Veiled Vows: An age gap, marriage of convenience, secret pregnancy, mafia romance (Mafia Lords of Sin)

Everything hurts.

From my head right down to the tip of my toes. I feel like I’ve just been tossed around inside a blender and dumped out into a puddle, and not the nice kind of puddle either. There’s grit nudging against my fingertips each time I flex them gently into the cold water lapping over my knuckles.

I don’t remember water in the car, but given how fast we were going, I won’t be surprised if something burst because⁠—

Shit.

We crashed.

It’s coming back to me slowly. We were racing away from someone taking shots at us, and then the window smashed, I think. Did my driver get shot? I think so. He was screaming so loudly that it had to have been a bullet.

Get up, Jasmine.

There’s more water down by my thigh, soaking into my jeans and making the fabric pull uncomfortably tight against my skin. I like these jeans. I got them on sale with Catherine last Christmas because they used to have little green bows near the pockets, bows that have long fallen off due to far too many cycles in the wash, but they still make my ass look good.

Not now. Now they’re soaking up dirty road water and God knows what else because I’m not in the car anymore. In fact, I have no idea where the car is. There’s just water and the sharp press of gravel and pavement against my cheek. I try to shift, and pain pulls like taffy right down my back, like pulling a muscle only a hundred times worse.

Fuck. What if I got seriously fucked up in the crash? Maybe I’m dead and this is my soul trying to pull itself out of my body. What an unremarkable way to die.

Opening my eyes, I’m greeted by a pair of shiny black shoes pointing away from me. Droplets of water cling to the smooth, overly polished leather, and the bottom cuffs of the slacks are stained dark from soaking up liquid. This guy’s been sloshing through puddles, or it’s the remains of when he dumped me down on the ground like a sack of potatoes.

I have to remember my training. Years I’ve spent learning self-defense, but I never trained for how to reorient yourself after being thrown through a car crash. Moves and images flicker through my dull mind in time to my sluggish heart, and then a voice drifts through the night air.

“Just shoot her and get it over with.”

“Boss wants a video,” replies a second voice, this one so close that it has to belong to the man standing over me. “How we gonna wake her up?”

“No clue. I told you to shoot the tires!”

“I did,” hisses dirty-pants man. “I just also shot the fucking driver.”

“Asshole.”

“Don’t fucking start. Look, you record and I’ll try to wake her up. If it doesn’t work then just shoot her, alright?”

The distant man mutters something in a language I don’t understand, then suddenly there’s a hand in my hair dragging me out of my watery grave. Every strand pulls like a needle against my scalp, and fresh, sharp pain flares across my forehead drawing a gasp from my clenched teeth.

“Ow!”

“Look,” says the pants guy. “Told you I’d wake her up.”

“Let go of me, you fuck!” Twisting against his hold only amplifies the burning pain in my scalp, and my vision is so blurry that both men are just shadows, with one holding a beacon presumably from his phone.

“Stay down, bitch!”

Something collides with my jaw, sending an explosion of hot pain through my face and lancing down my neck. My teeth clack with sickening clarity, and the taste of blood suddenly floods my mouth. I hit the ground again, but this time I throw my hands out and stop myself from landing face-first.

Think I bit my tongue. Did he kick me?

I have to fight back, but another blow like that and I’m not sure I’m getting back up. Blinking slowly against the glaring light, my vision starts to clear. There’s only two of them, and the entire stretch of road is empty until it curves out of sight at one end. Behind both men, the guard rail is split in two with the red rear lights of my car flickering in and out of life. My driver’s body lies a few feet away, two bullets in his chest and one leg bent at an unnatural angle. Shit.

I’m fucked.

I’m so fucked.

Swiping my tongue around the inside of my mouth, I gather a mouthful of blood and spit it onto the ground with a wince. “Alright, let’s talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” says the pants guy. “We have our orders.”

“Smile for the camera,” sneers the second guy, and he walks forward with the camera held high. “Gotta look pretty for your audience.”

