Devious Vow: Chapter 19

I feel sick.

It’s not the dress, which is slightly too tight. And it’s not the several—I’ve lost count—glasses of champagne I’ve already knocked back.

It’s the war going on inside my chest, twisting me up and leaving me gasping for air.

“What you’ve gathered so far is a good start, Eloise.”

Guests have already started arriving for this disaster of a cocktail party Massimo has insisted on throwing. But I’m not playing hostess yet. Instead, I’m sitting down in Massimo’s private home office with my husband and a man I’ve just been introduced to simply as Tony.

Tony is a lawyer, though not “officially” Massimo’s attorney. He’s more of a strategist, as he told me five minutes ago when Massimo dragged me in here.

“But we need more,” Tony says casually to me, trying to smile like he’s my friend.

Bullshit. He’s my friend like Massimo is my soulmate.

But I know what this is now. Whatever Massimo is planning for the Roberto Chinellato case, Tony here is helping him plot it.

And I’m helping them execute it, however unwillingly.

I stare mutely at the evidence of my crimes spread across Massimo’s desk in front of me. At what I’ve stolen from the Crown and Black offices. Printouts of photos I’ve taken are mingled with photocopies of other documents I’ve managed to steal, all related to the Chinellato case.

“Yeah, this is all great, Eloise,” Tony murmurs, shifting his heavy-set bulk in the chair next to me. “But we just…more.”

Across from us, Massimo glares at me, as if daring me to make him look bad in any way.

“Okay, but what specifically are you looking for?”

Tony clears his throat, glancing uncomfortably at Massimo.

“Thanks for your time tonight, Tony,” my husband growls, still glaring at me. “Are you staying for the party?”

“Afraid not, Mr. Carveli,” Tony wheezes as he pulls his weight out of the chair and reaches across the desk to shake my husband’s hand. He gives Massimo a significant look. “If she can get…what we need…we can move forward.”

“It’ll happen,” Massimo grunts. “Just make sure we’re bulletproof. We only get one shot at this.”

I stand as Tony exits the office, then linger behind. Massimo glances at his watch. “Okay, time to get back. I need your ass out there smiling for our guests. I think there’s probably enough champagne out there to wipe the scowl off even your face.”

I purse my lips, glaring at him.

“What are you planning?”

I’m so fucking sick of being involved in this. I know Alistair and I aren’t anything more than two people who can make each other feel good physically. I know this isn’t what it once almost was. But still, the toxic guilt I feel burning a hole through my consciousness every time I even look at Alistair is starting to break me.

Massimo smirks. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I think I need to worry about it, given that I’m part of it.”

His eyes glint. “Just keep your eyes open at Crown and Black, and your fucking mouth shut.”

“If I get caught⁠—”

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“But if I do?” I spit. “What happens to your little plan then?” My eyes narrow on him. “What’s to stop me telling them who put me up to⁠—”

“I wonder if it’s too late to invite your sister to tonight’s party.”

I go cold instantly as Massimo smiles dangerously at me, his lips curling viciously.

“Maybe I should go over there and personally invite her.”

“You stay the fuck away from⁠—”

I gasp as he surges around to my side of the desk. His hand grabs me by the throat, hard, choking me as fear explodes through my chest.

“Do as I fucking ask, when I ask it, without any fucking attitude,” he hisses coldly, “and I will.” His face darkens. “But cross me, bitch,” he snarls, “and I’ll duct-tape your eyelids open and make you watch what I do to Camille. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes,” I choke out.

I’m still unbelievably furious with my sister over the lie she told me ten years ago about Alistair. And she might be insane, and toxic as fuck…

But she’s still my sister.

“Now, go out to our fucking party,” he snarls. “Smile at our fucking guests, and try not to fucking black out. Think you can handle that?”

I don’t say anything. Eventually, Massimo’s grip drops from my neck.

“Let’s go.”

He ushers me out of the office and down the hall to the waiting guests mingling in the large living area of the gaudy penthouse. Massimo instantly turns on the charm, going into “king greeting his subjects” mode as he grabs a drink from a passing waiter’s tray.

I grab a flute of Champagne from another passed tray, slugging back half of it before slinking back into the shadows, out of the spotlight.

Originally I had no idea why Massimo was throwing this party. But the reason becomes more and more obvious the longer I take in the guests mingling around.

Massimo’s rise to the top of the Carveli family wasn’t exactly a smooth one. I don’t know all the details, and I never actually knew Luca Carveli. But I do know that Massimo and his father weren’t exactly on good terms when Luca died. The cause of death is still debatable, depending on who you ask.

Obviously, this sparked more than a few questions about Massimo’s involvement with his father’s demise. From what I’ve heard, any such questions from inside the Carveli organization were squashed—violently—once Massimo became king. But that hasn’t stopped the murmurings about his legitimacy that come from outside.

The five biggest Italian mafia families in the United States, including the Carveli organization, form “The Commission”: a round table forum for those families to have open communication and keep the peace between themselves. A rising tide lifts all ships, and all that.

