Devious Vow: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

I bite down hard on my lip, ecstasy twisting my face as I choke out a moan. My hands tighten on the chrome handle of the detachable showerhead, my legs buckling as I sag against the tiled walls of the shower.

The rush of warm water pulses against my clit, and suddenly, I’m crashing through my climax. I bite on my lip again, whimpering and moaning and twisting as the orgasm wrenches through me.

Heat tingles over my skin as I slip the showerhead back into its cradle with shaking arms and sink back against the wall of the shower, catching my breath and lazily sliding my hands over my wet, slick skin.

But then, shame and confusion settle in. I reach out and abruptly turn off the water. I wrap one towel around my body and another around my head, trapping my long wet hair before stepping out of the bathroom.

Obviously, Massimo and I have always had separate rooms. I can’t imagine a reality where I share a bedroom, much less a bed with that bastard, considering our “marriage” is based on a solid foundation of distrust, disrespect, and disdain for each other.

I sigh as I step into my walk-in closet. Standing in front of the floor-length mirror, I start to towel off, my thoughts scattered and confused, a mix of pleasure and shame.

Because it was Alistair I was just thinking about in the shower.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do we want the very thing we can’t have? Why do we crave the forbidden? And why the hell do we desire the people who hurt us the most?

As usual, my silent questions get silent non-answers. Just more confusion and more questions.

I slip on a cream Chanel skirt, black heels, and a fitted black blouse for work. Just as I step out of the closet, my phone rings from the bedside table. My heart instantly chills when I walk over and see who’s calling.

“Tout bien avec mon père??” I blurt anxiously into the phone.

“Bonjour, Eloise,” Marie sighs in a bored tone. God, I hate the lack of urgency in her voice.

“My father,” I hiss to my stepmother. “Is everything⁠—!?”

“Oui, he’s fine. Be calm.”

I frown. “Okay, it’s just…”

It‘s just that Marie fucking hates me and has never, and will never, call me just to chat. And since she’s technically my father’s medical proxy…

Yeah. A random call from her has me closing in on a heart attack.

“He’s okay?”

“Oui,” Marie sighs with some exasperation. “Tout le même.”

Same as always.

I exhale slowly. I might be angry with my dad these days for what he did, marrying me off to Massimo…okay, there’s no “might” about it, I am…but it wasn’t always like that.

Growing up in the sort of family I grew up in—i.e., a mafia family—the concept of arranged marriages wasn’t exactly foreign to me. But Papa always told me I’d never be forced into something like that.

My father Andre runs—or, rather, ran; his second-in-command, Luc, is in charge now, given my father’s medical state—one of the more powerful mafia families in France. Which I suppose makes it extra ironic that I decided to go into law, of all things.

But Papa was okay with that decision. I went to Knightsblood University here in the US like so many other heirs of mafia families, and when I chose law school over the family business, my father told me it was my life to live.

Then he got sick. Then he got sicker. Next came the medically-induced coma. And with that came the living will, outlining provisions in the event of him becoming incapacitated.

Provisions like what his actual wishes for me were: marrying the loathsome, violent Massimo Carveli in exchange for my family getting control of a paltry smuggling route into North America.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

“Your father is fine, Eloise,” Marie says in a bored tone. “I merely wanted to call and let you know that I’ll be on holiday for the next few weeks or maybe months in St. Tropez.”

My eyes widen. “I’m sorry, what?!”

“Mon dieu. Don’t try and guilt me. I’ve been at your father’s side for months.”

I’m sure the fact that my father, who’s thirty years older than Marie, by the way, is worth millions, has nothing to do with that.

“And I deserve a break.”

“Marie, you’re his medical⁠—”

“I’ve hired a nurse; Rosa. She’s very good. She’ll be staying here with your father full time.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. “But Marie, you can’t just up and leave⁠—”

“Oui, I can, actually,” she says curtly. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to tell you. Hello to your husband.”

She hangs up abruptly.

Goddammit.

I debate calling her back, but I doubt she’d pick up. And also, shit, I have to get to work.

