deeply I could still feel him pulsing inside me. Rafael D’Angelo. Heir to the D’Angelo crime family. Future Don of New York. And very much… engaged.