The Alpha's Forbidden Oath

Episode Two

Angelo

I’m getting one tank of gas a day.

When my phone buzzes with a message from my Alpha, Luciano Falcone, telling me to come to his office, I know things are about to go badly. Whatever he wants at this late hour is no good news.

I was supposed to go home and drink whiskey at my regular bar, letting the tension bleed out of me with a very stiff drink and the company of a woman who doesn’t expect anything from me except one good night for her. That’s the way I like it — quick and simple, and with no strings attached.

Instead, I’m sitting here, slamming the heavy ledger of trade reports shut, my patience already wearing thin, dealing with an underperforming patrol team and lecturing the i***t who let rogues pass into our borders. The pack is solid, alliances with the East Coast factions are holding, but all it takes is one weak link and it all comes crashing down.

I sigh and stuff my phone in my pocket. Whatever it is, I hope it’s swift.

Luciano’s expression when I walk into his office tells me it won’t be.

“Sit down, Angelo.” His voice is solemn beyond his norm. He indicates the chair across from him, his keen eyes sizing me up. “I have some news you’re not going to like.”

I sink into the chair, legs extended, already preparing for this or whatever it is. Luciano isn’t only my Alpha; he’s my friend. I am thoroughly loyal to him, and in turn, he trusts me implicitly more than anyone else. If he’s heavy, it’s a serious thing.

“I guess I don’t know how to say this,” he mutters, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “Your stepfather, Vincezio Santoro, is dead.”

For a second, the words don’t register.

Then they came at me like a physical blow.

Dead?

That can’t be right.

I look at Luciano, my brain racing for reason. My stepfather — Alpha Vincezio Santoro — was not young, but he was not old enough to die, either. He was strong. Unshakable.

“How?” I sound more shaky than I imagine I should.

Luciano exhales. “Murdered. His daughter found him. Throat slit, in his own study. The window was open, so someone got in — and out — without a trace.”

I feel my claws dig into my palms only to retract on command. The wolf inside me snarls at the thought of Vincezio’s blood spilled on his own territory. “And no one has a damn lead?”

“Not yet.” Luciano’s expression darkens. “The packs that are allied in the area are investigating. The Santoro's are on high alert. But whoever perpetrated this covered their tracks very well.”

I run a hand through my hair, attempting to comprehend everything. My stepfather is dead.

And Rosalia—

“How is she?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

Luciano shakes his head. “Not good. I’ve been instructed to let you go to the funeral and meet with the Santoro pack’s council. They’ll want to find a successor.”

My stomach tightens. I have a feeling where this is headed.

“They want me to fill in for him.”

Luciano watches me carefully. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I exhaled slowly, my mind drifting to my last conversation with Vincezio. The one that ended in anger. The one that made me leave.

“He wanted me to take over after him,” I reply bitterly. “And he had a plan for that.”

Luciano tilts his head. “What kind of plan?”

“He wanted me to marry Rosalia,” I say flatly.

Luciano raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

I nod. “She was fifteen when I left. He said he wanted me to wait until she was twenty-one before making her my mate. That way, they would have a leader connected to his bloodline, and the son he raised would be in charge. It was just his way of solidifying his legacy.”

“And you refused?”

“Of course, I refused.” My voice emerges sharper than I mean it to be. “She’s my stepsister.”

Luciano gives me a doubtful look. “You weren’t raised together. You had left the Santoro pack when she was still a wee pup. And you’re not related by blood.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I clench my jaw. “She was a child then. And even now, it’s—”

Wrong.

Unnecessary.

Dangerous.

It’s the right word, I can’t find the word but I don’t need to. It’s a heavy idea in my gut.

Luciano watches me carefully. “No matter how you feel, they want you in Chicago.”

I breathe out, knowing that I can’t say no. “I’ll go. “I’ll pay my respects, make sure everything is taken care of and then I’ll return.”

Luciano doesn’t seem convinced. “The Santoro pack has other ideas for you.”

“They can plan all they want,” I say darkly. “I know what I want.”

Luciano nods. “Then I hope you’re prepared to fight.”

I say nothing, but I know that he is right.

That night, I pack a small bag and attempt to shake the uneasiness settling upon me. My Manhattan apartment, with its soaring views of the city, has never felt more comforting. The slick black furniture, the smell of top-shelf bourbon, the warm body in my bed — this all reminds me of the life I created outside Chicago.

I will not let them drag me back.

The following morning, I get on the private jet Luciano arranged for me. I should feel well-rested. Last night, I did what I needed to do: drank good whiskey, shared good company, and put my hands all over a gorgeous redhead who wanted to make me pleased.

But I get up and feel a little old and restless.

I pretend it’s only the long flight before me. Or the funeral.

But as the plane approaches Chicago, I realize that it’s more.

When I arrive, the church is quieter than I had expected.

The smell of aged wood and burning candles hangs in the air, stirring memories buried in the past. I recall sitting in these same pews as a boy, my little hands in forced prayer. I recall Rosalia’s baptism, her little body swaddled in white, her father smiling with pride.

Now that same man is in a coffin at the front of the church.

Ignoring the murmurs from the early arrivals, I keep my head down as I walk inside. My being here is already causing a stir.

Then, I see her.

She sits in the front row, her back straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Wearing black, her dark hair pushed off her face, she is so still, so contained. But I know better.

Rosalia.

I haven’t spoken to her in three years.

Then, she was only a girl — too young to comprehend the world she was born into. Too young to realize that gazing at me with wide, hopeful eyes would drive me that much farther away.

Now, she’s grown.

She tilts her head at my approach, and when her blue eyes catch mine, something unorthodox hits me hard in the chest.

She’s beautiful.

Not in the way I remembered — soft and delicate, bursting with youthful admiration.

No.

She’s sharp now. A woman who has witnessed things, who has minded losses. There is something that feels unreadable in her gaze, something she allows me to see only for second.

And in that instant, I realize —

She is not the girl I left.

She’s something other than young.

And I don’t know whether this makes her less dangerous to me — or much, much more.