My room is on the first floor of the penthouse, unlike Massimo’s sprawling master suite, which sits on the second floor, and the hallway that leads from my room to the main living area takes me past his home office. I’m walking by it with every intention of grabbing my bag and leaving for the day without saying goodbye when I hear something that makes me freeze.

“No, no, listen. Eloise is already in place. Trust me, she’ll do what I tell her to.”

I stiffen, shrinking against the wall next to the slightly open office door.

He laughs coldly. “No, they don’t suspect a thing. Why the fuck would they? She’s a nobody lawyer that I shoehorned into an associate’s position. They’re humoring me by keeping her there.”

My teeth grit.

Asshole.

“But she’s in. When the time is right, she can nuke the whole Chinellato case from there. And when that little snitch gets sent upstate, your people on the inside will finish the job. Capice?”

I slam a hand over my mouth, my eyes going wide.

What. The. Fuck.

Stepping out of my heels and picking them up, I tiptoe silently past his office door and bolt into the kitchen. I grab a banana, fill a flask with vodka for later, and all but sprint for the front door. Slipping my shoes back on, I reach for the knob⁠—

The scream dies in my throat as a hand slams down on the door, keeping it firmly shut. Whirling, my eyes snap to Massimo’s dark, piercing, suspicious ones.

“I didn’t realize you were still home, wife,” he growls.

Massimo has always scared me. I’m not ashamed to admit it, because that’s just basic self-preservation. But it’s gotten so much worse since the other night, when I watched him kill that poor girl.

I’ve seen his violence before. I’ve seen his dark side.

Or at least, I thought I had. Because that was something else entirely, and I’ve hardly been able to sleep in this apartment ever since.

I smile weakly at him. “Yeah, running a little late. I should go⁠—”

“Freshly showered, I see.”

I don’t reply. Massimo leers and leans forward.

“And such a long shower, too. Making sure every part was nice and clean, were we? I swear, Eloise,” he murmurs, “sometimes I can smell it on you after you’ve touched yourself.”

I look away, feeling sick.

“I have to go to work, Massimo.”

“Yes, you do,” he says quietly, unblinking. “Because you’ve been there over two weeks, and I still don’t have what I asked for.”

“I—I’ve been busy, okay?”

“M-hmm, I’m sure,” he growls dryly. His eyes narrow on me. “Where the fuck is my father’s will, Eloise?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Clearly,” he snarls. “But where is it?”

I shake my head. “I don’t⁠—”

“Stop saying that word and start giving me answers I can use,” Massimo hisses.

I take a shaky breath as fear drags its nails over my skin. “Okay, well…” the wheels in my head spin uselessly for a second before they latch onto something. “Who was your father’s attorney there?”

“Alistair,” Massimo growls. “Alistair was his attorney.”

I bite back a shiver. “Then it’s in Alistair’s office.”

The emotions that wash over me the second I say it are…awful. I feel gross, and used, and conniving, and devious, and all the things I hate being.

“Go on,” Massimo grunts.

“The name partners…they keep the private records of VIP clients in their offices, locked up.”

My husband smiles viciously. “Then unlock it.”

“I—”

“No excuses,” he growls. “Do whatever it takes, wife.”

His hand drops from the door. I swallow, shuddering slightly under his piercing, cruel stare before I turn and reach for the doorknob again.

“Oh, and Eloise?”

I freeze.

“Don’t forget that you live here, like a fucking queen, thanks to me. Even more, your sister lives her life, unhurt and unmolested…”

My face goes white as I slowly turn to face him. Massimo’s mouth twists cruelly.

“Also thanks to me,” he murmurs. “I want you to remember that whenever you think you’ve heard something through an open office door. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes,” I choke, nodding.

Massimo smiles a shark’s smile. “Wonderful. Enjoy your day at work, dear.”

My palms are clammy as I walk up the staircase from “the pit” to the second floor of Crown and Black. The small of my back feels slick, and I swear I can hear the Mission: Impossible theme in my head as I surreptitiously glance behind me. God, I must look suspicious as hell.

