Vows of Darkness

Javier~

It's been two years since I last set foot in Las Vegas. I told Enrico I was here for business—some trivial task I needed to handle with him—but that obviously wasn't the truth. I was here for one reason, and one reason only. To see her.

I wasn't alone. Ivan, ever the annoying shadow, was with me. We were cruising in a rented Porsche, the city skyline shimmering in the daylight as we headed towards the Torrini mansion. He'd insisted on tagging along, eager to watch whatever drama might unfold. I hadn't planned on having him here, but Ivan didn't give a damn about my plans. He liked stirring trouble.

As we sped down the highway, something caught my eye—a woman standing by the side of the road, her arm raised in a desperate wave. She wore a long, flowing blue sundress, her hair cascading over her face, hiding it. There was something strangely familiar about her, something that made my pulse quicken.

And then it hit me.

"The fuck! Is that Giorgia?" Ivan spoke up from the passenger seat, his tone incredulous.

I didn't need to answer. I knew it, too.

It was Giorgia.

What the hell was she doing here? I slammed the brakes and pulled the car over at a distance. As I watched her run toward us, my mind raced.

"Can you please hel—" Her voice faltered, and she froze when she saw me, her words dying on her lips. Panic flashed in her eyes, vivid and raw, like a cornered animal that had just realized who stood in front of her.

"Get in the car," I commanded, my voice firm.

She didn't hesitate. She climbed into the back seat, but her eyes never stopped scanning, her gaze flickering over her shoulder as if she feared someone—or something—was right behind her. I caught Ivan's questioning look from the passenger seat, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to ask what was going on.

My fists tightened around the steering wheel, my blood boiling. What the fuck was she doing here alone? No guards, no backup. She'd been waving at random cars for help? And why the hell did she need help in the first place? Who was she running from?

As I stole a glance at her through the rearview mirror, I couldn't ignore the sight of her tear-streaked face. Her dress was torn, the fabric ripped and frayed like someone had dragged her across the ground. A sharp jolt of fury pulsed through me. Someone had hurt her.

I started driving again. Constantly glancing at the rare view mirror to see her. "Drop me to the mall," her voice cut through the silence. I didn't say a word, if I opened my mouth, I'd lose my shit. The silence between us felt heavier with each passing second. A few minutes later, I brought the car to a stop in front of the mall. But she didn't move.

I glanced at her, and something in her posture made my chest tighten. Her body was still, frozen in place, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her torn dress. She didn't even realize the car had stopped. She was lost in her thoughts, lost in something darker than I could understand.

But I saw it. Fear. The kind of fear that made my pulse race. It wasn't the usual terror of being around me, no—it was something else, something deeper. Something worse.

I reached over and placed my hand gently on her shoulder. She flinched violently, as if my touch burned her. It was enough to send a shockwave through me. She jerked, panic gripping her, and in a rush, she started tearing at the seatbelt, as if she needed to escape, to run from me.

"Calm down," I said, my voice low, but firm.

I could see her body shaking, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. She looked like a wild animal caught in a trap. "Calm down, Giorgia," I repeated, this time louder, my grip tightening on her shoulders, making her look at me.

Her wide eyes met mine, her pupils dilated with anxiety, and I felt an unfamiliar knot in my stomach. Fuck, I hated that look. It twisted something deep inside me, and for a moment, I wondered who had made her feel this way. It wasn't supposed to be me.

I released the seatbelt, helping her out of it slowly, deliberately, as though touching her too quickly might shatter her. She didn't speak as I did, but I could hear her breath hitching, as if every movement was a struggle for her.

When she finally looked up at me, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Don't tell Father. He'll kill me."

Her words hit me like a slap in the face. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had spoken to me with such raw, unguarded fear. I could see it in the way her eyes searched mine, desperate for reassurance, desperate for safety.

"Please," she added, and the vulnerability in that word made something twist inside me, harder this time.

It wasn't the usual fear of me, of what I represented. It was something else.

I watched her move, shaky hands fumbling as she exited the car, rushing out toward the parking lot without another glance in my direction. My gaze never left her, though. It couldn't. My eyes tracked her every movement, every step she took, watching the way she seemed to flee from something that wasn't me.

The weight of the moment pressed against my chest. What the hell was going on with her? And who the hell had done this to her?

Rage coiled in my gut, tight and suffocating. Someone had dared to trouble her. A raw, primal protectiveness surged through me, dark and all-consuming. No one was fucking allowed to do that. I knew her father was already enough of an asshole, but the fact that someone else was making her life worse? That made my blood boil.

I had come here because something about Giorgia had been gnawing at me for weeks. A suspicion, an itch in the back of my mind that wouldn't let up. And now, seeing her like that—tear-streaked, trembling, her dress torn—I knew I had been right. She was hiding something. Not just from me, but from her father. From everyone.

"What the hell was that?" Ivan asked from beside me, his tone sharp with unease.

"There's something so fucking wrong," he muttered, looking at me like he was expecting answers. "Why didn't you take her straight to the mansion? Confront that Torrini asshole and tell him his daughter is running around the city alone?"

