Promises and Pomegranates (Monsters & Muses, #1)

by Sav R. Miller

As a child, I got used to silence. The kind found in sleepy hospital rooms, hidden between the dull, intermittent beeping of an electric monitor and the steady drip of an IV bag.

I fell in love with the innate stillness of it—the calm it provides, the secrets you can wedge into its depths.

Thus, I craved an outlet. Somewhere I could go and not lose myself in the noise. Where the violence coded into my DNA could be satisfied and the parts of me aching for death and destruction would be sated.

I learned I quite enjoy the taste of brutality on my tongue. Love the way it blossoms like a flower springing from the earth, igniting a compulsion like no other.

A desire quelled only by bloodied hands and bodies mangled by them—my hands, the very pair sworn to an oath of healing. I let the darkest wants live inside me, manifesting through my obligation to an organization I joined before I knew what I was doing, allowing myself a pass because of the decency of my day job.

Moral licensing I didn’t think twice about, until the lines bled too fully for me to distinguish between them. Until Elena. The most forbidden of fruits. Persephone to my Hades, as some used to call me. Springtime in a world rife with death and destruction. A woman I scorned until I found myself blinded by a new obsession.

And though I left the way Death usually does—silently, before dawn—it was never my intention not to return and collect.

There’s something magical in the act of holding another’s life in your hands. A kind of symmetry found in nature, where you’re given the opportunity to bring beasts to grisly fates or heal them instead.

“I like to think my name holds a lot more weight in Boston than yours,” he says. “It doesn’t.” His face reddens, irritation spiking with every new word that falls from my lips. “At one time, sure. But then you got sloppy, and now your main source of power comes from alliances.” “Watch it, Anderson.” Wagging his finger in my direction, he sits forward, the metaphoric hackles on the back of his neck rising with his anger. “You’re treading a very thin line between the truth and disrespect here, son.” Internally recoiling at the nickname, I shrug again, unbothered by his intimidation tactics. You can’t conquer what doesn’t fear you, and with us, it’s always been the other way around.

“I know you don’t do things for me for free,” Rafe says. “What do you want?” Inhaling deeply, soaking in the aroma of stale cigars and expensive liquor, I smother the grin threatening at my lips. My heart rate kicks up, relief taking the place of violence. My mind travels to the poem I once left for Elena, a promise and threat rolled into one. I just hadn’t known it at the time. Dis, almost in a moment, saw her, prized her, took her: so swift as this, is love. The Rape of Proserpine. Not love, but something far more sinister and deadly in this case. I think about the picture burning a hole through my wallet—brown eyes just like mine, the long black French braids. An ache flares in my chest at the thought of her, reaffirming my decision as I’m reminded of the who behind it. If I want a single shot at a relationship with my long-lost sister, this is the only way. Meeting Rafe’s gaze, I raise my eyebrows. “Elena’s soul.”

Most of the girls I knew growing up fantasized about their dream weddings. My younger sister Ariana dreamed of soft pastels and virginal white, despite being anything but. Years of ballet meant she knew the exact song and dance she’d bring our papà out for, and she’d look incredible doing it. Even Stella—the youngest and smartest Ricci daughter—had the menu scribbled down on a piece of paper, using it as a bookmark for her textbooks. I planned my funeral. Up until today, my vision of a marble casket and bouquets of dahlias and lilies felt like little more than a pipe dream. A delusion I’d concocted to help alleviate the dull reality facing me.

“Probably just stress or water,” my aunt Anotella says from where she’s perched on the edge of the bed, gnawing at a chocolate-covered strawberry from the lunch platter we had delivered. “Or all that time she spends with her nose buried in a book.” “Or she’s giving up. Kids these days don’t go through honeymoon phases anymore.” Nonna, my paternal grandmother, reenters the room just in time, a bright blue gift box in hand. “Explain, Frankie.” Nonna shrugs. “Back in my day, a woman waited at least a few years before letting herself go. Now, they treat keeping in shape like an option and then wonder why half the country ends up divorced.” Humming, Mamma gives a final tug, stealing the breath from my lungs. Stepping back, she brushes a strand of dark hair from her face, huffing with finality. “There. Good thing we went with the lace ties and not a zipper.”