“What audience?” Keeping them talking is my only goal, but as for how to talk my way out of this alive? I’ve got nothing.

“Your parents.” Pants guy fiddles with his handgun and checks the chamber. “They’re gonna get first viewing.”

“Don’t suppose I get to say my last words?”

“Sure.” The cameraman adopts a relaxed stance and wiggles his brows. “Action!”

A low rumbling fills the air, like the distant hum of an airplane engine. It’s getting louder by the second, and all three of us glance skyward in confusion.

Wait, that’s not an airplane⁠—

A motorcycle suddenly blasts around the bend in the road and roars straight toward us. There’s barely time for anyone to react because as soon as we see the bike, it’s already screeching under the strain of brakes and slowing down. A dark figure, shrouded behind the blinding glare of the headlights, leaps from the slowing motorcycle and crash-lands onto pants guy just as his bike smashes full force into the cameraman and wipes him right out of existence.noveldrama

Am I hallucinating? Has death finally come for me on a motorcycle?

“You motherfucker!” roars the mysterious man from where he grapples fiercely with pants guy on the road.

Wait, I know that voice.

“R-Roman?” It can’t be. How the hell is he here? Why is he even here?

The two men clash together like waves, rolling over and exchanging blow after blow. Roman is an impressive fighter, but it seems pants guy has skills of his own. After being tackled by all two hundred and sixty pounds of Roman Gatti muscle, pants guy lost his gun. I spot it glinting in a nearby puddle, reflecting the lights of the now toppled-over motorcycle.

I can help.

I have to help.

Climbing to my feet brings me right back down face-first on the pavement as an overwhelming wave of dizziness turns the road to Jell-O beneath my feet. Nausea swims up my gut and my heartbeat throbs right behind my eyes.

Holy shit.

I definitely hit my head.

Shit.

Get up, Jasmine. Get the fuck up!

Trying again brings me to my hands and knees, but it’s an improvement. Roman and the stranger are still fighting one another like wild animals, so I drag my trembling body toward the gun until Roman’s cry of pain makes me freeze.

He stumbles backward, gasping at the knife protruding from his shoulder.

“Roman!”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he rips the blade out of his shoulder, flips it around, and throws it directly at the chest of my attacker. It collides with a wet thump, and Roman follows the movement with a swift punch to the hilt that sends the stranger crashing to the ground with a wounded yelp. Then they’re on one another, kicking and punching and wrestling to the death.

I shake my head and crawl, getting stronger with each shuffle. By the time I reach the gun, my vision is clear, and the thumping, pulsing beat of my heart has returned to my chest. I scramble to my feet, raise the weapon, and—freeze.

Roman stands before me panting heavily with the dirty-pants stranger dead a few feet behind him. The hilt of the knife protrudes proudly from his neck.

“Holy shit,” I gasp, staring at Roman in utter shock. How—how are you here?”

A rumble roars overhead and a split second later, the heavens open. Rain pours down in sheets, drenching us in seconds. Roman’s dark hair flatters like an oil slick to his head, blood leaks from his brow and lip while his black shirt—which quickly becomes a second skin under the intense downpour—hides his wounded shoulder.

“Jasmine—” He surges forward and clutches my waist, then my cheek which sends a light mist of rainwater into my eyes. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m okay. The crash was … I don’t even remember. I think I hit my head and then the—wait, Roman what’s going on?”

“Alto,” he mutters bitterly. “He’s behind this. Told me to my fucking face. I tried to call you, and when you didn’t pick up, I started tracing your cell. Are you sure you’re okay?” His dark brows pinch together with worry as he keeps lightly patting my cheek.

“I-I’m fine, what about you?” Just as I reach for his shoulder, Roman suddenly sags into me with a soft groan.

“Ah. Shit.”

“Roman? What is it? What’s wrong?”

