Vicious Promise: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Promise Series Book 1) Read online

  Vicious Promise

  M. James

  Copyright © 2021 by M. Jones

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Sofia

  2. Luca

  3. Sofia

  4. Sofia

  5. Luca

  6. Luca

  7. Sofia

  8. Luca

  9. Sofia

  10. Sofia

  11. Luca

  12. Sofia

  13. Luca

  14. Sofia

  15. Sofia

  16. Luca

  17. Sofia

  18. Sofia

  19. Sofia

  20. Luca

  21. Sofia

  22. Sofia

  23. Luca

  24. Sofia

  25. Luca

  26. Sofia

  27. Sofia

  28. Luca

  29. Sofia

  30. Luca

  31. Sofia

  About the Author

  Also by M. James

  Prologue

  Sofia

  “Your father is dead, Sophia.”

  My mother says this to me in her thick accent, still more Russian than American, despite how often I hear my father telling her that she needs to work on blending in. Even at twelve years old, though, I know it would be impossible for my mother to blend in anywhere. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, lithe and long-necked as the swans that we see swimming around the lake in Central Park on our daily walks, blue-eyed and blonde-haired, everything I’m not. I’m short and round even for my age, with dark hair and thick eyebrows like my father.

  My father. The man who always smells like vanilla tobacco, who picks me up every day when he comes home from work and spins me in a circle, who brings me books, who encouraged me every day since I was eight and decided I wanted to play the violin. Every day he asks me what new thing I learned, asks me to show him, even though I know he’s very busy. He must be, because there’s always men at the house, important-looking men in expensive-looking suits, men who look at my mother disapprovingly and whisper to my father.

  But now my mother is telling me that he’s dead. Dead. It’s such a final word, and it feels impossible. My father can’t be dead, he was too full of life. It’s impossible to think that I’ll never hear his boisterous laugh again, never play the violin for him again, never breathe in the rich scent of tobacco from his shirt collar when he picks me up and swings me around.

  I don’t cry. I can’t. I know I should—my mother is crying, her mascara running down her face in thick black streaks, but the grief feels like a knot in my throat, a wall in my chest, hot and heavy and choking. I can’t believe it. I won’t.

  I don’t realize that I’ve screamed those words aloud until my mother recoils, letting go of my hands just long enough for me to run to my room and slam the door behind me. In here, I think, none of this can find me. None of it will be real. I pick up the latest book my father brought home for me, an illustrated copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, which my mother said was too dark for a twelve-year-old. My father took it away from me, and then when she was gone, winked and handed it back. “Find a good hiding place for it,” he said to me. “There’s a lesson in that book, an important one.”

  “What is it, papa?” I’d asked, taking the book back. The cover was smooth and new, the pages still full of that new-book smell. I couldn’t wait to breathe it in.

  He’d leaned down, pushing a loose piece of hair out of my face, and smiled sadly. “All fairytales have a dark side.”

  I hadn’t read it yet. But now I clung to it, pressing the book against my chest as if it could keep me safe, as if it could change everything that my mother had said to me. In here, surrounded by my books, my violin, everything that my father and I shared, I can pretend that it’s not true.

  But somewhere deep down, I know it is.

  I still can’t believe it at the funeral, either. Not when I see his body in the casket, his face waxy with makeup, and not when they lower him into the ground. Not when more of the important men in suits come to talk to my pale-faced mother, and I hear the name that I’ve so often overheard when they come to our house—Rossi. I sneak close enough to hear snippets of the conversation: you’ll be safe…provided for…Giovanni took precautions…his daughter…

  But safe from what? My life has always been safe and comfortable, full of joy and love from both of my parents. My mother shows it in a different way, she’s always been more stoic than my father, more reserved. But they love each other, too, I know it. I see it in their faces when they look at each other, in the way my father sneaks kisses from her around corners when they think I can’t see.

  Used to sneak. How will I ever get used to thinking of him in the past tense?

  I can’t bear it. I think that I’ll be able to get away from it all when we go home, but our house is full of people all draped in dreary black, the women carrying casserole dishes and comforting my mother. I can see the women looking sideways at her after they console her, though, whispering about her behind her back. Two-faced, she would call them.

  I hate them all.

  At the first opportunity, I run upstairs to my room, intent on hiding from the crowd downstairs. But only a few minutes have passed when there’s a knock at my door.

  I ignore it, but it comes again. “Go away!” I yell, hating how choked my voice sounds. “Leave me alone.”

  The door opens anyway. A tall man walks in, one that I don’t recognize, but that I saw at the funeral with the other important-looking men. He’s very handsome, with a thick mustache, wearing a wool greatcoat that looks expensive. He steps inside and shuts the door behind him, crouching down so that he’s at my level.