Timing is everything. Gabriel is meeting with a client on the first floor. Taylor and Alistair are both out of the building; her for court downtown, and him for an off-site deposition. And I know exactly when Katerina takes her lunch hour.

Sure enough, she’s not at her desk outside Alistair’s office as I approach with a to-go coffee cup containing the fancy chai latte with two shots of espresso that he occasionally has her get him from the ultra-trendy café down the street.

I’ve noticed that occasionally, one of the associates or junior associates will bring little “gifts” up to the partners—nothing crazy, just small things like a coffee, or a brownie from the bakery across the street. Taylor highly discourages it, because it’s obviously people attempting to curry favor and it creates an awkward, unspoken competitive atmosphere. But it does happen here and there.

I’ve yet to see anyone bring anything to King Grump himself, but that’s my “cover” if anyone questions why I’m up here: I’m bringing Alistair a coffee as a small token of appreciation for hiring me.

…Against his will, of course. But who’s counting?

I slip behind Katerina’s empty desk, deftly open the top drawer, and pull out the pink lanyard keychain with the two keys on it.

Annnd cue the Mission: Impossible soundtrack in my head again.

I pause for a second, glancing around and making sure no one’s watching before I use one of those keys to unlock and then quietly slip into Alistair’s office. I close the door behind me, feeling a thrill as I turn to survey the room I’m definitely not supposed to be in.

I have mixed feelings about being in here, and why. Even if Alistair is an asshole and a complete prick to me, I know that this is wrong. But then Massimo’s threat echoes in my head again. The recurring image of him shooting that girl on our living room floor makes me flinch, along with his promise.

The next time, it’ll be your sister…

I steel myself as my gaze lands on the locked filing cabinet. I walk over to it, and slip Katerina’s second spare key, which I heard her mention in the break room yesterday morning, into the lock.

Click.

I set the chai latte down on top of the cabinet and start with the bottommost of the three drawers. My heart races as my fingers flip through the files, trying to make sense of Alistair’s bizarre filing system. Ugh. It’s not alphabetical, that’s for sure. Though I doubt someone as detail-oriented and meticulous as he is has such important files locked away in no order at all.

Finding nothing on “Luca Carveli”, I close the bottom drawer and move to the one above it. Five minutes later, crouched down uncomfortably, frustration and panic take over as that one also results in nothing.

Shit.

Panicking, I slam the drawer closed as I start to rise to try the final drawer.

…Which is exactly when the cup of chai sitting on the top of the cabinet tips over, dumping half of its contents down the bottom of my blouse and all over my cream-colored skirt.

“Fuck!”

I grab the cup out of my lap and right it before it can empty onto the floor. I hiss in pain as the hot liquid stings my thighs, scrambling to my feet. My eyes dart around the room for something, anything, before they land on the door to Alistair’s ensuite private bathroom.

Bingo.

I bolt into it, closing the door before stripping off my skirt. I groan as I assess the damage. My black blouse is fine, but my skirt is a wreck, with a huge beige stain rapidly settling into it.

Quickly, I turn on the cold water and start soaking the skirt in Alistair’s lavish marble and brass sink. I use toilet paper to blot at the hem of my shirt, and then strip off my trashed, chai-sticky nylons. Mercifully, the red marks on my thighs from the hot liquid aren’t too bad.

My heart sinks when I pull the skirt out from under the cold water, though. The stain is mostly gone, but the whole thing is drenched, and I have like twenty minutes before Katerina gets back.

It’s not like I can walk out of Alistair’s office and back down into the pit with a soaking wet skirt without raising at least a couple of brows.

Merde.

I start blotting like crazy with a hand towel. Then I remember that Alistair frequently keeps a gym bag in his office. I pause, my mind concocting all sorts of solutions. What might be in there? A larger, fluffier towel, maybe? A hairdryer, if I’m luckier than I have any right to be?

I glance at my watch.

I’ve got time.

Barefoot and only half-dressed, I grab my soaking skirt and ruined nylons, yank open the door back to the office⁠—

And almost scream when I stop just short of plowing directly into Alistair’s firm chest.

