Forgotten Vows

Five hundred people crowd the ballroom, and I hate every single one. My sequined dress pinches under my arms while I look around the charity gala from behind a glass of untouched champagne.

I didn’t want to come, but Nico insisted.

“Family appearances matter,” my brother said this morning, in that voice that meant refusing wasn’t an option.

So here I stand, surrounded by New York’s elite pretending to care about whatever cause is printed on the banners hanging from twenty-foot ceilings.

The orchestra plays something classical and forgettable while waiters dodge through the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Diamonds glitter under crystal chandeliers, accompanied by fake smiles and even faker laughs. These people will donate millions tonight, then tomorrow, they’ll go back to exploiting the very communities they claim to support.

Nico catches my eye from across the room and gives me a pointed look. I know that expression—socialize or face his disappointment later. My brother runs half the criminal enterprises in this city, but God forbid his little sister stands alone at a party. To everyone here, he’s just another wealthy businessman with political connections. They don’t see the blood on his hands or know about the bodies buried beneath his success.

Taking a small sip of champagne, I move toward a cluster of women dripping in diamonds worth more than most people’s homes. Their husbands are all connected to my brother in ways they probably don’t fully understand or even want to know. Business associates, he calls them. Puppets is more accurate.

“Aleta!” A blonde woman with knife-sharp cheekbones extends her hand. “We’ve been dying to meet you. I’m Caroline. Your brother speaks so highly of you.”

I doubt that. “Nice to meet you.”

“Is it true you just returned from Europe?” another woman asks. Her eyes are starved for gossip.

“Milan and Paris,” I reply before giving them the sanitized version Nico prepared. Not the truth about the private compound in Switzerland where he sent me after I “caused problems” last year. My brother’s solution to everything that displeases him is to make it disappear.

“How glamorous,” Caroline coos, touching my arm like we’re old friends. “You must tell us everything. Did you meet anyone special while you were away?”

My smile feels plastic, stretched across my face by force. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Such a shame,” another woman comments as she eyes me with thinly veiled judgment. “A beautiful young woman like you. Your brother must be eager to see you settled.”

Their questions all start to run together as I nod and smile mechanically. Women like these see me as nothing but Nico Ricci’s unmarried sister—a curiosity, a potential connection to power, maybe even a threat to their own daughters’ prospects among eligible bachelors in our circles.

My gaze drifts around the room, taking in faces that mean nothing to me. Politicians nodding seriously at whatever Nico is saying. Business rivals measuring each other up from opposite sides of the room. Women whose cosmetic procedures cost more than college tuitions.

Until I see him.

I curl my fingers tight around the stem of my glass, and every muscle in my body goes rigid.

Elio Castellano is by the bar, commanding the space around him without even trying. His black is suit molded to his broad shoulders and powerful frame, making everyone near him look smaller by comparison. The man’s dark hair is styled back from his face, showing off features that could have been carved from stone—strong jaw shadowed with perfect stubble, straight nose, lips that I remember all too well. Tattoos crawl up his neck before disappearing beneath his collar, marking him as different from the polished businessmen around him.

I know those tattoos. I’ve traced them with my fingers under moonlight on an Italian beach. I’ve pressed my lips against them when we thought the world couldn’t find us. But that was five years ago, and a lot has changed since then.

He’s older now. Thirteen years my senior and somehow more devastating than when I was twenty and foolish enough to believe we could escape our families. The years have hardened him, adding experience to features that were already dangerous. His presence radiates power and control, drawing glances from everyone nearby—some fearful, others intrigued.

Elio Castellano. My brother’s greatest rival. The man who haunts my dreams.

Someone touches my arm, and I nearly jump. Caroline asks something about my dress designer, but her words don’t register. My focus remains on Elio, who still hasn’t noticed me. Two men in expensive suits listen intently to whatever he’s saying, and they nod along with the respect reserved for men who inspire fear.

“Excuse me,” I mumble before I cut through the group without waiting for a response.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I step between guests with my champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my glass. Memories flood back without permission—stolen moments in a villa overlooking the Mediterranean, whispered promises under Italian stars, the taste of wine on his lips. The crushing pain when it all fell apart.

Nico found out. He always finds out.

My brother’s voice echoes from three years ago: “He used you, Aleta. Everything he said was a lie to get information about our family. The Castellanos have always been our enemies.”

My brother showed me photos of Elio meeting with men I recognized as our family’s rivals., along with documents outlining plans against us, dated during the weeks we were together.

And my heart has never been the same since.

I stop mid-step, suddenly unsure. What am I doing? Approaching him here, surrounded by people who would report back to Nico within minutes?

Before I can retreat, Elio turns and observes the crowd with predatory focus, and our eyes lock across forty feet of expensive marble flooring.

Recognition hits him instantly. His body goes still, though his expression remains unchanged except for a slight tightening around his eyes. Nobody else would notice, but I do. I always noticed everything about him.

Three years since I’ve seen him. Three years of dreams where his hands still move across my skin. Three years wondering if any of it was real.

Elio lifts his glass in my direction in an almost imperceptible gesture. Mocking or acknowledging, I can’t tell. His lips curve into something not quite a smile.

My body responds before my brain can catch up. Heat floods my chest and snakes up to my face. The familiar pull toward him feels like gravity, impossible to fight. I shouldn’t approach him. Nico would lose his mind if he saw us speaking.

I move toward Elio anyway.

People step aside as I pass, perhaps sensing my determination or recognizing me as Nico’s sister. The distance between us shrinks with each step. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five.

I stop just short of him, close enough to smell his cologne—expensive and masculine with notes of sandalwood. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“Aleta Ricci.” His voice is deeper than I remember, and his Italian accent wraps around my name like a caress. “What an unexpected pleasure.”