  “This must be very hard for you,” he says in a low voice. “You must have loved your father very much.”

  I look away. I don’t know who this man is, but something inside of me pings nervously at the sight of him, some instinct that tells me he’s dangerous. That something about him, and the other men who come to the house, is connected to why my father is dead.

  Why he’ll never come home again.

  The man lets out a long sigh. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me. But I came to bring you something. Your father gave this to me the night that he died, for you. Read it when you’re ready.” He sets something down on the floor, a few inches away from me, as if I’m a small dog that might bite if he comes too close.

  And then he stands up, and leaves without another word.

  I reach for the envelope. It’s thin and light. At first I don’t want to open it. These are my father’s last words to me, the last thing he’ll ever say. It’s beginning to dawn on me that he’s really gone, that no amount of pretending can change it, and once I read this letter, everything that’s left of him will truly be in the dirt of the cemetery a few miles down the road, rotting into nothingness.

  So I stand up, and slip the letter into my violin case. I’ll read it one day.

  But not yet.

  Sof
ia

  Eight Years Later

  “You have practice again? Sofia, it’s Friday night. For fuck’s sake, live a little.”

  My best friend and roommate, Anastasia Ivanova, is propped up against the stack of pillows on my bed, painting her nails a brilliant shade of crimson.

  “You’re just going to have to take that off before class on Monday,” I tell her dryly, nodding at the bottle of polish.

  Anastasia, or Ana to me, is one of the top ballet students at Juilliard, where I study violin. We’re both the top in our class, actually, but that’s where the similarities end. Ana is naturally blonde, tall, and impossibly thin, with a list of numbers in her phone a mile long and a date every night of the week. I dye my hair platinum blonde, I’m just shy of 5’6, and although I definitely lost my baby fat when I turned sixteen, I have more curves than Ana does. But beyond that, I can’t remember the last time I was out on a date. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Ana spends every weekend out at the elite Manhattan clubs, flashing her fake ID to anyone who dares question her right to be there, and I spend my weekends getting in extra practice sessions with the rest of the string section.

  How she remains the shoo-in for the next prima of the New York City Ballet, I’ll never understand, other than the fact that she’s ridiculously talented. I’ve seen her dance a handful of times, and it takes my breath away every single time without fail. Watching her dance is like watching a fairytale come to life.

  All fairytales have a dark side.

  For a brief flash of a moment, I hear my father’s words echo in my head, in his deep and kindly voice, and a shiver runs down my spine. I bite my lip hard to keep my eyes from welling up. It’s been eight years, but I still can’t hear my father’s voice in my head without wanting to cry.

  “Did someone walk over your grave?” Ana asks, glancing up at me with the brush hovering over her finger. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

  “I’m fine.” I pull my hair back into a ponytail, still watching her. “Your teacher is going to have a fit, Ana.”

  “I’ll take it off before class.” Ana insists. “But I’m not going out with bare nails, or worse, painted some frumpy pale pink.” She swipes the brush over her pinky nail, caps it, and then sits up, waving her hand in the air. “Come on, Sofia,” she says again, her voice pleading. “We never go out. And it’s my birthday month.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. “You don’t get a whole month, Ana. No one does.” I gingerly lay my violin in its case, carefully setting the bow beside it and zipping it up. “I’ll go out with you for your birthday though. I promise.”

  “I’d rather you go out with me tonight.” She pouts, pursing her lips, which are painted with the same shade of lipstick as the nail polish. “Come on. You can borrow something out of my closet.”

  “Nothing in your closet would fit me,” I point out. “There’s not a chance.”

  “You’re still thin. Just because you have boobs doesn’t mean you can’t fit into anything I have. There’s one dress that I always wear a pushup bra to fill it out—”

  “Ana, no. I promised my group—” My phone goes off then, and I dive for it before Ana can pick it up off of the nightstand. The preview of the text on the screen makes my heart sink.

  Ana catches the look on my face before I can smooth it over. “They canceled, didn’t they?” she asks triumphantly. “Now you have to go with me.”

  Desperately, I try to think of another out. It’s not even just that I don’t want to go out, even though that’s part of it. It’s that I know the kinds of places Ana likes to go—the fanciest, most expensive clubs and bars that Manhattan has to offer. It’s not that I can’t afford it, either. It’s just that I don’t want to spend the money.

  Every month, like clockwork, an embarrassing amount of money shows up in my bank account. I don’t know where it comes from or how, and I’ve tried every way that I can think of to dodge it. I’ve changed banks multiple times, but it always shows up again. I’ve tried to get a job, so that I won’t need to use it, but most of the time I never even get a call back, even for the simplest of retail positions. When I do get a call, the position somehow is always filled before I can go in for an interview.