In truth, the only person I’m interested in inspiring something like jealousy within most likely won’t even show up for the ceremony. Not that he’d see what’s underneath the dress anyway. Not again.

I haven’t eaten since dinner yesterday, and now that my weight seems to be a topic of concern, I’m sure that if I try sneaking a bite in before the ceremony, Mamma will likely have my head. God forbid there be a hair out of place on my wedding day unless it’s by her own hand. Image has always been the most important thing to my family though, especially in recent years with the shrinkage of organized crime. It still exists, but it’s with limited involvement—behind screens, hidden in the shadows. Papà and his men, along with the other families around the country, have to be more skillful about the way they conduct business. “Control the narrative,” Papà always says. “That way, you control the story.”

If people don’t think you’re a violent criminal organization, then they have no reason to report you. It’s why I’m being married off to the heir of Boston’s premier media firms, despite the fact that the only feelings I hold for my future husband are those of disdain. Not that my feelings matter of course. Not in this world. All that matters to la famiglia is that I keep my head down and abide by my duties. Help them maintain their power in the most archaic fashion.

“Ugh,” a voice moans from the hall. Ariana’s slender form appears in the doorway suddenly, the burnt orange evening gown she has on hugging her ballerina’s body. Jealousy tears through my chest at the sight of her, long and lithe and beautiful, while I stand here in my wedding dress feeling like an ugly duckling. I swallow it down, trying to dispel my mother’s comments from where they repeat in my brain. “Not again,” Mamma mutters, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. Nonna rolls her eyes. “Ariana, can you do anything other than complain?” “No.” My sister blinks, her doe eyes widening as she looks at me. “Jesus, E. You look gorgeous.” I smile gratefully at her, guilt gnawing at my insides. From what exactly, I’m not sure. “I feel like a porcelain doll.” “You’ll get over it,” Mamma says, waving dismissively. Scoffing, my sister crosses her arms over her chest. “Why do we have to go so early? The guests won’t even arrive for another two hours.”

“Was it like this for you?” I ask softly, knowing our looks aren’t where our similarities end. “What do you mean?” I chew on the inside of my cheek, hesitating. “Did it feel like you were being led to your death?” Her gaze falls to her fingers splayed across my collarbone, covered in various rings. She tilts her head, deep in thought, eyes unfocused as she seems to check out momentarily. “You’ll find ways to make peace with it,” she says finally, kissing my forehead. When she releases me, she offers a smile, but it feels forced and wobbly, so fragile, it could break in an instant, its shattered pieces scattering along the floor in ruins. Clearing her throat, she clasps her hands together and takes a step back. “There you go, figlia mia. You’re ready to be someone’s bride.” I glance at the reflection, seeing a hostage trapped in an elegant white gown, but nod anyway. “Should we leave now?”

“Mr. de Luca requests your presence.” I clench my teeth, annoyance prickling against my skin. “He can’t see me before the wedding. It’s bad luck.” Plus, I don’t want to spend any more time with him than absolutely necessary. “Please, miss. He’s not feeling well and says you’re the only one he’ll speak to.” Sighing, I look at Mamma, who shrugs. “We make our own luck anyway, right?” Kissing me on both cheeks, she slings her purse over her shoulder, heading for the door. “Take care of it, and meet us at the church as soon as possible!” I stare at the staff member’s name tag—Marcelline, it says, printed in big block letters—silently for a few beats, wondering if this is another of Mateo’s ruses to goad me into a fight or something worse. Still, I don’t want him causing a scene and delaying the inevitable, so I follow this woman down the hall to Mateo’s bedroom. Once inside, I pause, noting that it looks as much like a guest room as the one I’ve just left; with no hint of memorabilia or personal effects cluttering the walls or dresser, it’s almost as if this room belongs to a ghost. Or, I realize as I find Mateo sitting on the edge of the bed, someone on their way to becoming one. “What the fuck?” I hiss, hurrying to his side. He clutches his stomach, hunching over to hurl violently into a plastic wastebasket. “Jesus, Mateo, what happened?” Sucking in a breath that sounds like it gets caught in his throat, he glances up at me through glassy eyes, panic lacing his brown irises. ...

