THE MAFIA'S VOW

The wedding was a quiet, suffocating affair in the private study of my estate. The priest trembled as he read the vows. Emma wore a simple white dress I had my people procure that morning. She looked beautiful, fragile, but beneath that delicate exterior, I sensed a spine of steel. She hadn't asked for money. She hadn't asked for a way out. She only asked that she be allowed to continue caring for Oliver.

"You understand what this means?" I asked her as the priest stepped out, leaving us alone with the freshly signed marriage certificate. "You are now Emma Hale. My enemies will no longer see you as a maid. They will see you as a target. A weakness."

"I am not a weakness, Mr. Hale," she replied, pouring herself a glass of water from the crystal pitcher on my desk. "And I have enemies of my own."

I froze. "Excuse me?"

Before she could answer, the heavy oak doors of the study blew open. Marcus stood there, breathing heavily, a bloodied radio in his hand. "Preston. The Rossi family. They just hit the southside warehouse. They left a message."

Marcus threw a heavy, gold-plated bullet onto my desk. It clattered against the mahogany and stopped right on top of our marriage license.

"They know about the wedding," Marcus said grimly. "And they say the throne of Chicago is too weak to hold a man who marries the help."

I looked at Emma. She hadn't jumped when the doors banged open. She was staring at the bullet, her jaw clenched. "They aren't just after you, Preston," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They're after me."

"Who the hell are you, Emma?" I demanded, stepping closer to her.