Oath of obedience a dark.., p.1
Oath of Obedience: A Dark Mafia Romance (Deviant Doms), page 1
OATH OF OBEDIENCE
A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE
JANE HENRY
Copyright © 2021 by Jane Henry
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Photo by Wander Aguiar
Cover art by PopKitty
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Preview
Meet Jane
SYNOPSIS
Oath of Obedience: A Dark Mafia Romance
Deviant Doms
Synopsis:
Marriage to a stranger is only the beginning.
She'll have my baby, too.
Many things have changed while I've been in prison.
The Family has been decimated.
Our enemies have gotten bolder.
My brother has taken the reins as the new Boss.
But one thing hasn’t changed: my loyalty.
So when I’m released from prison only to be shackled to the daughter of our organization’s biggest traitor, I agree.
My new wife has taken oaths to love, honor, and obey.
I don’t want her affection.
I don’t need her honor.
But I will gladly take pleasure in her body.
I will force her to carry my child.
And I will have her obedience.
But when the dark, dangerous secret she harbors threatens to destroy us, my unwilling bride will learn exactly how I mete out punishment to those who break their oaths...
CHAPTER 1
“My stars shine darkly over me.” ~ Twelfth Night, Shakespeare
Orlando
I wake up at the crack of dawn. No one tells me what to do, most especially the roll call asshole who clangs an alarm at six in the morning. So my eyes snap open at five, every morning.
My roommate snores gently, but it doesn’t bother me. I grew up with so many brothers and sisters, you just sort of ignore noises over time. They fade into the background like so much else. White noise.
There's a small window in here, a cell I earned for good behavior. The other cells are windowless when you’re not locked into solitary.
I push myself out of bed, slide down the bunk, and hit the floor. Nothing like waking the body up with a morning plank. I drop into plank position, forearms on the floor, abs tight, welcoming the burn in my muscles. Give myself thirty seconds to rest the abs before I’m up again, pushing myself to the point of muscle fatigue. I’m panting and sweating by the time I’m done. I stand, stretch, then hit the floor for push-ups.
“When I get out of this hellhole, remind me to have you on speed dial, bro,” Dario says, rolling over. He props himself up on one elbow and smiles, the flash of white against pink lips the only thing I see in the dark.
“Oh yeah? You startin’ up a fuckin’ bromance?” I say, panting, in between reps.
Dario chuckles and talks through a yawn. “Fuck that. You know if I wanted a bromance, would’ve hit on you when you were fresh outta the damn shower, not all sweaty and shit.”
I smile but don’t reply, my breath coming in short gasps, my muscles straining with the effort of doing push-ups. Last I checked, I hit a deuce and a half on the health office scale. Bulked up on purpose, but it’s not easy to fucking push two hundred fifty pounds up, especially before I’ve had my coffee. You make do in a small cell, though. I’ve worked my body hard since I’ve been in here, and I won’t stop.
Roll call comes and goes before the pay phone comes by, wheeled on a cart.
“Rossi. You’re up.”
The corrections officer shoves the call cart to me. I hear a murmur of voices from the next cell over and somebody mutters my name. Gotta be a new guy. Everyone else knows who the fuck I am.
“Don’t need a call today,” I tell him, turning my back on it before I grab the makeshift pull-up bar for another set of reps. He clears his throat. I ignore him.
“Nah, man. Incoming. Might ‘make’ that call today if I were you,” he says.
I pull up and feel the lengthening of muscles in my abs and back and welcome it.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and I drop to the floor. I give him a sharp look. He knows something.
He takes a step back.
Good. Haven’t lost my fuckin’ touch in here. It’s better for me when a look works as well as a fist.
The officer’s young, thin, and ready to shit his pants. Never understood why guys like him didn’t pick another fucking job. Why corrections officer? Why voluntarily put yourself into a prison with inmates that scare you shitless?
I take the phone, and he flinches. I sigh. “Bronson. Leave, man. Go cook some fuckin’ books, will ya? They pay better than this hellhole, and you’d sleep better at night.” I shake my head and pick up the phone. Dario chuckles behind me.
I get a little knot in my throat when I hear Romeo. He’d been in Tuscany on business until last night. I’ve missed my older brother’s voice.
“Got a surprise for you, Orlando.”
I release a breath and run my fingers through my short, cropped hair. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Now if I tell you, wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
I smile, warming at the sound of his voice, the familiarity of talking with him. Fuck, I miss my family. “Guess not.”
“Be on the lookout, man. Around lunchtime.”
“Alright, if you say so.”
He chuckles, and I hear the whisper of a female voice in the background. Vittoria, his wife.
“Tell Vittoria I say hello. Any bambinos coming yet, man?”
