Claimed By Vows: Bride To The Mafia Lords Book 1

Alessia Pov.

Three years ago.

I was curled up on the chaise longue in the library, completely absorbed in the novel I was reading when the knock echoed through the room. My younger sister Elisabetta was sprawled across my lap, her head resting peacefully against me. She didn't stir when the knock came, lost in her world of sleep. The door creaked open, and there stood my mother. Her usually calm face was drawn tight with worry, and her dark blond hair was pulled back into a severe, tight bun that mirrored the tension in her posture.

"Alessia," she began. It was the kind of tone she only used when things weren't right.

I sat up straight, my stomach dropping. “Did something happen?”

Her smile was forced, empty—one she wore when everything felt wrong but she was trying to mask it. “Your father wants to see you in his office.”

I carefully slid out from under Elisabetta's head, gently shifting her onto the chaise. She barely moved, curling up even tighter in her sleep. At eleven, Elisabetta was small for her age, just like most of the women in our family. I was the tallest, at five-foot-four, and even that felt insignificant next to the weight of the moment.

I caught my mother's eyes for just a moment, but she quickly looked away. That unease in my chest deepened. “Am I in trouble?” I asked, unable to shake the fear creeping up. I couldn't think of anything I'd done wrong. Elisabetta and I were the obedient daughters, the ones who never drew our father's anger. That role was reserved for Adelina —the rule-breaker, the one who always seemed to bear the brunt of our father's wrath.

My mother's gaze flicked past me. “Hurry, Alessia. Don't keep your father waiting.”

Her tone was final, leaving no space for protest. My heart was hammering as I made my way to his office. I stopped in front of the heavy mahogany door, breathing deeply to steady my nerves before knocking.

“Come in,” my father called from inside, sharp and commanding, as always.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, quickly slipping into the neutral mask I always wore around him. He was sitting behind his massive desk, in his usual black leather chair, looking like the king of his domain. The shelves behind him were lined with books, but I knew better than to think he ever read them. They were there to hide a secret—concealing a hidden door leading to a basement and an escape corridor.

His piercing gaze lifted from the papers on his desk, meeting mine. “Sit,” he ordered.

I sank into one of the chairs opposite him, folding my hands in my lap to keep them still. My fingers trembled, and I caught myself biting my bottom lip, a nervous habit I could never seem to shake, though I knew it always irritated him.

For a long moment, my father just studied me, his expression unreadable. Then, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands in front of him, and spoke. “The Bratva and the Triad are encroaching on our territories. Their boldness is becoming a problem.”

My stomach dropped. My father never spoke to me about business—those matters were always for the men. I stayed silent, knowing better than to interrupt him.

“We're lucky compared to the Las Vegas Familia—they've got the Mexicans to deal with too—but we can't afford to ignore the threat from the Russians and the Taiwanese any longer.”

His words hung in the air, cold and suffocating, settling over me like a heavy weight.

“The only way forward is to settle our feud with the New York Familia and form an alliance. Alone, we're vulnerable. Together, we stand a chance against the Bratva and the Triad.”

My body stiffened, and I barely managed to mask my shock. Peace with the Familia? The Chicago Outfit and the New York Familia had been enemies for as long as I could remember. Their hatred ran deep, written in blood. Sure, both families had recently started to focus on external threats, but a truce between them was nothing more than a fragile illusion.

My father's eyes sharpened as though he could read my thoughts. “There's no stronger bond than blood. At least the Familia understands that.”

I frowned, confusion swirling in my mind.

“Born in blood. Sworn in blood. That's their motto,” he added.

I nodded, trying to absorb his words, but they only left me feeling more uneasy. Why was he telling me this? What did it mean for us? And, more personally, what did it mean for me?

“I met with Salvatore Moretti yesterday,” he said casually, as though discussing the weather.

Salvatore Moretti. The Capo dei Capi. The head of the New York Familia. The words hung heavy in the air. My breath caught in my chest. A meeting between New York and Chicago hadn't happened in over a decade—not since Bloody Thursday, a day spoken of only in hushed tones. Yet, here was my father, a mere Consigliere to Fiore Cavallaro, casually mentioning an encounter with one of the most dangerous men on the East Coast.

“We agreed that for peace to be an option, we had to become family,” he continued, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a predatory focus.