  And then there’s my tuition to Juilliard. Every semester, it’s paid in full, before I can even try to call and set up a payment plan of my own. When I tried to get the receptionist in the registrar’s office to tell me who had paid, they’d said it was an anonymous benefactor. Even when I’d tried to move into the dorms, I’d gotten a call the day before telling me that a two-bedroom apartment in an expensive pre-war building near campus had been leased in my name, with the first year’s rent paid in full.

  It was all very mysterious, very frustrating, and made me feel both anxious and curious as to who, exactly, was providing all of this. I’d spent one night alone in the too-big apartment before putting out an ad for a roommate, which Ana answered almost immediately. Since the place was already paid for, I just asked her to chip in for groceries and utilities, which she was more than happy to accept. All I wanted was a quiet roommate who didn’t party, didn’t disturb me, and didn’t have boys over very often if at all.

  That didn’t turn out to be Ana in the slightest. But somehow, despite the fact that she’s as extroverted as I am introverted, as much of a partier as I am a homebody, and could rival an opera singer with her moans every time she brings a guy home, we rapidly became friends. Part of it, I think, is due to the fact that I don’t have any other friends, and part of it is that Ana, with her slight Russian accent and willowy frame, reminds me of my mother, just brunette instead of blonde.

  Ana taps her fingers on the nightstand. “Earth to Sofia. Come on, I know they canceled. Are you really just going to stay in tonight instead of going out with me and seeing the most eligible bachelors that Manhattan has to offer?”

  “I’m not interested in dating,” I say almost automatically. “You know that.”

  “Yeah, but I am.” Ana hops off of the bed, linking her arm through mine. “Come on. You can be my wingwoman. Drinks are on me.”

  I can see that I’m not getting out of it. And a tiny part of me, ever so tiny, is curious. I’ve never been in this world that Ana inhabits on the weekends, full of expensive cocktails and glamorous men and women and neon-lit clubs. It doesn’t really appeal to me, but shouldn’t I experience it just once? The spring recital is only two months away, and just after it, graduation. Then I’ll be leaving Manhattan for good, and that means Ana, too.

  So maybe it wouldn’t hurt to indulge her, just a little.

  “Okay,” I relent, and her entire face lights up.

  “Yes!” She claps her hands excitedly. “I’ve been wanting to make you over since I moved in. Come on, we’ll dig through my closet.”

  “O—okay.” I can tell there’s no use in arguing, as Ana eagerly drags me out of my room and down the hall towards hers.

  Half an hour later, I don’t quite recognize myself. The black dress that Ana stuffed me into is Gucci, with a bustier-style top that I more than fill out and lacing up each side, giving a peek of a sliver of bare skin through the lacing from my breasts all the way down to the hem. It means I can’t wear a bra with it, and although the cups in the front are supportive enough, it makes me feel more bare and vulnerable than I’ve ever been. “If there’s a stiff wind outside, you’re going to be able to see my nipples through this,” I complain, but Ana just shrugs. “And it’s so tight.” Thankfully my stomach is flat enough that the dress lays perfectly over it, but it hugs me so tightly that you can see every curve. “You can see my underwear lines.”

  “So wear a thong.”

  “I don’t own a thong,” I retort plaintively. “And don’t tell me I can borrow one of yours, that’s going way too far.”

  “So go without.” Ana shrugs.

  “What?” I turn a shade of red that could rival a stop sign. “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can.” She grins at me, fish
ing two pairs of heels out of her closet and bending over enough that I can see the flash of a lace thong up her skirt. The dress she’s wearing is the same cherry red as her lips and her nails. She called it a “Hermes bandage dress,” which means nothing to me, but is evidently a big deal, based on her tone.

  A moment later, Ana emerges with the shoes, a pair of silver sandals for her and black pumps for me, both with the red bottoms that even I recognize. “I can’t wear these,” I protest. “What if I fall? What if I break a heel? These probably cost as much as a month’s rent.”

  Actually, if anything happened to them, I could technically more than afford to replace them. But I don’t like admitting that. I’ve felt weird about the money in my account since the day I turned eighteen and it started appearing, and I don’t feel any less uncomfortable about it now. If I told Ana about it, she’d rightfully have a million questions, and there’s no way for me to explain it when I don’t even have the answers.

  Of course, I’m talked into the shoes and out of my underwear exactly the way I’ve been talked into everything else, and as I totter to the bathroom in my new six-inch stilettos and an uncomfortable awareness that I’m wearing absolutely nothing under this dress, Ana prepares to do things to my hair and face that I’ve only ever seen in movies. There’s products spread across her entire bathroom counter, from one end to the other, and I stand mutely in front of it as she goes to work.