I gritted my teeth, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles ached. I didn't respond. My mind was a storm.

The midday sun bore down on us as we pulled up in front of the Torrini mansion. The place stood as intimidating as ever, its grand façade gleaming under the harsh daylight. Ivan shot me another questioning look, but I ignored him. My blood was still boiling, and I wasn't in the mood to entertain his curiosity.

We stepped out of the car, the heat pressing against us. Before we could even reach the door, it swung open. A woman stood there—mid-fifties, maybe—her expression unreadable. She didn't say a word, just stepped aside to let us in.

We moved through the familiar halls, the scent of cigars hanging in the air. And there he was. Enrico Torrini. Seated in the living room, a cigar between his fingers, exhaling smoke like he had all the time in the world. His sharp gaze flicked to us the moment we entered, unreadable yet knowing.

Enrico got up and strode toward us, his ugly smirk already in place. "Rodriguez brothers, long time no see," he said, extending a hand.

I grasped it firmly, holding on just long enough to remind him who he was dealing with. Ivan followed suit, his handshake stiff, disinterested. We didn't need to be friends; we just needed to make business work.

"How are the wedding preparations going?" Enrico asked casually, as though this was some family gathering instead of a business arrangement. But I knew better.

"Great," Ivan replied in his usual rough yet firm voice, the casual arrogance in his tone enough to make Torrini wary. He had already switched from his usual reckless demeanor to something sharper. He knew when to lower his defenses—and when to strike.

I leaned forward slightly, my gaze fixed on Enrico, a steady pressure mounting in my chest. "About the drug routes we discussed..." I let the sentence hang in the air, thick with unspoken implications. "You promised me access. I've been waiting."

Enrico's smile flickered for a split second, then returned, but it wasn't as smooth as before. He exhaled slowly, a cloud of smoke swirling around him. "I've made arrangements. There's been some delays, but—"

"Delays?" I cut him off sharply, letting the words land with weight. "You've been holding back. We both know it. You gave your word, Enrico. I'm not here for excuses."

The tension in the room thickened. Ivan shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly, reading the situation with his usual sharpness. He didn't need to say anything. His body language said it all—this wasn't some simple negotiation anymore.

Enrico cleared his throat, his fingers gripping the cigar a little tighter. "It's not that simple, Javier. The routes have been complicated—"

"Enough." My tone was flat, unyielding. "You think I came all the way to Las Vegas for small talk? You promised me those routes would be open, but you're keeping them back. And I'm not the kind of man who waits forever."

Enrico stiffened slightly at my words, though he kept his posture relaxed. He wasn't scared, but he could feel the shift in the room. The realization was there—he knew who he was dealing with.

This marriage wasn't just about expanding territories. It was about control. And I was here to make sure we got what was promised, no matter the cost.

Before Enrico could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, cutting through the tension. Giorgia appeared in the doorway, her presence almost too calm, too composed. Stefano Torrini walked in beside her. I hadn't met him in person before, but I knew who he was—Enrico's brother's son.

Enrico's smile returned as he saw Giorgia. "You're back already? Did the shopping go well?" His tone was sugary sweet, far too fake.

Giorgia nodded, but it was mechanical, as though she was playing her part. She didn't look like the same woman I had seen just earlier, she had put on a shrug on her dress. Gone was the fear in her eyes, replaced by a careful mask of indifference. She had changed. The girl I had seen in the street was a distant memory.

Shopping? That was what she had been doing? I didn't believe a word of it.

Giorgia didn't spare me a glance, not once. She moved quietly, disappearing into another hallway, her silence louder than any words.

Stefano took a seat with us, and Enrico continued his charade. "You see how excited Giorgia is about the wedding," he said, trying to smooth things over, his tone still overly pleasant. "She's really looking forward to it."

Ivan barely held back a smirk. He didn't buy this act any more than I did. Neither of us did.

We continued discussing business, but my mind kept drifting back to her.

Two years. It had been two fucking years since I last saw Giorgia, and yet, just one glance at her was enough to throw me off.

She was different now. Her features had sharpened, losing the soft innocence of before. I hadn't even gotten a proper look at her, but that brief moment was enough. Her dark brown hair, shorter than I remembered, had clung to her skin in damp waves. Her blue eyes, the ones that used to hold nothing but quiet obedience, had been wild with something else today. Fear. Desperation.

And yet, when she walked in here—when she stood beside that bastard Stefano—she was composed. As if she hadn't just been running for her fucking life. As if she hadn't been standing on the side of the road, waving down cars like a lost girl in a horror movie.

I didn't know what pissed me off more. The fact that she was pretending… or the fact that she was so damn good at it.

We had been discussing business for nearly two hours when it was finally time to leave. Throughout the meeting, I hadn't seen Antonio even once. He knew I was coming today—there was no way he didn't—but his absence was deliberate. That in itself was strange.

Before stepping out, I turned to Enrico. "Before we leave, I want to see Giorgia."

It wasn't a request. She was my fiancée. I didn't need anyone's permission to meet her.