Silent for several beats, I can see the gentle rise and fall of her chest, breasts straining against the white lace material of her dress. She’s more covered up than I’ve ever seen her, the dress little more than a sheath that clings to her like a second skin, but somehow she’s never looked more sinful. Perhaps it’s the context: her, in a wedding gown, standing over her fiancé’s dead body. Yet her only real reaction was to me, as if his death bears no consequence to her.

I kept watch over her after she turned eighteen, fulfilling a favor owed to her father before allowing my depravity to take hold, giving in when she asked me to ruin her. Therefore, I know everything there is to know about the woman before me: her favorite poems—Shelley’s “The Masque of Anarchy” and Browning’s “My Last Duchess”—as well as what she prefers for breakfast—whole wheat toast with peanut butter and fresh fruit—and that she loves learning. If she’d had her way, she’d be studying literature and not just how to teach it. I know about the little pomegranate tattooed beneath her breast and have traced the line work myself with the tip of my tongue. She even tastes like the fruit, explosive and utterly bewitching, the kind of succulence you want to sink your teeth into. And fuck, did I.

It’s a mirage, as much as their marriage would have been. A sham for the press, making her father look good while destroying the tattered remains of the soul I broke weeks ago.

Perhaps my little Persephone is actually fit for her fate. She stares at the wound, the curved handle of my knife still protruding from the area, and gives the smallest shake of her head. “Insurance.” “What?” Replacing the jacket over the area, she gives a little shrug. “Insurance, right? The stab wound? In case whatever else you did to him didn’t work.” My mouth parts to refute her claim, the need to distance myself from the crime second nature at this point, but I don’t. There’s no reason if she already knows this was my doing. Part of me—the sick, disturbed part I stuff down into the recesses of my brain—wants her to know anyway. Wants her to see what I’m capable of and what happens to those who defy me.

Letting out a long breath, Elena tilts her chin up, turning to face me. Unlike most people I meet, Elena’s never had a problem with eye contact. She matches my gaze head-on, like she knows it’s exactly what I want and can’t help but

“Why?” she asks, the single syllable devoid of even a fraction of emotion. It gives me pause, my fingers brushing against her as they fall back to my side. “Why not?” “That’s a very selfish way to look at it.” My eyebrows arch in surprise. “Whatever gave you the impression I was anything but?” She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest, tucking her hands beneath her armpits. “Wishful thinking, I guess.” Behind us, the door to Mateo’s bedroom opens slowly, my employee’s strawberry-blond head poking in. Marcelline glances around with her wide blue eyes, then slips inside with a duffel bag thrown over her shoulder, closing the door shut as she walks over. Elena’s gaze latches on to my housekeeper’s form as she hands me the bag, blazing with unrestrained rage, even though Marcelline won’t look past my clavicle. She watches Marcelline’s pale fingers brush mine, anger radiating off her supple body in waves, deliciously intoxicating. Jealousy isn’t a quality I typically look for in a woman, but the existence of it within the spring goddess before me is like fresh soil, ready for me to dig in and plant my roots. It’s the foundation for corruption, that green emotion, and I plan to use it to build us from its rubble. “Marcelline,” I say slowly as my housekeeper backs away.

But loyalty, I’ve learned, is a small price to pay for some people. It’s how I got into this mess in the first place.

“Have you met my future wife?” I ask Marcelline, reveling in the sharp silence that follows. It’s the kind I go out of my way to create, that cuts through the air like a whip.

“I’m sorry.” Elena’s the first to recover from my assertion. “Your what?”

“What’s going on?” she asks, hands curling into fists at her sides. No one answers immediately, presumably waiting for my explanation. Seeming to sense that I’m about to move, Elena flinches the second my feet start in her direction, launching herself toward the door. I lunge for her at the same time, anticipating her attempt to escape, catching her around the waist with both arms. Slamming her back into me, the gentle swell of her ass pressing obscenely against my cock, I wrangle us around so we’re directly in front of the priest, whose eyes are now wide and confused. He hisses something to Rafael, who shakes his head and offers soft, soothing tones back. I dip my lips to Elena’s ear as she struggles against my hold, apparently unaware that it’s her fighting spirit that drew me to her in the first place. The more she tries to get away, rubbing her ass against me, the harder I get. “Careful, little one.” Shifting forward, I slip one of my hands down over the expanse of her belly, pushing down with my fingertips. She sucks in a little breath, undoubtedly feeling the evidence of my reaction, and freezes immediately. Our audience does nothing to suppress the arousal traveling south; if anything, it seems to heighten it, knowing she’s completely at my mercy. One wrong move, and I’ll humiliate her in front of her father, more than I already have. Gesturing to the priest with my free hand, I keep her anchored to me with the other. “What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, jerki...

