Forced Vows
Eve
Some girls dream about their wedding day. They dream about the flowers, the church, the perfect moments.
If I ever dreamed of my wedding day, I don’t remember it. And I would never have dreamed it would be like this.
“Don’t do this,” my sister hisses. We’re both riding in the back of a white limo with a driver, winding through the streets of New Rome.
I shift in the seat to move closer to her, but I stop when the skirts of the ornate white dress I’m wearing rustle as if threatening an avalanche. I’m wearing what feels like a hundred layers of silk, satin, crinoline, and lace. This dress costs more than a luxury car, and I don’t dare move in case I mess it up.
“I won’t let you do this.” Cher casts wild eyes to the driver, as if afraid he’ll overhear the mutiny brewing in the backseat. I’m sure he is listening, but he doesn’t turn around, and I shush her anyway.
Cher has a hand on the door latch, as if at any moment, she’ll fling it open and throw herself onto the street. It’s no use. The driver hit the locks when we first took our seats, and I bet they’re child safety locks, which means there’s no escape. Not that I’m going to test my theory. If Cher does try the door, I guess we’ll find out. I don’t know whether to be scared that we’re locked in or grateful she can’t jump from a moving car.
Maybe she won’t try to escape, and I can pretend we’re not locked in.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” I say, even as my gaze drifts out the window. There are lots of people walking on the sidewalk. Is there a festival of some sort going on? Or a protest? Some are carrying signs. Up ahead, there are food trucks gathered in a park.
Beyond them rise the grand towers of the cathedral. We’re almost there.
“Eve!”
“Sorry.” I close my eyes for a moment.
One thing you can taste, two things you can smell. I taste the acidic burn in my throat. I smell the faint cigarette smoke clinging to Cher’s clothes and the stuffy smell of the hair spray the stylist blasted over me.
I open my eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m trying.”
“It’s okay.” Cher slumps in her seat, frowning out the window at the crowded sidewalks. “Stop apologizing.” She nibbles on a chunk of her lank bleached hair, biting at her split ends. Her nails are bitten to the quick, with the sparkly green of her favorite nail polish mostly worn away. She looks too thin in a sweatshirt and cut-off shorts. Did the Scorpions bother to feed her?
It’s hard to look at her, and I realize it’s because she looks like she did when she first got clean. It makes sense; Romeo started as her dealer. That’s how he lured her in.
It’s possible she did just get clean again. Her long sleeves would hide any evidence of track marks. I should know this. I should’ve asked. Instead, our reunion happened with a stylist waiting impatiently to help me into this ridiculous dress.
Cher doesn’t have much time to save me from my fate. “You don’t have to marry him.”
“It’s done,” I say, loud enough for the driver to hear. I’m sure he’s going to report everything back to his bosses, and it’s important I don’t even hint at going back on my side of the deal.
“No, it’s not. You still have to walk down the aisle.”
That makes me smile despite the twisting in my gut. We’re about to pull up to the church now. It’s one block away, and there are tons of people lining the streets. Even if I asked the driver to turn around, he wouldn’t do it. There’s no backing out now.
“It’s not that simple. I already agreed. I’m not going back on my word.”
Cher shakes her head. She doesn’t understand what’s going on, but there’s no way I’m going to explain. She’ll never know the details of the confusing contract I signed, the terms that I could barely follow. If she did, she’d fight tooth and nail to stop me.
And she will lose. I signed a deal with the Devil, and the Devil always takes his due.
“It’s done,” I repeat.
“You can’t marry him.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “He’s the Devil.”
I’ve noticed that when people refer to my betrothed, they tend to whisper, as if they’re afraid he might overhear. Like that old superstitious phrase: Speak of the Devil, and he will appear.
“He’s not actually the Devil,” I say, but I don’t sound very convincing. “He’s just a man.”
A shadow falls over the car. St. Xavier’s towers over us. With the sun behind a cloud, the white marble looks gray. People pack the front steps, crowding the sidewalks, spilling out into the street.
There isn’t a festival or protest in the park. I was deluding myself, hoping that’s why the people were gathering. But no, they’re here because of the wedding.
