Vow to Me: A Mafia Arranged Marriage (The Romano Empire Book 1), page 1
Vow to Me
S. Wilson
Copyright © 2024 by S. Wilson
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
ISBN: 9798322728412
Cover Designer: ANK BookDesigns
Editor: Belle Manuel
Contents
Content warning
Dedication
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
35. Chapter Thirty-Five
36. Chapter Thirty-Six
37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
40. Chapter Forty
41. Chapter Forty-One
42. Chapter Forty-Two
43. Chapter Forty-Three
44. Chapter Forty-Four
45. Chapter Forty-Five
46. Chapter Forty-Six
47. Chapter Forty-Seven
48. Chapter Fourty-Eight
49. Chapter Fourty-Nine
50. Chapter Fifty
51. Chapter Fifty-One
52. Epilogue- Three months later
Acknowledgements
About the author
Content warning
Please note that this is a dark mafia romance containing explicit sexual scenes, graphic violence, blood, death, adult language, kidnapping, torture and mentions of human trafficking.
To all the badass women being put down by men:
Kick him in the dick and hold your head up high, girl. You've got this x
Chapter One
Luca
“Tell me something, sunshine. Either you talk or end up with a crowbar in your ass while we carve our initials into your skin,” I say to the piece of shit Colombian strung up like a pig in the middle of the warehouse.
We’ve been here for seven hours, and it’s clear the fucker isn’t gonna talk. So far, he’s lost all his fingers and eight toes. Unfortunately, he was already missing two, so I couldn’t confiscate them like I did the rest. I’ve also shot him in both of his kneecaps and flayed the skin on his right arm.
All he did was glare at me from where he’s tied up, he hasn’t made a fucking sound, and it’s really starting to piss me off.
Our friend Juan here grew up in the foster system, has never married, and doesn’t seem to have a steady girlfriend, so we don’t even have any family members we can threaten. We don’t hurt women or children but it’s always nice to have the threat there to get them talking.
“He’s not giving in, bro,” my younger brother Marco says from where he stands in the corner, casually leaning against the wall eating a bag of chips.
Marco doesn’t enjoy torturing people as much as I do. He isn’t squeamish at all, just doesn’t find the same excitement in chopping off body parts as I do.
Yeah, I’m a sick fucking bastard, but it’s fun!
I sigh, admitting defeat and walk over to the table next to Marco that houses the equipment we use. I pick up a meat cleaver and walk back over, the big fucker knows he’s about to die, and judging by the glare he’s giving me—rather than begging or whimpering like most men would—I’d say he doesn’t really give a shit that his miserable existence is about to come to an end.
I take a deep breath and swing my arm, hitting the spot on his neck just right so I’m left watching as his head drops to the floor at my feet and spraying blood all over the fucking place.
Oops.
“Did you really have to make such a fucking mess?” Marco asks, exasperated.
“I mean, I could have put a bullet between his eyes but where’s the fun in that?” I say while sporting a grin. “Besides, it’s not like you’ll be cleaning the blood off the floor, Marco. Quit your whining.”
“Let’s just shower and change. We better go see Dad and tell him the ugly fuck wouldn’t talk.”
Great, we love our father, but he’s also the Don of the New York Mafia.
Me, being the eldest son, makes me the heir and his second in command. Marco, the middle child, is a capo and technically the ‘spare’ should I get myself fucked up or killed, and our youngest brother, Enzo, is just a fucking lunatic who likes fucking things up. We tend to send him on missions where we want things blown up or when we want someone to cause some havoc. The kid has a screw loose and enjoys mayhem, so calculated attacks or interrogation aren’t exactly his thing. Fuck, he’d probably give in after ten minutes and start playing with their organs.
After we’ve both showered and changed, I instruct the soldiers placed at the warehouse to clean up the mess inside before we make our way over to the Escalade waiting out front. Normally, I’d drive myself in my Bugatti. However, we’ve been at war with the Cartel and Bratva for the last eight months, and Dad has ordered us to only travel in bulletproof cars with a driver.
The war between us started last May when Alejandro Muñoz, the head of the Colombian Cartel, made a business deal with Dimitri Novikov, the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva. Their deal fucked us over from both sides, leading to us retaliating and blowing up one of their shipments.
Since then, it’s only escalated, and because of their truce, they have the advantage and we’re losing men daily.
The Colombian we just tortured for information was one of Muñoz's top men. In the past month, we’ve had six deals fall through the Bratva and Cartel shouldn’t know about. We know we’ve got a rat; we just don’t know who the fuck it is. And if we keep going the way we are, we’ll all be fucking dead by the time we find them.