Elena’s shrieks reverberate off my skull, the vibrations from her throat rippling through my forearm. I tighten my grip on her mouth, moving so my index finger slightly blocks her nostrils; she screams and screams, the sounds muffled and broken, until she realizes she’s not regaining oxygen. Breaking off on a strangled cry, she halts, face reddening. I cock an eyebrow, craning my head to look into her eyes. They’re feral, flames dancing in the golden rings, and part of me wants to feel bad for forcing her into this. From her world into mine, knowing she really doesn’t deserve it. But she’s in danger, and my plan can’t happen any other way, so in truth, neither of us have a choice here really. “Kallum, do you vow to trust and honor Elena? To laugh and cry, love her faithfully through sickness and in health, and whatever may come, ’til death do you part?” the priest asks woodenly. “I do,” I say, something pinching in my chest as I say it, the lie bitter on the back of my tongue. He repeats the same vow for her, and she shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes, mouth still covered. “When I remove my hand, I want you to say it. Say you do.” Her eyes harden, the tears soaking up. “I’m helping you. Say you do,” I murmur, just low enough for her to hear, “or I start picking off the people you love, one by one. Mateo was just the start, little one. Next is your father if you don’t do what I say.” She whimpers, the sound making my dick stiffen even more, and huffs a single breath...

I had a teacher when I was younger who swore that our mindsets had infinite power over our lives. She lived and breathed the notion that time was little more than a social construct and that people have the ability to create their own realities. She’d say humans are made up of energy, and that energy has a certain magnetism to it that attracts both what we fear and what we desire, and it was up to us to reflect the kind of life we wanted to the universe so it would be able to deliver.

I glance at Papà, who seems to look everywhere but at me as the priest goes on his spiel about love, quoting Corinthians as if it isn’t obvious this union is a farce. For Christ’s sake, Kal still has one arm wrapped around my waist, one hand collaring my throat, yet we’re all acting like this is normal.

“Do that again,” he breathes into my ear, a slight strain lacing his voice. “And I’ll fuck you in front of everyone.” I scoff, my voice just as soft, just as strangled. “You wouldn’t.” There has to be a line somewhere. One that not even Kal Anderson will cross, and something tells me fucking your boss’s daughter—a Mafia don, no less—while he watches might be the ultimate form of disrespect. “I would, and you’d love every filthy second of it.” Okay then.

“I’m not your enemy, little one.” “You’re not my friend either.” A muscle thumps beneath his left eye, and his gaze drops to my lips. “No,” he agrees, sliding his hand so his thumb brushes over my mouth, plucking my bottom lip like a guitar string. “I’m your husband.”

The arm around my waist crushes me to him, fitting our hips together, and the last remnants of my resolve crumble as I melt into it. Into him.

“Rings,” the priest says, gesturing toward our hands. “You’re skipping steps, Mr. Anderson.” “Kind of like you skipped courting, proposing, or generally asking for my consent in any of this,” I mutter, watching as Kal reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a burlap pouch. “Would you have said yes?” I blink, frowning. “What?” “If I’d asked.” He pulls one ring out, a simple black band, and shoves it onto his own finger, then reaches for mine. “Would you have said yes?” “I…” In truth, I want to say yes. That my infatuation with this known killer would’ve led me to do anything he asked of me. But Mamma drilled into my head at a young age that such an admission was practically a death wish, so instead, I shake my head. “No.” Yanking the ring from Mateo off, he tosses it to the ground, replacing it with a solitaire diamond. His jaw ticks. “No?” Pulling back, I fold my hands over my arms. “No, Kallum, I wouldn’t have. I was engaged⁠—” “Didn’t stop you from begging me to fuck you.” “That was different. It was a⁠—” “We ask these blessings for them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” the priest interrupts, moving forward and gripping our shoulders. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He hesitates, sunken eyes darting between us. “Er…well, I suppose you can kiss her again, but if you’re going to, I request enough time to leave the room beforehand.” Kal holds up his hand, shaking his head. “No need, Father. We’re leaving.”