Because of me.
“Shit,” Cher says, staring at the throngs of people clustered around the church. Many wear their Sunday best. I don’t need to see the signs to guess what they say.
The driver slows the SUV to a crawl, trying to creep closer to the church without running anyone over. It doesn’t work. People crowd around the SUV, peering eagerly into the windows. I shrink back, even though I know the windows are tinted and they can’t see inside. The burn in my throat spreads to my stomach.
Someone thumps the side of the SUV, and I jump.
“Is it her?” they ask, their voices muffled. People raise their phones, taking pictures of the SUV.
Dress be damned, I scoot to the middle of the seat. Cher does the same, and we hold hands, reaching for each other for comfort as the crowd gets wind of what’s happening.
“It’s her! It has to be her. The Miracle Girl!” They’re pushing each other to get close to the SUV.
Three things you hear. The excited shrieks of “Miracle Girl! She’s here!” Cher’s breath coming hot and fast near my ear. My pounding heartbeat.
I want to cover my ears.
I don’t want to be the Miracle Girl. I never wanted it. The first time I heard that nickname, I wanted to sink into a hole and never come out.
But no, I have to be here. I have to go through with this.
“Hang on, ladies,” the driver says.
I’ve been ignoring him this whole time, but I can’t help meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. He’s wearing a white skull mask that covers his entire face. A blatant reminder of who I’m marrying.
“Don’t run them over,” I gasp.
He shakes his head. With the skull mask on, I can’t tell how old he is, but I think he might be in his early twenties, my age. He’s in a tux, and his long black hair is tied back into an elegant ponytail.
“No murdering civilians,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s joking.
Cher clutches my hand tighter. I hope she’s now remembering who we’re dealing with.
Fraternitas is the most powerful gang in town. The most brutal. They killed hundreds in the gang wars a few years ago on their rise to power. They run this town, and the Devil is the mysterious figure who leads them. No one knows his real name.
But everyone knows of him. In this city, the Devil isn’t a mythical boogeyman—a fallen angel, a story the Church tells to keep people in line. He’s real, and he’s notorious. The crimes he’s committed, the murders, the torture… They’re all real and documented in countless cold case files. In headlines and on the news. Suspected murder, sources say the Devil did it… No evidence. He’s the most hated and feared man in New Rome.
And I’m supposed to marry him. Today. As soon as we get to the church.
If we can get to the church. It looks like several hundred people have shown up to protest the Devil marrying the Miracle Girl or to see the show. And they’re blocking our way to St. Xavier’s. There are some reporters and camera crews here, too. Photographers rush to crowd the SUV and take pictures. I cringe at the flash of their cameras.
There’s a commotion in front of the church and the paparazzi turn as one. Cher and I lean toward the window to see what’s happening.
Men in dark tuxes and white skull masks stream out from between the marble columns. They part the crowd, forcing people to make way as they move down the steps toward the SUV. As far as I can tell, they don’t speak a word or even touch anyone, but everyone shrinks anyway, afraid. Even the most aggressive cameraman backs off, cowed. Soon the SUV is surrounded by a wall of tall, broad-shouldered men in black.
Fraternitas has come to see me safely into the church.
The reporters are probably loving this. I can see the headlines now: “Miracle Girl Now Mafia.” They’ll run an image of all the men in skull masks standing on the church steps alongside a picture of me looking saintly and sad.
Cher squeezes my hand tighter. My mouth is dry. I should be freaking out, but my emotions are so far away, buried deep, that I don’t feel much. It’s like I’m watching a car crash in slow motion, except the car crash is my life.
Once the way is clear, the driver guns it, turning right into a gated parking lot beside the church. My stomach flips. For a moment, I think I hear someone shouting my name, but the sound is lost behind the masked men making sure no one follows as the gates close slowly behind us.
* * *
St. Xavier’s is one of the finest churches in New Rome, and it shows. It’s not just the soaring ceilings and stone arches, but the way the carpet is extra soft under my bare feet. This place smells expensive; I don’t know how else to describe it.
There’s no noise either. Everything is hushed and quiet.