The air in the room seemed to thicken. My muscles tensed as I waited for the blow that was coming.

“Cavallaro and I decided you will marry Salvatore's oldest son, Sergei Moretti, the future Capo dei Capi of the Familia.”

The words landed like a punch. I gripped the armrests of the chair, my knuckles turning white. “Why me?” I whispered.

“Salvatore and Fiore have been in talks for weeks,” my father replied, leaning forward slightly. There was pride in his eyes—a pride I didn't share. “Moretti insisted on the most beautiful girl for his son. Naturally, we couldn't offer the daughter of a mere soldier. Fiore doesn't have daughters, so he recommended you. He called you the most beautiful girl available.”

My stomach churned. “There are so many beautiful girls,” I said.

“Not like you,” my father dismissed, his tone flat. “Fiore described your hair as golden—a rarity in our circles.” He chuckled coldly. “You're our door into the New York Familia.”

The floor beneath me seemed to shift. “But I'm only fifteen!” I burst out.

He waved a hand, dismissing my protest. “If I agreed, you could marry tomorrow. What do we care for laws? But Salvatore and I settled on waiting until you turn eighteen. Your mother insisted on this point—she begged Fiore to intervene. He let her have that much.”

The nausea rose in my throat. Without my mother's intervention, I might have been married off immediately. The thought sat heavy, a bitter pill I couldn't swallow.

“So I'll finish school?” I asked numbly, as my dreams of college and freedom slipped away like sand through my fingers.

“Yes,” my father said, as if it were a trivial detail. “I assured Moretti that you attend an all-girls Catholic school. He found that acceptable.”

“Is that all?”

“For now.”

I rose unsteadily, leaving the room without another word. Each step felt like walking toward my own execution.

Later, I collapsed onto my bed, tears soaking the pillow. My younger sister, Adelina, sat beside me, gently stroking my hair.

“You should talk to Father again,” Adelina urged softly.

I shook my head. “He won't change his mind.”

“Maybe Mama can convince him?”

“Father doesn't take advice from women,” I said bitterly. “Not even Mama.”

Adelina's face twisted with frustration. “But you haven't even met this Sergei! What if he's ugly, fat, or old?”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Those would be the least of my worries.”

I glanced at my laptop, an idea forming. “Let's find out what he looks like.”

We huddled together, the screen's glow lighting up our anxious faces. A quick search revealed several photos of Sergei Moretti. He towered over everyone in every image, his cold gray eyes devoid of warmth.

“He's… intimidating,” Adelina admitted.

My gaze lingered on his face. He looked more like a predator than a man. The articles painted him as the most sought-after bachelor in New York, heir to an empire of wealth and power. But beneath the polished exterior, I could sense the truth: blood and violence lurked in his shadows.

“I need to talk to Marino,” I said suddenly, standing.

In the kitchen, the scent of tomato and oregano filled the air, but it brought no comfort. Marino, our family's long-time chef and confidant, stood at the counter, sharpening a knife with practiced ease.

“He became a Made Man at eleven,” Marino said when I asked about Sergei. His tone was casual, as though discussing the weather.

I froze. “At eleven?”

He nodded, a grin flashing across his scarred face, the gold incisor glinting in the light. “Killed his first man at that age. That's why he was initiated early.”

Adelina, who had followed me into the kitchen, gasped. “He's a monster.”

“He's what he needs to be,” Marino replied simply. “You don't rule New York by being soft.”

My stomach churned. “What happened?”

Marino shrugged, his expression unreadable. “I don't know the details. But Sergei's a good catch. He'll be the most powerful man on the East Coast. He'll protect you.”

I swallowed hard. “And who will protect me from him?”

Marino didn't answer. The silence that followed was deafening, pressing down on me like the weight of the future I couldn't escape.

Alessia's Pov.

The last couple of months had raced by, no matter how much I wished time would slow down—or better yet, stop altogether. Two days. That's all I had left before the engagement party. It loomed over me like some twisted execution date, inescapable and grim.

Downstairs, the chaos of preparation echoed through the house, courtesy of my mother's relentless micromanaging.

“That rug isn't centered! Fix it! And polish that banister again—I want it gleaming!”

