Page 4 of Vows of Power
“I want someone who understands the arrangement.” Her face is serious. “You obey me completely, or there’s no deal. And there’s one more thing.”
“There always is.”
“You forget about Adriano.” She eyes me carefully. “No revenge. No going after him for what he did. The second you decide your dead father’s killer matters more than the life I’m handing you, you become a problem, and I don’t keep problems around.”
A few hours ago, I was a man with nothing ahead of me but a slow death in the dark. Now there’s a woman offering me a way out, even if the price is doing whatever she tells me for the rest of my life. And the only thing I’d have to give up is a revenge I’ve just discovered I don’t even want.
I think about Adriano, my father, and the years of coming in second. I wait for the old fury to flare up and tell me to spit in her face and demand blood.
But the old man is dead and I feel fine about that, and chasing Adriano would just be me clinging to a fight that alwaysbelonged to my father and his golden boy. I’m tired of that. For the first time, I’d rather just live.
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “I marry you, I do what you tell me, I give up on Adriano, and in exchange, I get to leave this cell alive.”
“That’s the deal. You’d be the husband of Amalia Petrelli. Me.” Her lips spread into a smile. “Everyone would think you’re in charge, but you wouldn’t be, and all my men would know it.”
I look at her for a long moment. She basically came down here and offered me a crown so she could rule from behind it. She’s clever and ruthless, and she’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in years. I should probably be more bothered that she wants to own me, but the truth is, I’m curious about her, and a part of me wants to find out exactly what sort of woman runs an empire from the shadows and asks a stranger to be her mask.
“Okay,” I say.
Her brow lifts just slightly, which is probably the first real reaction I’ve gotten out of her. “Okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll marry you.” I let my lips curve into a grin. “I’ll be your front, I’ll do what you say, and I’ll forget Adriano ever existed. When do we start?”
She studies me for one more moment. “Soon.” She turns toward the door. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
And as she heads up the stairs and leaves me in the dark, I realize that I’m not thinking about my father, or Adriano, or about what happened at the diner. I’m thinking about Amalia, and how I’m going to enjoy figuring out exactly who I just agreed to marry. Even if I end up dead, at least the ride to hell will be fun.
Chapter 3
AMALIA
I WANT A SMALL WEDDING. My father would have thrown money at it to impress men he hated, but I don’t see the point. Still, I also want every single person who’s ever doubted me to hear about it. There’s a difference between a quiet ceremony and a secret, and I’m not interested in the second one.
Everyone needs to see it. They need to watch Matteo Gaviani take my last name as he slides a ring onto my finger, because that’s what makes them comfortable. A husband as the head of the family is what they expect, and no one’s going to even assume I’m in charge.
So it’ll be a small wedding, but loudly announced. That’s what I’ve decided.
I bring Matteo to the suit shop because I refuse to let him pick something on his own since everything has to be perfect. The shop is one of those places where the staff knows better than to ask questions. They give us the whole back room and then leave us alone, which is exactly what I need.
“You’re enjoying this,” Matteo says as the tailor disappears with the first set of measurements.
“I’m enjoying being right about you.” I look him over. “You clean up well. That’s all I need from you.”
He grins. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like looking at him. The man is far too good-looking to waste away in a dungeon.
The tailor brings out the first suit, and Matteo shrugs into the jacket. I tilt my head as I study him. It’s fine. It fits. But it’s a littletoo serious, and I don’t want him looking like he’s there to bury someone.
“Next,” I say.
The second one is navy, and it’s better. I circle him slowly, checking the line of his shoulders and how the fabric falls across his back. He watches me in the mirror, his eyes following me. It’s good for him to wonder what I’m thinking.
“This one,” I say.
The navy makes him look less like a prisoner and more like a man who could plausibly run something, which is the whole point.
He turns to face me, adjusting the cuff at his wrist, and I reach up to fix the collar where it’s bunched wrong. My fingers brush the back of his neck, just above the shirt, and he jerks away from me as if I’ve burned him.
“Sorry,” he blurts out, his shoulders going stiff, then frowns as if he didn’t mean to say it.