He sighs. “Not yet,” he says in a low voice. “Ain’t for lack of trying.”
I groan. “Rub it in, why don’t you?” Still, I feel sorry for him. Rossi family tradition tells us that children are a king’s crown jewels, and that life is incomplete without little ones running around underfoot. Some might even say the Rossi family views children as a commodity, and it’s why my mother had so many.
I have other views, though. I think we helped her to not feel so lonely. Hell, maybe we still do.
Jesus, I miss them, all of them, even pain-in-the-ass Mario and bossy Rosa. Marialena, I miss most of all. My baby sister and I were always close and have grown even closer since my father’s passing.
We chat a bit longer before I hang up the phone, curious about what he’s got planned for me. Money, maybe, so I can pick shit up in the canteen. New books, even better. Already plowed through every damn thing he’s sent and most of the books that interest me on the prison’s library shelves. It won’t be food, which sucks since I’d give fucking anything for a plate of Nonna’s pasta or Mama’s panzerotti. And it sure as fuck won’t be a goddamn conjugal visit lined up for me, thanks to Boston’s puritanical ways.
I slug down breakfast like medicine—tasteless oatmeal and burnt sausage—drink the swill they call coffee and toss down an orange for the hell of it. Suppose if they used oranges to fight scurvy back in the day when traveling by ship, couldn’t hurt behind bars.
I do another workout after breakfast and check on deliveries. Nothing from Romeo. When I come back, nearby cellmates are yelling out chess moves. We can’t play actual chess here, so the more astute yell out moves for a mental game.
“My bishop takes your bishop,” Dario says, giving me a wink when I get back.
“You winning?”
“When am I not winning, man?” he asks. True.
I stand for the fourth damn roll call, wondering if Romeo was just blowing smoke up my ass. That’s not who he is, though. Romeo’s word is law, damn near carved into tablets like the commandments from Sinai.
I’m thinking. Mulling shit over. Finally, I clear my throat.
“Dario.” I keep my voice low, so no one hears. “You know who I am, brother?”
He sobers and nods. “I do, man.” His eyes shoot to the skulls inked on my knuckles, before looking at the rose on my forearm. “I do.” There’s fear in his eyes I didn’t expect, and it dawns on me that he might think I’m threatening him. Wouldn’t be the first time I bared my forearm as a claim to the Rossi brotherhood. Sometimes it helps to reference your status as an established brother of high rank in the most powerful organized crime ring in New England. Sometimes it doesn’t.
I continue to keep my voice low. "When you get out of here," I say in a little whisper, "you come and find me. Do you know where to find me?"
He nods and swallows audibly. "I do."
“The fucking car theft landed you here. You come see me and I'll give you a better job than that."
We're always recruiting new m en to our brotherhood, always swearing men in with vows of allegiance, obedience, fidelity, and honor. The original core of our ring is related by blood, but when we find someone worthy of the oath of Omertà, we're not above recruiting. And I know this man to be loyal, hard-working, and fucking ruthless.
It's time to hit the shower. I follow behind Dario, but when we get there, the usual guards are gone. My stomach clenches, my instincts primed. Shit.
Dario meets my eyes in a silent vote of confidence, and I give him a nod. Not a touch of fear in his gaze.
My eyes quickly linger on the scarred floors, marred by sharpened shanks. The shower is one of the most notorious places for a beatdown.
Someone overheard our conversation. Should’ve fucking known it.
“Orlando!” Dario shouts. I duck when I see him look over my shoulder, on instinct, and a fist flies through the air where my head just was. Adrenaline courses through me, excitement weaving its way through my limbs.
The brothers in my ring of men have been trained in many things. Interrogation, money laundering, intimidation tactics, among other things.
Me? I've been trained to fight.
I duck one blow, only to take one in the side. I elbow my attacker without a second thought and feel my elbow crack ribs. Dario has my second attacker in a headlock beside me, but the third barrels at me full force, knocking the wind out of me. While I’m heaving for breath, my attacker walks around me.
“You think because you’re a Rossi, your shit don’t stink?”
He circles me with a blade. I don’t respond. There’s no response to someone taunting me except to wipe this concrete floor with his face. I flex my fingers.
I don't have time to get away. He lunges for me, but I quickly dodge him. Not fast enough. His head rams into my solar plexus, winding me. I'm knocked on my ass. But I'm so furious, I come up swinging. He drives at me, slices along my arm. And then in one quick move I grab his wrist and go to snap it.
Dario shouts, "Orlando, no! You're out of here man. They’re jealous. They don't want you out."
I knock one out cold and don't give him the beating he deserves. Dario sits on the second. The third I restrain with my own bare hands. Son of a bitch.