This thing with Kal, though, hasn’t been charted out. I’ve never seen him with another woman, though presumably, there have been many in his thirty-two years. I can’t even reconcile why he was okay with any of this, considering the last time I saw him, he fucked me raw and left before the sun was up. Only a poem, scribbled on a scrap piece of paper, and a black rose remained, making me wonder for a long time if I’d dreamed the entire encounter in the first place. Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free? If anything, his parting words, though borrowed from Keats, indicated he wanted nothing more to do with me. Yet here he is, having just forced my hand, acting as though there was no other choice in the matter. As Papà leaves to go find my mother, I watch as Kal continues packing up, a sinking feeling weighing in my gut as I remember what else he said to me all those weeks ago. “I’m not like the boys from your little private schools. I’ll ruin you and not think twice about it.” “So ruin me,” I’d said, so confident in my ability to withstand it. Now, I can’t stop wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

Typically, I go out of my way to avoid social interaction, especially with the likes of teenagers, but this wasn’t something I could very well avoid. I don’t put it past Elena to run. She feels trapped, like a broken bird caught in her gilded cage, eyeing the lock on her door without fail in case there’s ever a chance to bolt. Since I can’t very well risk that, I had to return to the Riccis’ Louisburg Square home with her, ensuring her wings stay clipped. At least for now. The whole ride over, she kept toying with the new ring on her finger, stealing glances at me from the corner of her eye as though she didn’t think I could feel the weight of her gaze. That’s part of my problem when it comes to the little goddess; I’m hyperfocused on every move she makes, my body so used to studying her from behind a screen that the openness of our interactions now feels somewhat alarming. Of course, that doesn’t explain why her perusal immediately makes my dick hard, but that’s another issue entirely. One I’m not willing to entertain right now, especially after the severity of the kiss we shared. I have to bide my time if I want all of this to pan out correctly. “You know, girls,” I say, meeting their stares, sliding my watch from my wrist, “a picture lasts much longer.” The youngest, Stella, ducks her head when I look up, playing with the end of a pigtail. Her brown eyes widen behind the square frames of her glasses, and she nudges her older sister with her elbow, grunting as if trying ...

There’s a thinly veiled darkness resting beneath her carefully coiffed exterior, one that often results in bruised knuckles and bloody lips. She suppresses it, buries it deep to make her family happy and fulfill her duties, but it’s there, just begging to be unleashed. Part of me is curious to know what that would take.

Her dark eyes shift down to me, brushing my gaze for a millisecond before quickly sweeping away. She blushes furiously, and I smother a chuckle, not sure why I find her discomfort so amusing. Maybe it reminds me of someone.

“Enough, ladies.” My voice is low, the strain from their bickering and the barely audible ticking stretching my nerves until they’re almost ready to snap. Curling my fingers over the edge of the wooden bench, I can feel the old material splinter beneath my grip, anger a red-hot tidal wave crashing along my insides. “I appreciate your concern, because I know it comes from a good place,” I say, focusing on breathing evenly. “But do not ever speak of my wife and her former fiancé, unless it’s to say what a good pair we make in comparison. I don’t want his name associated with hers ever again.”

So instead of trying to convince them of the point more, I take the Rolex, drop it to the floor, and let my irritation spike from the ticking; like any other trigger, the sound builds until it’s like a waterfall rushing between my ears, drowning out every other noise around me. Episodes like this are suffocating, all-consuming in the rage they provoke. It vibrates along my spine, knotting in my chest until it peaks, exploding like a volcanic eruption. Usually, I avoid the violent outbursts my thoughts conjure, but now, I draw the gun from my waist and aim it right at the watch face. A bullet pops free from the chamber, embedding bits of glass, shrapnel, and leather into the floor where it ripples from the impact. Somehow, like a phantom limb, the ticking remains. Chest heaving, electricity zinging through my veins, I stare at the hole and replay the gunshot over and over in my head, my shoulders tense and heavy. I don’t—can’t—move until the ticking stops. Finally, the silence floating in the air around us permeates my hazed brain, and I feel like I can breathe again. I see the girls wince from the corner of my eye and clear my throat, returning the pistol to its spot on my hip. When I breeze from the room, hitting accept on the incoming call, temporary relief floods through me as my body struggles to go back to normal.