Her voice carried like a relentless drumbeat, each order more frantic than the last. The party wasn't even going to be grand; just family and a few heads of the New York and Chicago families. “Safety reasons,” Marino had said. The truce was still too fresh, too shaky, for a large gathering. But even “small” in our world meant pressure. And tension.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at the floor. If I had my way, there wouldn't be a party. There wouldn't be a wedding either. If I could just hide in this room forever, I would. Sergei Vincenzo and I didn't need to meet until the day we exchanged vows. What was the point of parading me in front of him now? To prove I was…what? Wife material? I sighed, my chest tightening at the thought of seeing him again.

The bed suddenly dipped beside me, and before I could react, Gambino was bouncing, his little blond head bobbing with each jump. “Boing, boing, boing!” he chanted with a grin that only a five-year-old could pull off while being a complete menace.

“Gambi,” I groaned, swatting at him as he nearly knocked me over.

“I want to play!” he declared, landing on his knees with a pout that could melt the iciest heart—just not mine.

“Not today. Mother wants everything perfect for the guests.”

“They aren't even here yet!” he whined, flopping onto his back like his soul had just been crushed.

I snorted despite myself. The way he flailed his arms, you'd think I'd ruined his entire life. “Trust me, Gambi, you don't want to be around when they get here.”

Tomorrow, Sergei would arrive with his entourage. Tomorrow, I'd have to face the man I was supposed to marry—a man who killed with his bare hands and barely blinked doing it. The thought made my stomach twist in knots.

“Are you crying again?”

Gambino's voice was soft, his little hand finding mine. My eyes snapped open, startled. How had he noticed?

“Crying? Me? Never,” I said quickly.

“Elisa says you cry all the time because Sergei bought you,” he said with the bluntness only a child could muster.

I froze. That little... Elisa was getting an earful later. “He didn't buy me,” I snapped, too sharply. The lie sounded hollow even to my ears.

“Same thing,” came a lazy voice from the doorway.

I glanced up to see Adelina leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, an infuriating smirk on her face.

“Adelina !” I hissed, glaring at her and then glancing nervously at Gambino. “Shut up. What if Father hears you?”

She shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. “What's he gonna do? Ground me? He already knows I think he sold you like cattle.”

“Adelina!”

She just raised an eyebrow at me, her smirk unwavering.

“I don't want you to leave,” Gambino mumbled, his small hand tugging on mine. His blue eyes, so much like our mother's, stared up at me with worry.

I crouched down in front of him, brushing the hair out of his face. “I'm not leaving, Gambi. Not for a long time,” I said softly, forcing a smile.

The words seemed to calm him. His pout vanished, replaced by that mischievous glint I knew too well. “Catch me!” he shouted, bolting out of the room like a bullet.

Adelina groaned. “You little gremlin!” she yelled, chasing after him. “I'm going to kick your ass, Gambino!”

The corridor was alive with chaos as I bolted out of my room, my heart thundering in my chest. Behind me, Elisabetta popped her head out from her door, her face lighting up with a mischievous grin before she darted out to join the chase. Of course, she would. Gambino's partner in crime.

“Stop them before they break something!” I muttered, my words more of a desperate plea than a command. We all knew what would happen if Mother found another heirloom smashed to bits.

The sharp clack of my heels echoed through the grand hall as I flew down the marble staircase, its polished surface gleaming like ice under the chandelier's glow. Gambino was still ahead, his short legs somehow outpacing all of us. Behind him, Elisabetta giggled uncontrollably, her golden curls bouncing with each step.

Meanwhile, Adelina and I struggled to keep up, both hobbled by the ridiculous high heels Mother had insisted we practice wearing. “Proper ladies walk gracefully in any shoe,” she'd said. Well, proper ladies didn't have to chase wild five-year-olds through mansions, did they?

“Gambino, stop!” I yelled, but my voice was swallowed by the cacophony of laughter and footsteps.

He turned sharply into the west wing corridor, and my stomach dropped. Oh no.

“Where is he going?” Adelina panted, her tone halfway between annoyance and dread.

“Father's office,” I hissed, dread tightening its grip on me.

The air grew heavier as we passed the towering oak doors of our father's domain. I could almost feel his presence, even if he wasn't there. This was his territory, and we were trespassing in more ways than one. If he caught us... No, I didn't even want to think about it.

“Gambi, don't you dare—”

But just as the words left my mouth, relief washed over me. Gambino skidded to a halt at the end of the corridor, and for one brief moment, I thought we were in the clear.