The car stopping shakes me from my thoughts, and I realize we’re at the Romano estate, also known as our family home. Me, Marco and Enzo all have our own places now, so it isn’t so much a home but a base of operations. Arriving at the gates, the guard gives us a nod to go through and we pull up to the main entrance.
“How pissed do you think he’s going to be?” Marco asks as we get out of the car.
There’s a stereotype surrounding Mafia Dons, showing them as cold and ruthless towards their family, but our dad is great and always made sure we knew we were loved. He tried his best to give us a real childhood since our mother died while giving birth to Enzo and he became a single parent.
The housekeeper, Beatrice—who’s worked for our family since before I was born—lets us in, giving us both a warm smile before telling us that our father is in his office. I give her a nod, and we walk through the entry way and into the office where he’s waiting for us.
Taking a seat in front of the desk, I look at our dad and give him the run-down of everything that happened with our friend Juan, explaining how the fucker stayed tight lipped isn’t exactly what I enjoy doing considering I’m known as one of the best interrogators in New York, but sometimes some nuts just won’t crack. He sits and listens, hands carefully placed on his lap, his face blank while he takes in the information I’m giving him.
“Well, I hoped you’d have got at least something, but I guess we’ll just have to keep trying until we find someone to talk. I’m also keeping certain information within our close circle and feeding false information to the others to see if we can find our rat,” Dad says with a sigh.
“The other capos don’t know we have a rat. I’m trying to keep it that way. If they start gossiping like a bunch of old ladies, word will get around and then they’re going to end up accusing us of not having a handle on things. That’s the last thing we need with everything already going on. We’ve lost 42 men in the last three months alone, we don’t need a rebellion on our hands as well.”
“I agree, which is why I’ve made a deal with Antonio Bianchi,” he says, his expression grim. I have a feeling I’m not going to like what he has to say.
I wait patiently, not wanting to be the one to ask what exactly this ‘deal’ with the head of the Chicago Mafia is. We’ve had a truce with the Chicago outfit for years, but it's very rar
Marco, who is standing behind me, walks over to the drinks trolley and grabs a bottle of whiskey and three glasses. Clearly, he doesn’t like the sound of this either.
Dad sighs. “Bianchi has a lot of spare men. He’s agreed to send us an extra 40 men to help us while we sort all this out. We’ve also agreed on gun shipments, seeing as though we’ve lost our previous deal with the Cartel, we need to set up new contacts. Bianchi agreed to deal with us directly with a fifteen percent discount, he has what we need while we get through the war with these assholes. We need him, we’ll all end up dead without him.”
“Fifteen percent discount? That’s got to be at least eight hundred grand, no less than seven hundred grand. Why the hell would Bianchi offer us that big of a discount?” Marco asks from behind me.
“And what the fuck do we have that he wants in return?” I add, knowing the answer can’t possibly be any good.
“Bianchi never remarried after his wife passed. They only had one child, a daughter. Bianchi is only forty-five—he’s got years left in him. He wants to arrange a marriage with his daughter, Isabella, so she can produce an heir for his empire,” he says before sighing and rubbing his temples.
“Of course, the men he sends will be given menial jobs, while those doing them at the moment will be promoted. I won’t have any fucker feeding information back to Antonio,” he adds.
Our family hasn’t partaken in arranged marriages in years, but other organizations still use them. A feeling of dread settles in my stomach but I ignore it.
“Right, so we marry off this girl to one of the lower capos, she pops out some kids for him while we get the men that we need to even the odds with the Bratva and Columbians and get cheaper weapons?” I ask hopefully.
He shoots me an apologetic look, and I instantly know my life is fucked. He doesn’t need to say the words, but—so there’s no fucking confusion—he has to say them out loud and put them into the universe making it fucking real.
“No, Luca, I’m sorry. You’ll marry Isabella Bianchi next month. The date is already set, you’ll marry the girl on February the twenty-fourth.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“You said Bianchi is forty-five. How old exactly is this daughter of his since I’ve never even heard of her in our circles? I’m not a fucking cradle robber Dad,” I grit out, no fucking way is that happening.
“Of course, you’re not, she’s twenty-four,” he states in a tone that sounds like he’s selling me on buying a car, not spending the rest of my life with one woman.
I guess a six-year age gap isn’t a big deal. But then again, I’d rather not get fucking married at all.
Fuck my life.
Once we’re finished in the office and I’m back in the car, I decide I need a fucking drink to drown out my thoughts. I pull my phone out my pocket and pull up Alec’s contact, knowing he’ll be down to meet me for a drink. The line rings a couple of times before he answers.