He’s rapidly becoming a deadweight in my arms, and we both look down as he pulls the soaked hem of his shirt upward revealing a deep laceration in his side. “I—fuck, I’m sorry⁠—”

“Roman!” His eyes flutter and close, and suddenly I’m the sole support for his solid body. “Roman!”

“Take it all.” Every dollar from my pockets, the car’s glove box, and Roman’s pockets are pressed into the clerk’s hands. “Thank you.”

“I don’t usually ask questions,” the older motel owner drawls. “But you sure you’re gonna be alright, little lady?”

“I’m fine. We’re fine. Please, take it. Thank you.”

He looks me over with one eye half closed, then nods and hobbles away counting out the bills. I have no idea how much I gave him, but after he helped me drag Roman’s unconscious body from the Uber to the room, I don’t care. He deserves every cent.

I close the door, slide the chain into place, and lock both the locks. Then I draw all the curtains and drag the small wooden chair against the door, angling the back just under the door handle so anyone trying to break in will struggle.

After Roman collapsed, I considered calling my father, but it felt too risky. If Alto is behind this, then there’s no telling what other nasty surprises are waiting for me, so holding off until Roman tells me everything is the safest bet.

But first things first. I need to check his wounds. What I was able to look at in the car didn’t look too deep, but the wound on his side coupled with the fight and the wound on his shoulder is keeping him down and out. A hospital is just as risky as calling home, so I’m on my own.

The motel bathroom has everything I need to get started; hot water, antiseptic lotion, and some old butterfly stitches left in an even older medical box. As long as they stick, they’ll do. Roman remains unconscious on the couch with one arm over his body and the other dangling down to the floor. He’s breathing and his pulse is strong, but every second he remains out of it is a second my anxiety increases.

I need him awake. I need answers.

Kneeling down on the floor, I scrape my soaked hair back from my face and bite back a whimper as pain flares from the dark bruise forming on my forehead. I’m mostly uninjured from the crash, but I think I left a good pound of foundation on the dashboard where my forehead collided.

Just as I reach for Roman’s shirt, his hand darts out to grab my wrist, making me jump right out of my skin. “Fuck!”

“Sorry!” Roman also darts upward, and I throw myself back to stop our foreheads from colliding. His eyes are wide as he scans the room trying to orient himself, panting heavily until his eyes lock onto me. “What the—what happened?”

“You fainted.”

“I didn’t.”

“You so did.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You came in like some flying knight, and that guy stabbed you and then it was raining and I just …” My words fly out in a rush as my heart races. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

“Shit … I’m sorry, Jasmine.”

“Don’t be.” Rising back onto one knee, my free hand cups his cheek. “You saved me.” And wasn’t that just the hottest thing to replay in my mind? “Although, I’m still confused about how you were even there.”

“Never mind there, how did I get here?”

“Uber.”

Roman’s brows meet his hairline. “How?”

“Dragged you. Told the driver you were drunk. And the motel owner.”

“Jasmine—”

“Look, let’s just focus on one thing at a time. You got stabbed, and I’m kind of worried about the blood, so can you let me treat you first and then we can talk?”

His eyes dart over my face, lingering on my forehead, so I swivel my wrist in his grip and take his hand instead.

“Please?”

“Okay.” Roman nods slowly. “Okay. Good plan. But you first.”

“I didn’t get stabbed.”

Roman rolls his eyes and groans. “Fine.”

I pick myself up from the floor as he stands and slowly unbuttons his shirt. As he tosses it aside, revealing his gorgeously muscular back, something catches my eye that makes my heart stop dead.

Both arms are heavily tattooed with black ink that sweeps together and caresses around his pecs to join together at his breastbone.

But … I know those tattoos.

One is a dragon winding around his bicep breathing fire, another is a phoenix. There’s a long snake and an elegant deer leaping over a line of forest trees. Hundreds of butterflies trail from his elbow all the way up to his shoulder.

I know those. I know them all by heart.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, my voice barely a whisper as everything about Roman suddenly crashes down around me. “Oh my God, it’s you!”