Like this really is a house of God.
If God exists.
“You forgot your shoes.” Cher holds up a pair of white satin heels the stylist tried to make me wear. I shake my head. I don’t want them, and she knows it.
She mutters something to herself and sets them aside.
The door swings open and she steps in front of me with her back up and fist clenched, ninety-two pounds of feral energy. Even when she’s half-tweaking with fear, her first instinct is to defend me.
“It’s okay.” I touch Cher’s elbow before she starts swinging at the priest. “It’s Father Francis. He’s officiating the ceremony.”
“Nice to meet you, Cher,” Father Francis says in his golden voice. He sounds so calm, and while it soothes me, Cher crosses her arms over her skinny frame and glares at him. Normally Cher would be flirting with such a handsome older man, but right now she’s pissed.
I love her so much. The way she defends me warms my chilled limbs and almost makes me smile.
Father Francis doesn’t seem bothered by her reaction. He greets her and gives me a smile. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” I fist my hands in the huge, poofy skirt of the bridal gown. It’s not something I would’ve chosen for myself, but I guess I look good. I look like a bride. The whole ornate bodice is perfectly tailored to my body, although I have no idea when that could’ve happened. The dress appeared magically, along with the hair and makeup stylist, at our house this morning. I never had a fitting, never had a choice. This whole wedding was decided two days ago, and I’m just a pawn in it.
I don’t want to think about that. I want to get this over with. “Is it time?” I ask Father Francis.
“Yes, if you’re ready.”
My heart starts thumping like I’m gearing up for battle. Brides are supposed to be nervous on their wedding day, right? But this is more than nerves. “I’m ready.” I touch the veil pinned to my head. “What do I do with this? Should I leave it up? Or down?” What’s the point of a veil anyway?
Cher huffs and comes to stand in front of me. Her whole body is stiff with tension, but her hands are gentle as she takes the top layer of the veil and draws it down to hide my face.
Once my face is covered, I relax further. It’s nice, being enclosed in a gossamer cocoon. No one can see me, judge me. My shoulders relax.
Cher leans in as if to hug me. I smell her unwashed body, the nervous sweat. “Don’t do this,” she whispers. “We can still leave.” Her eyes dart to the priest. “I won’t let anyone stop you.”
I want to tell her Father Francis would never force me down the aisle, but I’m not so sure. He’s a priest, not a gang member, but he was there when I signed the contract. This is his church, his parish, and he’s allowing this wedding to happen. In the end, he’s complicit.
We all make our own choices. I’ve made mine. And I’d make it again to save her.
I can’t tell Cher any of this, so I hug her instead. “I love you, sissy.”
It takes a moment, but she finally hugs me back. Her too-thin body feels so fragile in my arms. She loves me, and that’s going to help me get through this.
But I can’t go through with this if she’s watching.
“You need to go,” I say, releasing her and stepping back.
Her head goes back a beat, her brow knotting. “What?”
I’m already turning to Father Francis. “She can’t be here,” I tell him, knowing he’ll help me get her out of here. “She’s supposed to get a ride out of town and money to help her settle. That was part of the deal.”
“No, Eve, I’m not leaving—”
“There’s a car waiting for her,” Father Francis says in his calm voice. “There are men outside the door ready to escort her. She can leave now or after the ceremony.”
“Now.” I haven’t spoken with this much force or energy in years, but I’m in Mama Bear mode, and it’s giving me the strength to kick Cher out. Fear for her life and determination keep my voice from wavering when I turn to Father Francis and say, “I don’t want her here.”
He bows his head and exits the room, motioning to the guards outside.
Cher’s expression cracks down the middle. Her mouth works like she doesn’t know if she should rage or cry.
Now I know how Judas felt. I’m doing this for her, but she can never know the truth. “This is your chance to do what you’ve always wanted. This city has nothing for us; you always said that. Romeo and the Scorpions can’t touch you. No one will ever hurt you again.”
This is what I bought with my agreement to marry the Devil: her safety, guaranteed.
I would pay this price over and over again.
She sucks in a deep breath, ready to argue, but I don’t give her a chance to speak.