“Everything has to happen a certain way, Wolfe,” I snap, keeping my voice hushed so as not to draw attention to my presence to whoever is inside the room. “I can’t simply drop her into the thick of things and expect her to be okay with it.” “But…marriage? When you left for Boston, you never mentioned that.” “Plans change. It’s the easiest and quickest way of getting me what I want.” Money. Power. Family.

“What the hell have you done, Kallum?” she hisses, making my hands ache as they curl around empty air. “Why is my daughter not marrying Mateo de Luca right now?” “Elena chose to marry me instead.” “You fucked her, didn’t you?” Carmen’s lips curl back. “You knew that if you screwed her, you’d screw us over too. You’ve just been waiting for your opportunity.” “She chose to marry me of her own free will.” “Oh, and I’m sure Mateo was just all too happy to step aside.” With her, it’s always been about the reaction. She knows what buttons of mine to push and how hard to push them until I pounce. Once upon a time, it was almost a game we played; she’d dig beneath my skin with her quips and harsh words, her jealousy and spite, and like a fucking lamb, I’d follow her right to the slaughter. I smirk, not bothering to answer as I sweep the room, noting the half-cocked balcony door just behind her.

“Where is she?” I ask, forcing my tone to remain level even as my body itches to propel forward and shove her into the wall. She shrugs. “Seemed rather eager to let me help her escape. Kind of odd for a newlywed, don’t you think?” “I don’t know, Carmen,” I say, moving toward the balcony as a shadow dances behind its doors. Never stopped you from trying, did it?” Her mouth falls shut, and she moves with me, trying to block my exit. My skin prickles when she brings her hands to my chest, disgust swirling inside my gut, making my vision blur. “I won’t let you corrupt my daughter,” she says, tears welling up in her big brown eyes. At one point, her pain may have worked on me, back when I was young and naive enough to think Carmen Ricci was capable of caring for someone other than herself. I can even feel myself wavering as the tears spill over, slicking down her cheeks. The effects of her manipulation linger even now, regressive in nature despite the time that’s passed. But then she speaks again, breaking the illusion. “Don’t use her to get back at me.”

“I’m not going to corrupt her,” I say, taking Carmen’s hands in mine, curling my fingers around hers. “I’m going to ruin her, and every time she bleeds for me, I’m going to think about how she likes everything you didn’t.” Snapping my hand forward, I hear the distinct crack of bone splintering, and she lets out a high-pitched wail as I shove her away. She cradles her broken fingers to her chest, a harsh sob racking her body, but I ignore it the way she once ignored my pain. I don’t plan on touching Elena yet. But Carmen doesn’t know that. Right now, she thinks the marriage is legitimate in more than just the legal way, and that’s what I need her to believe. Revenge is an afterthought for the most part when it comes to my next steps, but I won’t ever pass up the chance to see Carmen suffer.

When she sees me, she sighs. “Took you long enough.” Like she isn’t surprised I came after her.

I don’t think Elena will be a problem. She already is one.

He never fully undressed during our one night together, as if still trying to keep some of his mystery intact. It always made me wonder what he thought he was hiding. I’d been flayed wide-open, literally, while he’d remained as tightly wound as ever, making my body bend for his in ways I hadn’t known it would.

All my life, I chased bruised cheeks and bloody knuckles, created brokenness beneath my fingertips by picking fights with others, because I thought it would make my Papà happy. That he’d see me as more than his little Mafia princess and maybe let me live the life I wanted. Until last Christmas, I didn’t realize the pleasure that could blossom from having someone else do the breaking for you.

“Kallum,” I breathe, my eyes finding his even though I know I shouldn’t dare look. Not after everything he’s pulled. Yet, like a moth to a flame, I chase his heat.