Page 1 of Tormented Oath

Stefano

PROLOGUE

The bass thrumsthrough my bones as I watch another nameless dancer slide down the pole at The Silk Rose.

From my shadowed corner of the VIP section, I can see everything—the way the men's eyes follow her movements, the careful distance my security maintains, the precise choreography of my legitimate business running like clockwork.

As it always does.

I take a slow sip of whiskey, letting the burn ground me in the present.

The dancer is skilled, her movements fluid and practiced.

Technically perfect. Yet something's missing.

Not the dance. The person.

They're all missing it—that fire, that defiance, that untamable spirit that made me fall in?—

"Boss." Tomasso materializes at my shoulder, his presence breaking through my thoughts. "They are here.”

I glance at the men approaching my table and gesture to one of the booths as I head there. The club is full of people and our meeting requires privacy.

"Another whiskey, sir?"

Maria, one of my newer waitresses, approaches the private table with practiced grace. She's young, probably putting herself through college like much of my staff.

I give her a slight nod, watching how carefully she maintains her professional mask despite the predatory stares from my "business associates".

Viktor Petrov, my least favorite arms dealer, sprawls across the leather booth like he owns the place. His reputation for quality weapons is the only reason I tolerate his presence in my club. That, and the fact that the Bratva's support has been useful during Chicago's recent...territorial redistributions.

"So, we agree then, Rega? Two shipments per month, routed through my contacts in Miami?" Viktor's accent thickens when he drinks, and he's had plenty tonight.

I examine the ice in my glass, letting the silence stretch. "One shipment. Quality over quantity, Viktor. I won't flood my territory with subpar merchandise."

One of Viktor's men—Dmitri, I think—snorts derisively. "Careful, little prince. You're not your father."

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Tomasso shifts almost imperceptibly at my shoulder, hand moving toward his jacket. I stop him with a glance.

"You're right," I say softly, deadly calm. "I'm not my father. He would have already had your tongue cut out for the disrespect."

Before Dmitri can respond, Maria returns with my whiskey. As she leans to set it down, Dmitri grabs her wrist, yanking her against him.

"How about some private entertainment, pretty thing?" His meaty hand slides up her thigh.

The girl freezes, terror flashing across her face. I set my glass down with deliberate care.

"Remove your hand."

Dmitri looks at me, drunk and stupid enough to smirk. "Come on, Rega. Learn to share your toys?—"

The crack of his nose breaking under my fist cuts off his words. Before his friends can react, I have him face-down on the table, arm twisted at an angle nature never intended.

The others reach for their weapons but freeze when they hear the distinctive sound of my security team chambering rounds.

"Maria," I say calmly, increasing the pressure on Dmitri's arm until he whimpers. "Are you all right?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Rega." She's shaking but holding it together.