“This is your ticket out. I need you to take it.” My emotions are rising, waking up after a long sleep. Cher looks so lost, so scared. “Sissy, look at me.” I use the nickname she pretends to hate, the one I gave her when we first met. “It’s going to be okay. Pinkie swear?” I hold out my pinkie, but she shakes her head, backing away from me.
There are tears in her eyes. I can’t cry—haven’t cried in years—but I feel so much love for her right now, remembering how she used to look up to me. How we used to sit in the raggedy field behind St. Mary’s, make St. Brigid crosses to match my necklace, and braid buttercup chains into crowns. Whenever I had a nightmare, she’d climb into my bunk, and we’d fall asleep holding hands. It’s always been us against the rest of the world. That’s how we survived. In those dark, early days, she kept me alive. And later, when she was using, I did the same for her.
I won’t let the Scorpions take her again.
I channel all the love I have for her into making sure my voice doesn’t waver when I say, “I don’t want you here.”
The organist chooses that moment to strike a massive chord, loud enough to penetrate the walls of this small ready room. They continue to play a series of fancy cascading notes, so loud it drowns out what my sister snarls at me.
I do the unforgivable. I turn my back on her and leave. Outside the door, two huge masked men stand like pillars. They’re as big as refrigerators and look twice as tall as me. Enforcers. They close ranks behind me, stopping Cher from following.
They’ll take her away, take her somewhere safe. That’s what I bargained for.
Cher is shouting my name. A door slams, cutting off her cries.
I don’t look back.
Father Francis is waiting for me by the doors of the sanctuary. I hustle toward him. “Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod. I’m glad I’m wearing the veil so that he can’t see my stricken expression.
He hands me my bouquet. White flowers and rosemary, tied with a white ribbon. I clutch it, waiting until the doors open at the organist’s cue. The poofy skirts of the wedding gown hide my bare feet, which are cold on the flagstones.
I’ll walk down the aisle alone. No bridesmaids. Cher is the only one I’d choose for that role, and I just sent her away. No father to escort me. He died when I was sixteen. I have no family but Cher. No real friends either. At least, none I’d invite to this sham of a wedding.
I still hear her sobbing, raging, in my memory. Her emotions are always close to the surface, sunny skies turning stormy in seconds. Whereas mine are so out of reach, all I feel is emptiness. Sending her away has sucked the life out of me. I feel hollow, numb.
But it doesn’t matter what I feel. This marriage will keep my sister safe.
I only hope one day she’ll forgive me.
With a resounding blast of Wagner’s ceremonial march, the doors open and I take my first step into the sanctuary.
The church is packed. And every single person is wearing a white skull mask.
It’s like I’ve stepped into another world, one where a cult conducts a secret ritual.
I guess I have. A criminal cult, full of men who will do whatever it takes to remain in power. Torture, maim, kill. Every single one of the wedding guests looks like they’d slit a man’s throat as soon as shake his hand. Not all of them are big, hulking dudes with tattoos peeking out from under their tux sleeves. Just most of them.
If you didn’t expect the rows and rows of masked men, it’d be a terrifying sight. I expected it, and still my heart trips a beat. I’m grateful I’m wearing a veil so no one can see the way my face pales as the blood rushes to my legs, readying me to run.
No, don’t run. There’s no escape. The two tattooed ushers who opened the door for me hover at my back. They’ll catch me before I take two steps.
I need to get used to this. I’m marrying a mobster after all. I just didn’t realize every member of the gang would show up. More than half of New Rome’s criminal element must be here. If the cops showed up, they could RICO everybody. Or just blow the entire church up to wipe these scum off the face of the earth.
Maybe that will be my ticket out.
Either way, there’s no turning back. Everyone in the pews turns and spots me. They all rise as one.
I grip the bouquet tightly to keep from running screaming from the church. I feel lightheaded.
How am I going to make it down the aisle?
I breathe deeply, smelling the woody herbal scent of the rosemary in my bouquet. Somehow, my feet start moving forward. My toes sink into the plush carpet as I walk toward the man waiting for me at the altar. The man they call the Devil. The head of Fraternitas.
