Broken Vow

Frankie:

I’ve never met a man like Rico Correa.

He’s hotter than a Calvin Klein underwear model, he brings me a single red rose every time we meet, and when he whispers in my ear in Italiano it makes me shiver down to my toes.

And the best part is, he’s all mine.

The Tuscan sun glows overhead as we walk along a path beside the sea. The water is pure turquoise here, dotted with tiny waves that sparkle like diamonds glittering on the surface. We’ve spent the day strolling across the sandy beach of Spiaggia delle Marze and through the cool, dappled shade of the sweet scented pines of Pineta del Tombolo.

We stop every so often to frolic in the water or get snacks from seaside vendors: bomboloni—airy Italian donuts filled with pastry cream—and cool coconut gelato, paper cones filled with a mix of fried seafood called fritto misto, and skewers of tomato, basil, and mozzarella drizzled with olive oil and fresh herbs. The scent of the Tyrrhenian Sea is clear and invigorating. An ancient stone wall acts as a crumbling barrier between us and a steep incline leading to the white sand below.

I pause and pull Rico close to me, then angle my cell phone high to take a selfie of us. I love the way his golden Mediterranean skin contrasts with my peachy complexion, his dark hair against my blonde, his deep brown eyes next to my blue ones.

“How did it come out?” Rico asks afterward.

“What do you think?” Grinning, I tilt the screen toward him so he can see the photo.

It turned out Insta perfect—so much so that I don’t even need to use a filter. Which, naturally. We look perfect together and we’re on the coast of freaking Italy.

He wraps a strong, muscular arm around me and pulls me against his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath my cheek and butterflies explode in my middle as I breathe in the scent of his cologne. It’s been weeks of this, him and me, spending every free minute together. He dotes on me, gazing into my eyes as he strokes my hair or my cheek, kissing me constantly, holding my hand, calling me bella—beautiful. No man has ever paid this much attention to me, or made me feel like this when his mouth is on mine, when our bodies are interlocked.

That’s how I know that what we have is real.

This is what love feels like.

I post the photo to my social media and then pull Rico close for another. I can’t help ogling that one, too. His jawline is amazing. So is the way his mussed hair falls across his brow.

“We are perfect together, Francesca,” he murmurs in his sexy, Italian-accented English.

“I was just thinking that,” I say with a smile, but when I try to show him the picture he barely glances at it.

Instead, he drops to one knee, looks up at me…and pulls out a small diamond ring.

Dante:

Everyone continues dancing all around us, but it feels like this dark-haired pretty boy with the thick Italian accent has just cut my feet right out from under me.

I’ve stopped moving. Stopped breathing. I’m holding on to Frankie’s hand, just staring at her. My wife is still as a statue, her face an open book of guilt and terror. It tells me everything I need to know. This isn’t a prank.

There’s a low ringing in my ears, a buzz of rage building in my body as I replay the last five seconds in my mind over and over again.

“I’m her husband.”

Her fucking husband?

The interloper next to me stands there with an ease that suggests he rather enjoyed dropping that bomb. He’s twirling the wedding ring on his finger, not a lick of discomfort on his face as his gaze bounces between me and Frankie…in fact, if anything, he looks smug. The prickles running down the back of my neck start to hurt.

Fists clenched at my sides, my body taut as a wire, I take a deep breath. That face of his is about to look a lot less self-satisfied.

But before I can even take a step toward him, my wife’s older sister Charlie appears with a big, perfectly practiced saccharine smile on her face. Armani is at her side.

“There you two are! Come with me, come with me.” She takes Frankie’s hand and hustles us off the dance floor, toward the catering tent and away from the festive crowd. Armani follows behind us, smoothly but forcefully steering the pretty boy along with him.

The tent is empty, having been cleared of the buffet hours ago. There are plenty of tables and chairs, but no one seems keen to sit.

Silence falls over the five of us. Frankie tries to stay close to her sister, but I take her arm and keep her in place next to me. All eyes turn in my direction, as if I’m expected to take charge.

Fine. I’ll be the ringmaster of this fucking circus. But I’ve got one question first.

Turning to Frankie, I spear her with a look.

“Is it true?” I ask quietly.

Her eyes glisten with tears, but she manages to hold my gaze as she nods. “I’m sorry.”

Without thinking, I lash out and grab her chin, anger rolling over me. She winces, as if she expects me to act on the monstrous rage inside me.

“Dante,” Charlie says softly. Her tone is a warning.

Tempering myself, I soften my grip. I won’t take my anger out on Frankie. I just have to touch her, to feel the fragility of her in my grip. I need to touch what’s mine. A flash of this loser kissing her, ripping her clothes off, fucking her senseless, and putting a ring on her delicate finger plays like a horror movie inside my brain.

“What was your plan, Francesca?” I grind out. “Figured you’d con me, try to bleed me dry until you were found out?” The angry words fly from my mouth so fast I can’t stop them. “Who put you up to this?”

“No one. It was a mistake.” She takes a shuddering breath. “Just let me explain.”