Enrico gave a nod of approval, but it was purely for formality. "Of course," he said before turning to the woman who had let us in earlier. "Wilma, tell Giorgia that Javier wants to see her."

Wilma nodded without a word and disappeared down the hall. A few minutes later she returned and motioned for me to follow.

We ascended the grand staircase, the smooth white marble cool beneath my steps. The banister was carved with intricate floral patterns, the kind of craftsmanship only old money could afford. A grand chandelier cast a warm glow over the foyer below, illuminating the house's quiet opulence.

At the top of the stairs, three doors lined the hallway. Wilma stopped in front of one and knocked lightly before turning on her heel and leaving without a word.

The door swung open, and a girl with striking freckles and an unmistakably annoyed expression stood in the doorway. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line. If I remembered correctly, this was Martina—Giorgia's younger sister.

"Keep the door open, Gia. I'm waiting outside," she called over her shoulder, speaking to Giorgia, who was somewhere inside the room.

I didn't acknowledge her childish display. Instead, I stepped aside, giving her space to leave, and then entered Giorgia's bedroom.

The bedroom was as grand as the rest of the house—ornate and pristine, but cold. The walls were painted a soft ivory, and a massive canopy bed stood at the center, its silk sheets perfectly arranged, untouched. Heavy drapes framed the tall windows, filtering the fading sunlight, casting elongated shadows across the polished wooden floor. Everything in the room screamed luxury, yet it felt impersonal. Like a space that belonged to someone with little control over their own life.

And there she was.

Giorgia stood by the window, her back to me, gazing out as if lost in thought. At the sound of my footsteps, she turned around—slow, deliberate. Her expression was veiled, her posture composed. Too composed. As if nothing had happened.

That only fueled my anger.

Did she think I was fucking stupid? That I'd just let her little stunt slide? She had lied—to everyone. She had disappeared to a place she shouldn't have been, and now she had the audacity to act like everything was fine.

I stepped closer, closing the space between us until only an arm's length remained. She kept her gaze lowered, fixated on the floor as if it held the answers to every problem in the world.

"Where were you?" My voice was quiet—too quiet. I was trying to hold onto the last shred of patience I had left.

She finally looked up at me, and there it was. A crack in her perfect composure.

For a second, she tried to mask it, but I saw it. The nervous flicker in her eyes. The way her fingers clenched ever so slightly at her sides. "At the mall," she said, forcing herself to meet my gaze. She was lying....again.

To me.

My jaw clenched. She wasn't very good at this. And yet, she was still trying. Still pushing. Still determined to piss me the fuck off.

"Then what the fuck were you doing, running around the city alone? Asking random cars for help?" My voice was low, tight with anger, but it vibrated with the force I was barely containing.

There was a limit to everything, and I wasn't about to fucking tolerate my fiancée lying to me.

I stepped forward, closing the little distance between us, and she instinctively moved back—only to hit the window. Her breath hitched for a second, but then, like a switch flipping, she straightened. Her shoulders squared, her chin tilted upward, and those sharp, defiant eyes met mine.

"I know I'm your fiancée," she said, her voice steady, "but let me remind you—I'm still not married to you. I'm still part of the Famiglia, not the Cartels. I don't owe you any answers."

I stilled.

For a moment, the room was dead silent, save for the distant hum of the city outside.

She wasn't wrong. And she fucking knew it.

And that only pissed me off more.

A slow smirk curled at the edge of my lips, dark and sharp. "That's cute, princess." My voice was almost mocking, but my eyes never left hers. "You think that means I won't find out?" I leaned in just a little, close enough that she could feel the heat of my words. "You're mine, Giorgia. And I will know everything. One way or another."

Her throat bobbed slightly, and I knew I'd struck a nerve.

Satisfied, I turned away and strode toward the door. The second I pulled it open, I was greeted with a glare of pure disgust.

Martina.

She was standing with her arms crossed, her foot tapping impatiently against the polished floor. "You're fucking insufferable," she muttered under her breath as I walked past her.

I chuckled, not bothering to acknowledge her further. That little brat had always been a thorn in my side, but right now, she was the least of my concerns.

Ivan was already waiting downstairs, tossing a car key in the air like he had all the time in the world. "That bad?" he asked, smirking as I walked past him.

"Drive," I ordered, yanking the key from his hand and stepping outside.

The bright afternoon sun bounced off the white Porsche parked in the driveway. I slid into the passenger seat, the leather warm from the heat. Ivan got behind the wheel, starting the engine with a low purr before pulling out onto the road.

For a few minutes, I didn't say a word, just sat there, jaw clenched, fingers tapping against my thigh. That fucking attitude. That defiance.

She thought she could keep secrets from me?

I was going to find out exactly what she was hiding. And when I did, she'd pay for every single second of that little stunt.

I grinned, and beside me, Ivan let out a low chuckle. "That grin tells me the girl's gonna have a rough time soon," he mused, shifting gears as he sped down the road.

I leaned back, exhaling slowly, my mind already playing out the possibilities.

Damn, I couldn't wait to get married now.