Page 13 of Twisted Vows

Izzy’s hand lands on my shoulder, her sharp nails digging in. “Don’t. Not for her. Not unless you’re ready to take Gabi’s seat.”

The dons whisper louder as rumors swirl. “Ricci could lead. Ricci commands fear. Respect. Ricci could take the throne he refuses.”

My chest burns with fury. Old codes wither while Gabi feeds his ambition with corpses. Yet bowing means survival.

My steady voice drops. “My loyalty is to Benedetti. Always.”

The words taste like ash.

After that, Gabi declares the meeting adjourned. The room erupts with bickering voices, scraping chairs, and stubbed cigars. As the more senior dons shuffle out, I remain where I am. Some glance my way, their faces a combination of respect and fear.

I wait until the empty chamber is heavy with silence. Alone, I sink into the closest seat. When Sophia’s face floods my vision again, I clench my fists.

The heat of her skin against my knuckles haunts me. That folded list, retrieved from the warmth of her flesh. Her gasp. The way her body shivered and then leaned, barely perceptibly, toward me instead of away. The moonlight. Her bravery. It’s like a still-burning flame from an abandoned candle, a forbidden spark that refuses to die.

I pace the corridor, my footfalls bouncing off the marble, and murmur under my breath, low and bitter. “She is nothing. Nothing.”

Despite the mantra, my chest pulls toward a girl who should mean less than the dirt under my boots. I remember the taste of her lips and the way her body molded against mine. That hollow feeling that Gabi triggers with his talk of eliminating her is even worse. An ache that only grows, compounded by the weight of Dante’s coffin still heavy on my back.

And that makes me a traitor. My brother died because of her father, and here I am, fixated on that man’s daughter like some lovesick fool. I catch my reflection in a window. Hollow eyes. Tight jaw. A man tethered to ghosts. Desire wrapped in violence. Control cracking.

Compromised. Already compromised.

Chapter 3

Sophia

The next day, the schoolyard feels like a circus that’s missing its ringmaster.

During dismissal, the children shriek with manic energy, their lunch boxes swinging like pendulums as parents holler names over the din.

I kneel to meet each kid at eye level, the way I always do, and accept breath-squeezing hugs. Little hands sticky with jelly and paint press into my blouse. Spending time with these kids—demons one moment, angels the next—is wonderful because the world hasn’t gotten to them yet.

“Goodbye, Miss Martinelli!” Maya shouts, her pigtails bouncing as she races toward the pickup line with a backpack nearly as big as she is. Tommy waves with both hands, his gap-toothed grin stretched wide and paint still smudged on his cheek from earlier. The kids’ voices chirp, high-pitched and sharp enough to rattle the crows on the telephone wires.

I rise, smoothing my skirt as if the wrinkles might reveal some weakness. That habit is a chain, an old reflex from years of my father demanding perfection. But my father also instilled in me a deep-rooted sixth sense for identifying troublemakers.

And my “trouble radar,” as my dad calls it, is giving off seismic-like notice as soon as I spot the man.

His presence churns my stomach before I even register why. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a baseball cap pulled low enough to shadow his face. Nobody dresses like that to pick up a child.

Who wears a neon green hat with slim black tuxedo trousers and shiny leather shoes?

He looked like he got dressed in the dark after losing a bet.

The second red flag is that no child clings to his hand.

Parents brush past him without glancing his way. He shifts to avoid colliding with a little girl, and the motion exposes his throat.

A snake and dagger, inked in black coils, gleam in the light.

My stomach drops. I know that tattoo. It’s a Benedetti mark. I’ve noticed it on several of my father’s documents whenever he thought no one was paying attention.

My class assistant, sweet Clara Bennett, breezes by with her sunflower earrings bouncing and her arms full of homework folders. Her blond bob swings in a perpetually optimistic way as she moves.

“Ready to escape yet?” she chirps.

“Did you see that man?”