Then they appeared.

Three men rounded the corner, their imposing frames blotting out the light like shadows given form.

“Gambi—” I tried to warn him, but it was too late.

Gambino froze, wide-eyed, as Elisabetta barreled straight into the man in the center. The impact was loud enough to echo, but the man didn't move. Not even a stumble.

He stood there like a statue—no, a fortress. Six foot five, broad-shouldered, and built like he'd been carved from stone.

Time stretched thin, the world narrowing to the scene before me.

Elisabetta looked up, her little hands pressed against his chest as she craned her neck to meet his eyes. Those eyes—cold, steely gray, and utterly devoid of warmth—stared down at her. One massive hand rested on her shoulder, steadying her, though the gesture felt more like a command than reassurance.

My breath caught, and I froze mid-step. I knew those hands, had heard the whispers about what they were capable of—how they'd crushed a man's throat without a hint of remorse.

“Elisabetta.” Her full name slipped out, sharp and trembling. I never called her that unless I was furious—or terrified.

Elisabetta turned, her face innocent, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. Adelina, now beside me, gasped softly, her fingers brushing against my arm as if to steady herself.

The corridor held its breath as Sergei Moretti stood there, larger than life, exuding an icy dominance that seemed to chill the air around him. The two men at his sides were impressive in their own right—broad, tall, and clearly dangerous—but next to him, they might as well have been shadows. His hands rested on Elisabetta's delicate shoulders with a calm that was anything but reassuring. My stomach twisted, instinct screaming at me to get her away from him.

“Elisabetta,” I said. I stretched out a hand. “Come here.”

Elisabetta didn't need telling twice. Her wide eyes flickered up to Sergei before she bolted, her curls bouncing as she practically dove into my arms. I held her tightly, the heat of her trembling body grounding me as my heart hammered against my ribs.

Sergei didn't move. Instead, his sharp gray eyes found mine, studying me like he was already ten steps ahead. I swallowed hard, refusing to break the stare.

“That's Sergei Moretti?” Adelina muttered from behind me, her words dripping with disgust.

Before I could respond, Gambino broke free from wherever Adelina had been holding him back. With a feral cry, he charged forward, fists clenched, his tiny body propelled by a fury too big for his age.

“Leave Alessia alone! You don't get her!” he screamed, punching at Sergei's legs and stomach with all the might his little frame could muster.

The sight nearly stopped my heart.

The man on Sergei's right shifted immediately, his hand hovering near the outline of a gun tucked into his jacket. My breath caught in my throat.

But Sergei? He didn't flinch. Not even a little.

“Dorian,” he said. It wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made the air feel heavier. The bodyguard froze mid-step and dropped his hand, though his glare didn't waver.

Sergei crouched slightly, catching Gambino's swinging fists with one hand as easily as if he were swatting away a fly. His grip was firm but measured, almost... practiced. It was unnerving how effortless it seemed.

“Gambino!” I snapped, forcing my legs to move. I shoved Elisabetta toward Adelina, who immediately pulled her close. Every nerve in my body screamed as I closed the space between us, my palms clammy and my pulse erratic.

Gambino thrashed in Sergei's grasp, growling and baring his teeth like a wild animal. His little face was red, streaked with tears, but his defiance burned bright. Sergei didn't seem fazed. If anything, his gaze softened slightly, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of my brother.

“Wow, what a welcome,” said the man on Sergei's left. He had the same dark hair and striking features, but his smirk was sharper, his tone laced with sarcasm. “I see the Outfit's hospitality is alive and well.”

“Leone.” Sergei's tone shifted, low and warning, and his brother—or whoever he was—raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening.

Gambino was still wriggling, his breaths coming in sharp, hiccupping bursts. I forced myself to step closer, my hands trembling as I grabbed his arm and gently pulled him toward me.

“Gambino,” I said, “that's enough. We don't act like this.”

His watery brown eyes locked onto mine, his lip quivering. “But he's not a guest, Alessia,” he whispered. “He's here to take you away.”

The ache in my chest was unbearable, but I pushed it down, smoothing his messy hair and forcing a smile.

Behind Sergei, Leone snorted, clearly amused. “This is gold. Honestly, I wasn't sure about coming, but now? Worth every second.”