I can sense him watching me.
No, don’t look at him. If I look at him too closely, I might pass out.
His gaze is on me, dragging me forward, like he has his own gravitational pull. It’s the only thing strong enough to make me move past the pews full of men in masks with big silver rings on their fingers. I feel like a fluffy white bunny, hopping past rows and rows of dagger-toothed predators. Adrenaline rushes through my body, washing away my dreamlike delusion and waking me up.
What the hell am I doing? Am I really going through with this?
I stop short in the aisle, my thoughts spinning out of control. I should’ve gone with Cher. I should’ve found another way.
The whole church seems to be holding its breath. I can practically hear their thoughts. Will she go through with it?
I have to go through with it. My groom is the most feared man in New Rome. I’ve heard the whispers about him. Tales of how he butchers anyone who would stand in his way. Grown men are frightened to say his name out loud.
If I back out now, I’m dead.
And how messed up is that? What type of man forces a woman to marry him? A woman he’s never met? It doesn’t matter why he wants me. I’ll happily trade my fame and my name for a chance for Cher to have a good life. He wants to use me? I’ll use him right back.
But my legs are encased in concrete. I can’t make them move. At any minute, the Devil is going to lose patience with me and order his men to drag me out of the church and put me to death.
Then what will happen to Cher? I can’t fail her again.
A shadow falls over me, and I look up into the scariest mask of all—red and black with devil’s horns.
It’s him. The Devil. I was so busy trying not to look at him, I didn’t realize he was coming up the aisle.
Now I feel his presence, powerful like a planet’s gravity, pulling attention to him. Goosebumps cover me from head to toe.
This is it. He’s going to kill me. Right in front of all these people.
Don’t look at him.
But I can’t help myself. If I’m going to die, I might as well see the man who will destroy me.
He looks like a mob boss. The sort of man who walks into a place and is instantly in charge. The sort of man used to getting his way.
And his mask only adds to the effect, transforming it into something more. Something otherworldly. It only covers the upper half of his face, but it’s enough to transform him from a man to a monster and then to a legend. Up close, I can tell it’s not a cheap plastic trinket, the sort they sell around Halloween. It looks antique, like something worn for some ancient ritual.
Don’t look into his eyes. Don’t do it.
A jolt runs through me when I meet his gaze. His dark eyes draw me in. I knew I shouldn’t risk looking at him. Now that I am, it’s too late; I can’t look away. I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning. My skin buzzes, electrified. The pressure builds in my head, like I’ve been dropped in the middle of a storm.
But it’s not a storm; it’s him. I’m trapped in the spell of his presence, completely enthralled.
He has firm lips that could either be cruel or sensuous, depending on the circumstances. Right now, those lips are twisted. He’s smirking at me.
My blood catches fire, anger rushing through me in response to his sadistic smile. He wants me to chicken out. Maybe this is fun for him, luring a woman down the aisle to see if she’ll take the dare.
But he doesn’t kill me. He holds out his hand, every inch of his fingers covered in tattoos, as if offering me a second chance. Challenging me to prove that I’m brave enough to go through with this.
I gasp as my frozen fingers touch his. Then he’s gripping me, hard enough that I feel a tremor run through him. It’s so slight, no one can see it, but I feel it like a seismic event, an earthquake hidden deep under the surface. Instinctively, I try to jerk away, but he holds me tight, those tattooed fingers as strong as a vise.
He leads me down the rest of the aisle as the organ plays its last strains. For a moment, I’m not in a church. I’m in a wild place, a forest, and I’m a virgin in a pagan ritual, barefoot with unbound hair, veiled like Isis, ready to be sacrificed to the horned god.
But he’s not a god, he’s a man. I can feel the pulse of his heartbeat through his fingers. Or maybe that’s mine.
This is it. I can’t believe this is happening.
I’m marrying the Devil.
A man I’ve never met.
Keep reading Forced Vows
Book Summary
To save her sister, she must marry a man called the Devil, the most dangerous man in the city. He's always loved her, but she doesn't remember him. But he? He remembers everything.