I have him at my mercy. I could beat the shit out of him. I could fucking kill him. At the thought, an image of the last man I beat, his head smashed against the concrete pavement outside of a dive bar in Southie, flashes in my mind. I’m serving time for involuntary manslaughter. I meant to give him a beating, teach him a lesson for bad-mouthing The Family. I didn’t know he was gonna hit his fucking head. Didn’t know it would kill him.
And I don’t want the blood of another man on my hands. Not now. Not over bullshit like this. I don’t like spilling blood unless it’s necessary.
It’s why my father hated me. He did it for sport.
The alarm sounds, too late. Planned.
Guards come in, prepared to cuff and restrain. Dario speaks up. “Orlando was attacked, and he did nothing. Check the cameras. These guys came after him because they're jealous."
Goddamn it. If they fucked anything up…
A guard comes with a set of keys and shakes his head. “You’re lucky you’ve got a friend in here,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m here to let you out.”
I blink. “Let me out?”
“Yeah, brother. You dodged a damn bullet, man. Dodged a fuckin’ firing squad.”
Dario grins at me. He called it.
“Remember, Dario,” I tell him as I’m led out in cuffs. “Remember what I said.”
“I will, brother,” he says, nodding with a sad smile. He clears his throat and calls the next move out loud and clear. “Checkmate.”
CHAPTER 2
“Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.” ~ Twelfth Night, Shakespeare
Angelina
“Look what I found.” Elise grins at me, surrounded by boxes and bags and hangers and clothes.
“I have literally no idea how you find anything in this mess,” I say with a grimace. “Honestly, girl. You know I’m all about live and let live, but this takes the cake…”
Elise has a stack of boxes by the door, name brand designer shoes, and brown paper bags with embossed golden lettering, also name brand. Whenever we come to Italy, she stocks up. And that's saying something. At home, it's not exactly like she's conservative or moderate.
She pulls out a stack of paperback journals from behind her back. She sings in a singsong voice, “Do you remember these?"
I gasp. I was completely unaware that she still even had these.
"Of course I remember these!" How could I forget?
We called each other gemella, twin, when we were younger. We looked so much alike people would often mistake us for sisters, though these days I’m smaller than she is and she’s the one with the designer clothes. We were inseparable.
These are the journals we wrote, lists to each other, letters that we shared from when we were younger. I was traveling abroad with my family, and she traveled abroad with hers. We were best friends from childhood but didn't get to spend anywhere near as much time together as we'd like, so we relied on writing to each other. Her nanny would mail the journal to me, and I would mail it back to her.
Those were such simple times. Times before we both had to grow up much too quickly. I reach for them. “Give them here!”
“Ah ah,” she says, shaking her head. “Say please.”
“Oh my God, you are the biggest bitch!” I tackle her onto a pile of bikinis she was trying on for our trip to the hot springs in Tuscany. She laughs and keeps them out of my reach, but I finally get her to cave when I yank on her bikini strap.
“Fine, here, here!” She tosses me one of the books. “I bookmarked where you listed the traits you want in a future husband.” She giggles her head off.
“Oh my God.” I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry as I grab the journal and flip through the filled pages. A part of me already mourns the innocence of the girl who wrote in these pages.
I open the book to see hearts and flowers and swirls, Elise's name in thick black letters shaded as if they're blocks. I was always doodling, making artwork out of nothing. I still do, sometimes. We each have a bulleted, numbered list, one labeled Elise’s dream husband and the other Angelina’s future mate. Future mate? God!
I giggle and read in a high-pitched voice. “Elise.” I laugh even harder. “Number one. HANDSOME. Underlined and asterisked and circled. Apparently, looks were top of your list.”
She nods and absentmindedly twirls a piece of her hair. “Naturally. What else?"
"Is kind to animals, very, very smart, and doesn't mind how much money I spend shopping." I collapse into laughter at her list. It's so teenager, so juvenile. Yet so adorable and still… her.
“Oh, go ahead. Laugh at my list. Wait until we get to yours." She giggles uncontrollably. She grabs the book back; I reach for it, but she keeps it out of my reach, reading out loud. "Must have really, really nice eyes. Maybe blue, maybe purple." She gives a loud laugh. "Purple, Angelina? Are you serious?"
"Dude, I was like ten years old. Give me a break.”
I still want a husband with nice eyes. I want to lose myself in them when he looks at me.
“Next.”
She laughs uncontrollably. “Likes reading and poetry and good food. Empathetic, compassionate, feeling for others. Caring and concerned about their needs. Thoughtful, warm-hearted, forgiving, and sincere. Has big, huge muscles.”
She falls onto the bed in helpless laughter. “Why didn't you add billionaire to the list? I think you put everything else on it."
A knock sounds at the door.
She squeals, quickly covering herself up.