From what I understand, that’s where some of the whispers about Massimo and the legitimacy of his claim to the Carveli throne are coming from—specifically, from the older heads of the families, who did business with Luca.

I glance around the party, mentally ticking off who I see. There’s Michael Genovisi, the Don of the Scaliami family. I also spot Carmine and Nico Barone, the two sons of Don Vito Barone. I don’t see Luciano Amato or Cesare Marchetti. A lightbulb goes on in my head.

The Amato and Marchetti families have, I’ve heard, been the loudest voicing their suspicions of Massimo’s claim to the empire. The Barone and Scaliami families, however, have been a bit more…receptive.

He’s shoring up his allies.

It makes even more sense as I watch Massimo the asshole utterly oiling his way around the room, especially when he gets to the Barone brothers and Don Genovisi.

Slowly, I slip back down the dim hallway, away from the party. For one, because I have zero interest in being a part of Massimo’s Game of Thrones: The Mafia Edition. But also, because he’s so firmly occupied with glad-handing his guests…

…He’s not watching me.

Quickly, I slip down the hallway, around the corner, and back into Massimo’s office. Closing the door behind me, I move to his desk and pull out the file folder full of all the papers I’ve stolen from Crown and Black, paging through my guilt.

“Do you have a death wish?”

I jolt, gasping sharply as I whirl, white-faced. Alistair’s brow is deeply furrowed as he shuts the door silently behind him and leans against it.

Goddammit, he looks good. I mean Alistair always looks good in a suit. In the tuxedo he’s wearing, given that this party is black tie?

Pure. Sin.

I don’t realize I’m staring at him like a tiger staring at meat until he clears his throat pointedly. I drag my gaze up to his piercing blue eyes.

Alistair’s frown deepens. “What the fuck are you doing, Eloise?”

My face scrunches up. “What? I’m allowed to get away from a party I have no interest in⁠—”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

My heart sinks.

Fuck. This is it.

I’ve pictured this scenario before, almost every time I was in some filing cabinet I wasn’t supposed to be in at Crown and Black. Every time I photographed a confidential legal document for Massimo.

What if you get caught?

That’s kept me up more nights than I care to admit. And now, here I am, living the nightmare, caught red-handed with⁠—

“Look, I can appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he mutters, his voice slightly softer now.

Wait, what?

“I-I’m sorry?”

He sighs, giving me a look. “Eloise, I know that Massimo is tight with Roberto Chinellato.”

I blink. “I…he’s…”

Alistair shrugs. “He’s asked Taylor, Gabriel, and me about a hundred times each how the case is going, and if there’s anything he can do to assist with it. I mean, I doubt they’re friends, but I assume they have business together.”

“He…yeah,” I mumble. “They do.”

“I also know there was all sorts of bad blood between Massimo and Federico Lombardi.”

Federico Lombardi is the guy who was murdered, allegedly by Roberto Chinellato. It’s why the alibi that puts Roberto nowhere near Federico when he was killed is so important. The racketeering charges rest on the murder charge. If there’s no murder charge, the whole case falls apart.

“Alistair—”

“I understand,” he growls. “Massimo almost certainly has dirt on Federico, and you want something that puts even more distance between him and Roberto to help with the case.” He studies me. “But this is not how you do it.”

I stare at him. He thinks I’m helping him right now?

I wince as something twists painfully in my chest.

“There’s a process, Eloise, you know that. When you don’t follow it, whatever evidence you introduce becomes inadmissible. Worst case, it results in a mistrial,” he continues. “So whatever you’ve just found there”…he nods past me to the stack of purloined evidence I’m hiding behind my back…“just put it the fuck back. Trust me.”

“Alistair…”

I want to tell him. I need to tell him. I have to tell him.

…I don’t.

Because I’m a coward.

Instead, swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn, shove everything back into the file folder, and slip it back into the drawer where I found it. Then I turn, sitting against my hands as I lean against the edge of Massimo’s desk, facing Alistair.

“I’m shocked,” I deadpan. “Since when are you the good guy?”

He smiles darkly. “What would ever suggest to you that I’m the good guy.”

“What you literally just came in here to stop me from doing.”

Slowly, he steps toward me.

“Except that’s not why I came in here.”

“It isn’t?”

My face burns at the squeak in my voice. Alistair keeps moving closer, his eyes never leaving mine as he starts shrugging off his jacket.

Heat pools in my core and my thighs clench as my nipples harden against the shimmery silk of the black and silver cocktail dress.

“W-what…” I stutter, my skin prickling as Alistair drapes his jacket over the back of the couch and takes another step toward me. “What are you⁠—”

“I’m not the good guy, Eloise,” he murmurs quietly as he stops right in front of me. The spicy-clean scent of him washes over me. The heat of his body teases against mine. And the way he rolls his sleeves up to mid-forearm…

I mean, Jesus Christ.

“The good guy doesn’t get another man’s wife alone at a party with every intention of fucking her until she comes all over his cock.”