“Ordered you,” Sergei corrected, his gaze locked on me with a chilling precision that left no room for argument.

I couldn't look him in the eye. The heat rose from my chest to my face as I fought the urge to shrink under his scrutiny. My father had kept us sheltered, the rules clear—men were to be avoided unless necessary, and those who weren't family or allies were to be treated with caution. Sergei was neither old nor safe. He was just five years older than me, but the power he exuded made me feel like a child next to him, something small and insignificant.

The air seemed to thicken when Sergei released Gambino, and I instantly pulled my brother close, his little body pressed against me. His tiny chest heaved with the fury he couldn't yet control, but he wasn't backing down. His fists, though small, were still clenched in defiance.

I felt a sharp pang of envy. Gambino had a freedom I could only dream of—his rights as the heir giving him a freedom I'd never know. He could push back, fight, and demand respect. But me? I was just a daughter, expected to be decorous, obedient—meek, even.

“I'm sorry,” I said, but the words tasted bitter in my mouth. They felt wrong, too soft, like an apology for something I hadn't done. “My brother didn't mean to be disrespectful.”

“I did!” Gambino blurted out.

I quickly covered his mouth, shutting him up before he could escalate things further. I wasn't ready to fight with Sergei—not yet. I had no choice but to force him into silence, holding him against me as he squirmed.

“Don't apologize,” Adelina cut in, her defiance almost palpable. Her tone was sharp and filled with resentment. She ignored the glance I shot her way, the warning in my eyes clear. “It's not our fault that he and his bodyguards take up all the damn space in the hall. At least Gambino's got the guts to speak the truth. The rest of you just kiss his ass because he's gonna be Capo—”

“Adelina !” The word snapped out of me before I could stop it, and I didn't have to raise my voice much for her to freeze.

Her eyes went wide with surprise, but I didn't care. I turned to face her. “Take Elisabetta and Gambino to their rooms. Now.”

Adelina hesitated, glancing past me toward Sergei, likely gauging whether he would intervene.

I didn't give her the chance to object. “Now,” I repeated, my tone sharp and final.

With a huff, she grabbed Gambino's hand, tugging him along as she pulled Elisabetta with her. Gambino cast one last look at Sergei—anger flashing in his eyes—before disappearing with his sisters down the corridor.

The silence that fell over us was oppressive. It pressed against my chest like a weight, and I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was about to spiral out of control. This had to be the worst first encounter with Sergei I could've imagined.

When I finally gathered the courage to face him, my heart was pounding in my chest. My hands were clammy, my cheeks still flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. But Sergei? He wasn't angry. Instead, he had a smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips—amusement, maybe? Or something darker?

I was acutely aware of my simple maxi dress, the fabric falling loosely around my frame. It wasn't what I would have chosen if I knew I'd be standing in front of Sergei Moretti. It was modest, simple—nothing like the expensive, tailored gowns I was supposed to wear in the presence of men like him. But I'd never been one to care much for appearances.

“I apologize for my sister and brother,” I said, trying to steady myself as I folded my arms across my chest. The words came out more stiffly than I intended. “They are—” I hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn't sound like an excuse. “...protective.”

Sergei finished for me. “Protective of you.”

I couldn't argue with that. They were just doing what they thought was right, even if it meant angering the people they didn't understand.

Sergei gestured toward the man standing next to him. “This is Leone,” he said, introducing him with a flick of his wrist. Leone gave me a playful grin, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. The kind of grin that was both teasing and somewhat unsettling. Thankfully, he didn't move any closer.

I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep my composure if he did.

“And this is Dorian, my right hand,” Sergei continued, his gaze shifting slightly to the man who'd stood quietly at his side. Dorian's presence was almost invisible, but it was clear that he was the one who kept Sergei's safety in mind at all times. He gave me a brief nod of acknowledgment, then returned to scanning the hall with a quiet, unblinking vigilance.

I resisted the urge to follow his eyes. What exactly was he watching for?

Sergei's eyes didn't leave me as I stepped back, my unease building with each passing second. “I should check on my siblings,” I said.

Sergei didn't stop me. But I saw the flicker of something in his gaze, something that hinted at amusement—or maybe it was just satisfaction at seeing me unsettled.

I didn't wait for permission. I turned, walking away with my back straight and my steps measured. Every part of me wanted to flee, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me run.