I wonder what she’s more remorseful about: marrying me, or having her dirty little secret exposed? A hundred other questions burst into my head. Why did she go along with this arranged marriage of ours if she already had a husband? She could have easily backed out of the deal her father made—a deal she made no secret about being opposed to—yet she never mentioned the fact that she was unable to legally marry me. Why did she go through with it, then? Why the charade? What was her endgame in hiding her prior marriage?

What the hell was she after?

“You haven’t even begun to understand what a mistake you’ve made,” I say.

Armani steps closer, as if he’s afraid I’m going to hurt Frankie. Fuck him. He should know me better than that. I call him off with a cutting side-eye and release Frankie. My brother moves back beside our unwanted guest with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Hey,” Charlie says softly. “Let’s just all take a breath and talk this…whatever this is…out. Okay?”

I glare. “There will be talking, but it will be in private, between this woman and myself.”

It’s impossible to wrap my head around how this happened. Armani ran background checks on her and the entire Abbott family before the wedding. There shouldn’t have been a single stone unturned—yet somehow, we missed a giant fucking boulder.

Frankie is married to another man. She can’t legally be married to me.

I look over at her alleged husband. He’s calm, collected, as if he’s making a social call instead of wreaking havoc. This man has touched her, taken her to bed, made her laugh…I can’t stand it.

“Francesca.” I use her full name again, watch her cringe. The tension between us is just about to implode when Marco bounces into the tent, a glass of wine in one hand and a huge smile on his face.

He wanders over, oblivious to what’s going on. Hardly surprising. When does he focus on anything other than partying, pussy, and alcohol?

“Finally found you all—didn’t realize we were playing hide-and-seek,” he jokes. The boyish smile immediately drops from his face as he takes in the scene.

“What do you need, Marco?” I blast the words.

He isn’t bothered by my anger. He’s been the brunt of it for so long, it doesn’t even faze him. “I, uh, just came to tell you the band is on their last song of the set. Almost time for the closing speech to our investors and the press.”

“Of course,” I say. Just fucking perfect.

“Do you need a few more minutes here? I can go make an announcement,” Marco says, eyes darting back and forth between me and the others.

I know I have to keep it together—and I’m sure as hell not giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing me flustered or shaken. But the timing is shit. I can’t believe I have to go out there right now and face the whole damned crowd with my “wife” by my side. The backstabbing, lying manipulator I just gave up all other women for. The thought twists my gut.

Even now she’s still staring at me with that guilty expression, her eyes swimming with unshed crocodile tears. How dare she make a mockery of what she herself demanded from me.

“I’m good,” I tell Marco. “You,” I say to Frankie. “You’re coming with me.”

I can barely look at her. The hubris, the lies of this woman. To think she was already married when she’d looked me in the eye and recited vows she couldn’t legally commit to. Even I wouldn’t sink that low. God, I’d almost…

No. I didn’t love her. And she’d made damned sure I never would.

Smoothing the sleeves of my suit, I turn to Francesca’s husband and make slow work of pulling at my cuffs to keep myself from bashing his face in. He’s not the only one who can play it cool. It would be unsavory to say the least for me to off him at my own party.

“Marco, please remove our…uninvited guest from the property,” I say.

My brother flashes a gleeful smile. “No prob.”

Marco didn’t witness the entire exchange, but he seems to have caught on well enough. He steps forward and grabs the man by the upper arm, nudges him, and leads him away. Frankie doesn’t bat an eye as her husband is carted off. Nor does she display any flicker of emotion at him being manhandled and forced out of here. I want to feel satisfaction at that, but I can’t. I’m about to combust and I need this night to be over before I lose control of myself.

“And Charlie,” I say, “why don’t you head out and prep the press for the speech. We’ll be there in a moment.”

“Sure.” Charlie gives her sister a long look before shuffling away to do as I ask.

Grabbing Frankie’s arm tightly again, I turn to Armani. “That man claims to be Fran…this woman’s husband. After the speech, I want you to find out who’s lying here, and deal with it. However you need to.”

He nods. His expression gives away nothing. “I’m on it.”

If this story has roots, Armani will find them, follow them, and shred them into sawdust. It’s what he does, and he’s damn good at it.

“Let’s go,” I tell Frankie, pulling her along with me as I stride out of the tent.

“Dante, please—”

“Not another word,” I say, cutting her off harshly. I can feel her start to tremble, but I really can’t find it in my heart to care.

She’s made a mockery of the Bellanti name. A headline like this won’t go away—ever. It’s going to overshadow everything we do at the winery going forward. Whenever someone mentions Bellanti wine, it will instantly bring up the scandal this woman brought upon us.

So for now? We’re going to keep this façade going for as long as we can.

As we approach the stage, I paste a smile on my face and speak to Frankie without looking at her. “Keep your dirty, lying mouth shut while I give this speech. You’re going to stand by my side like the good little imposter wife you are.”

She’s tried to take charge of our marriage the entire time, making demands, pushing her way into the family business. And I let her. In a way, this is my fault too.

I never should have trusted her.