{"id":263215,"date":"2026-07-14T14:26:02","date_gmt":"2026-07-14T11:26:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/hostile-vows-marian-black\/"},"modified":"2026-07-14T14:26:02","modified_gmt":"2026-07-14T11:26:02","slug":"hostile-vows-marian-black","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/hostile-vows-marian-black\/","title":{"rendered":"Hostile Vows – Marian Black"},"content":{"rendered":"
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“And you said you’d want longer. Than the twelve months.” “I do.” Roman’s voice was rough. “But Matteo, if this\u2014if we\u2014I need you to be sure. Because once we cross this line, I don’t think I can go back.” Matteo’s heart was hammering. His whole body felt alive, hyper-aware. Every nerve ending focused on the points where they touched\u2014their hands, their shoulders, their knees under the edge of the coffee table.<\/p>\n

“I’m not sure about anything,” Matteo admitted. “Three weeks ago I hated you. Now I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what this is.” “Neither do I.” “But I do know\u2014” Matteo’s free hand came up, touched Roman’s face. The scratch of stubble under his fingers, the warmth of his skin. “I know that when you took that bullet, when I saw you bleeding, I was terrified. Not because of the alliance or the marriage or any of that. Because of you. Because I couldn’t imagine you not being here.”<\/p>\n

Roman’s eyes closed briefly, like the words hurt. When he opened them, they were darker, more intense than Matteo had ever seen. “Matteo,” Roman said, and it sounded like a prayer. “I need you to tell me what you want. Because what I want\u2014” His voice broke. “It’s probably more than I should.” “Tell me anyway.” “I want\u2014” Roman’s hand came up to cover Matteo’s where it rested on his face.<\/p>\n

“I want to kiss you. Have wanted to since that night we fought. Maybe before then. I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. Want to fall asleep with you and wake up beside you and not have it be an act for the cameras.” Matteo’s breath caught.<\/p>\n

“Roman\u2014” “But more than that,” Roman continued, his voice intense and honest and vulnerable, “I want to deserve you. Want to be worthy of your trust. Want to prove that I’m more than just a Volkov. That we’re more than just a strategic alliance.” “You already are,” Matteo said. “You proved that when you saved my life. When you came to me with this investigation.<\/p>\n

When you trusted me enough to show vulnerability.” “Then what do you want?” Roman asked. “Tell me. Please.” Matteo looked at this man\u2014this beautiful, complicated, dangerous man who’d somehow become important to him. Who’d saved his life. “I want\u2014” Matteo’s thumb traced Roman’s cheekbone. “I want to see where this goes.<\/p>\n

Whatever this is. I want to work with you, figure out who’s trying to hurt us. And then I want…” “What?” “You,” Matteo finished simply.<\/p>\n

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THE PRIVATE DINING room at Celestino’s smelled like old money and older grudges. Matteo Moretti sat ramrod straight in his chair, hands folded on the white tablecloth, and tried not to let his rage show on his face. Around him, the walls were lined with dark wood paneling and oil paintings of pastoral Italian countryside\u2014scenes of peace that mocked the tension crackling through the air like static before a lightning strike. Across the table sat the Volkovs. His father’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, a warning and a command rolled into one gesture.<\/p>\n

Matteo didn’t flinch. He’d learned years ago not to show weakness, especially not in front of enemies. And the Volkovs were enemies, no matter what charade they were about to perform. “Gentlemen,” the mediator said, a nervous little man in an expensive suit who’d been hired precisely because he had no allegiance to either family. “Shall we begin?” Dmitri Volkov inclined his head, silver hair catching the light from the chandelier above. He looked like someone’s kindly grandfather, if that grandfather had personally ordered the deaths of two dozen men.<\/p>\n

“We are here for peace. Let us not waste time.” Peace. The word tasted like ash in Matteo’s mouth. His father\u2014Antonio Moretti, don of one of the most powerful crime families on the East Coast\u2014leaned forward. “Peace requires sacrifice. Assurance. My family has bled for three years because of this war.”<\/p>\n

“As has mine,” Dmitri replied, his English thick with a Russian accent. His eyes were chips of ice, revealing nothing. And so it began. The negotiation. The dance. Two patriarchs discussing terms like they were trading stocks instead of sons. Matteo let the words wash over him, focusing instead on controlling his breathing, on keeping his expression neutral. He was a lawyer by training, had gone to Columbia, had planned to use his mind for the family business \u2014the legitimate side of it, anyway. He’d been good at it too, turning their restaurants and real estate holdings into an empire that would make them untouchable.<\/p>\n

But then Marco died. Marco, his older brother, the heir, the golden son who was supposed to lead the family into the future. Marco, who’d been gunned down outside a Volkov-controlled warehouse three years ago, the bullet that started this whole goddamn war. Now Matteo sat in this dining room, being traded like a prize horse, and Marco was in the ground.<\/p>\n

“My son will move into the neutral residence,” his father was saying. “As will yours.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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