“I—I⁠—”

“Hmm, well, let me know whenever you find the right words,” he growls. “I, however, have several.”

His eyes drop. I can feel my face burn as I scramble to yank the wet skirt in front of me to cover my bare legs and panties.

“Well,” he rumbles quietly, shaking his head. “This is a new low.”

My eyes dart past him to the file cabinet. Mercifully, the drawers are all closed. But the key with the pink lanyard is still in the lock at the top.

Did he notice it?

“I—” I frown, stammering. “I was just bringing you a coffee, and⁠—”

“Come on, Eloise,” he hisses. “I mean, seriously? The ‘oops I spilled my coffee’ porn-plot routine? What are you, trying to seduce me?”

Despite my embarrassment, I can feel anger surging inside of me.

“No, You conceited ass! I fucking spilled⁠—”

“Yeah, you’re just so clumsy, right?”

I glare at him. “Fuck you.”

I shove past him, but then remember I’m wearing a fucking thong and feel his eyes burning hotly into my ass. I whirl, red-faced, awkwardly hopping on one foot, trying to wrestle the other one into my still-wet skirt.

That is, until it’s suddenly yanked from my hands and tossed across the room.

I gasp as I try and cover myself with my hands.

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

Alistair smirks as he steps to the side, blocking my way as I move to retrieve my skirt.

“Seriously, Alistair!”

“And seriously, Eloise,” he snarls, the look on his face somewhere between dark and hungry, “what would your dear husband think of his wife, standing in my office in her panties?”

My lips curl. “You don’t know a thing about my marriage.”

“I don’t want to know a fucking thing about your fucking marriage!” he roars, making something throb in my core. Alistair snarls as he surges into me, grabbing the front of my blouse and yanking me close. “Just as I don’t want to have a fucking thing to do with you!” he rasps, fury swirling like twin flames in his eyes. “Now put your fucking skirt back on, princess. You’re making a fool of yourself and your fucking marriage⁠—”

“It’s fake!”

The room falls silent for a second. I take a shaky breath, my skin tingling and the whine of my pulse humming in my ears.

“You think I wanted to marry Massimo?” I choke, my eyes blurring. Something inside of me is breaking; walls I’ve put up are cracking.

The cement I’ve sealed the gaps with is crumbling.

“I don’t care, Eloise⁠—”

“He hates me! I mean he honestly hates me, almost as much as I fucking hate him!” I scream in Alistair’s face.

“Go play victim somewhere else, princess,” he snaps coldly. “Because I simply don’t⁠—”

“He doesn’t even touch me!”

Alistair’s eyes blaze. His nostrils flare.

“I—I mean—he never has,” I say, more quietly. “Not once.”

His mouth thins to a line as his eyes flicker with something lethal and primal. Then his lips pull into a sneer as he starts to turn away.

“I don’t honestly give a shit⁠—”

“Yes. You do.”

He goes still. So do I, the second it tumbles from my lips. Alistair turns back to me, eviscerating me with that razor gaze.

“I said, I don’t⁠—”

“But you do,” I repeat quietly. “You do give a shit.”

My pulse is roaring in my veins, making every inch of my skin tingle. The nearness of him—the heat of his body, the spicy clean scent of him—throbs against me, like there’s a dark magnetic power under the surface pulling me closer.

His eyes narrow. “Careful.”

“Of?” I choke.

“Me.”

My body quivers as a tremor of heat chases through me.

“Why?” I breathe. “Because you’re just as dangerous as you were before?”

His lips curl dangerously. “No,” he murmurs. “Because I’m much more dangerous than I was before.”

My breath comes fast and shallow, my chest rising and falling quickly, my breasts almost touching him from how close we are. His hand tightens on my shirt. My pulse hums like an engine in my ears.

“Interesting,” I mumble quietly. “How much more dang⁠—”

“This much.”

That’s when his lips crush punishingly to mine.

When my world turns upside down.

And when the walls inside me suddenly lie in shattered ruins.