“Look who’s calling me at this time of night. What can I do for you, sweetheart?” he cheers mockingly into my ear.
“Shut the fuck up,” I groan. “I need you to meet me for a fucking drink,” I say in a somber tone.
“Shit man, you good?”
“No, I’m so fucking far from being good it’d be comical if this shit wasn’t happening to me. Meet me at Arcane in twenty,” I say before hanging up the phone, knowing he’ll be there. He always is when I need him.
Alec Cane has been my best friend since freshman year college. We were paired together in a group project and I fucking hated him at first, I thought he was just another entitled asshole with a stick up his ass, turns out he isn't so bad after all, he won me over with his carefree attitude and happy go lucky personality. But the thing about Alec is, he’s always there to lend a helping hand, whether I need his help when it comes to business, or if it’s personal shit I’m dealing with, the man would drop everything and show up.
I walk into Arcane and head up to the VIP section where I know he’ll be waiting for me. I chose to meet him at the club his brother owns rather than one of my family’s clubs because I don’t think I can fucking deal with seeing anyone from the Cosa Nostra right now. Works already taken up too much of my fucking life today.
I reach the top of the stairs and spot Alec sat at one of the far tables, knowing he chose that spot to give us more privacy and I head over to him.
“What the hell is going on Luc? It’s not often you grace me with your presence on a Saturday night,” he drawls.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, not wanting to voice my fucking issue. I shake my head, just fucking say it you asshole.
“Ah you know, wanted to catch up, see how you are, see how business has been, invite you to my upcoming wedding… the usual,” I say with a fake ass grin.
He bursts out into hysterical laughter, thinking I’m joking. But when I don’t join in, he realizes I’m being deadly fucking serious. Any humor fades from his face and he stares at me with wide eyes and a slack jaw. He’s looking at me as if I’ve grown another head, as if I’m crazy. Maybe I am, I sure do feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.
“What in the ever-loving fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about getting married, me, in one month. Mark the date in your calendar, I expect to see you there,” I say with a grimace before going into detail, explaining the deal my father made and how I’ll soon have some docile little woman attached to me.
I take a swig of the whiskey that Alec had waiting for me, before swallowing the rest of the liquid, I drain the glass and look him in the eye. “I’m gonna need you to find out everything you can on the Bianchi’s and anyone close to them. I need to know what the fuck I’m getting myself into.”
Chapter Two
Izzy
From the outside looking in, my life is perfect. To everyone around me, I’m the picture-perfect Mafia princess. The one who spends her time reading books in the library, dresses respectfully and is always dolled up to the max, never having a hair out of place. A real life doll. I attend galas in lavish gowns and I’m always polite. I have men protecting me everywhere I go, always fucking protected.
My father thinks he’s shielded me from the horrors of our world, little does he know his pretty little princess can shoot a gun better than most of his men. I could kill a man in seventy-two different ways and not break a sweat. He doesn’t know that I’ve been training in self-defense and have been having weapons training since I was twelve.
I’ve always known one day I would be sold to the highest bidder, and like fuck am I going to marry a man without knowing how to protect myself if he turns out to be the world's biggest asshole.
So, when Margaretta, our family’s housekeeper came into the library at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon, informing me that my father would like to see me in his study right away— when I’m usually told to stay out of his way and I only normally see him on Sundays—I knew my time was up.
“New York is struggling. They’re at war with the Russians and Colombians and need a weapons deal, and I’m sending some of our men to help out. In exchange, you are to marry their underboss and the Don’s son, Luca Romano. They’ve lost over 40 men in the last couple of months, they’re getting hit left and right. I’ve agreed to give them what they need and in return you’ll marry Luca, so you can produce heirs, so that I have someone to take over when I retire,” Papa says while giving me a look that says there is no argument.
I sit quietly, waiting to see if he has anything to add. Apparently, I was right, and he wasn’t done because he continues, “I told Romano he must have a rat. They’re working on figuring out who it is, but you will need to be careful. I’d rather you not end up dead.” Oh, how charming, Father dearest. “Congratulations Isabella, you’re engaged to be married. The wedding will take place three Saturdays from now. I suggest you use this time to prepare and pack your things for New York, keep an eye on your husband and forward me any information I may find useful,” he says with finality, clearly dismissing me.
I give him a nod, remaining silent because anything I have to fucking say right now will end with me being backhanded by my loving Father and leave his study; going back to the library to sit and think about how the fuck I’m going to deal with this.
