Oath of Fidelity (Deviant Doms 3)

Her hair is long and straight, and hangs well past her shoulders. Her beautiful, deep amber eyes, framed in thick lashes, catch my attention. I know she wears contacts mostly but occasionally glasses, though she’s never let me see her wearing them. She hides the fact that she does, but I know everything about her.

I’d like to see them on her. I imagine she’d have the sexy librarian look going on, but she’s too proud.

Her gently rounded face would make her look almost girlish, if not for the wild defiance in her deep amber eyes, the color of a shot of amaretto. A gentle smattering of freckles and a dimple in her chin complete the fetching, nearly girlish look, but her full, light pink lips and curvy, hourglass figure are all woman.

What my family knows, that no one else sitting in this church does, is that Elise Regazza is my prisoner.

I allow her some freedom, at Orlando’s suggestion, because his wife Angelina is her best friend. But I don’t trust either of them. Those two were, after all, guilty of conspiring against my family.

They’ve paid their dues, some would say—Angelina is now married to my brother, after a lengthy imprisonment of her own. Because of their marriage, she’s now a full-fledged member of our family. And Elise has been under lock and key for months.

She’s allowed to take walks, and to travel to the shops within ten miles of here, but I track her every move and insist she have three high-ranking bodyguards on her at all times. It’s nothing short of walking confinement. I don’t regret it.

I don’t think she’s dangerous. She’d like to think I do. But no, I don’t keep a tight leash on her because I fear her escape. I want her to remember she’s my prisoner and will be until we take our vows and consummate our marriage.

I had a GPS tracker embedded under the skin of her left upper arm, the exact place where one would implant birth control. I know wherever she is when she’s not directly in my line of vision.

She also wears a thick, gold cuff bracelet fitted with GPS as well, one connected to the apps on my phone. It heats and generates a warming sensation across her wrist, when I want to issue her a warning. It also shows me her constant whereabouts, as well as her vital signs—her heartbeat, her body temperature, and even when she’s waking or sleeping.

I know when she’s doing yoga, when she’s jogging, or when she’s resting. I watch her more closely than most wardens monitor prisoners.

But Elise has behaved herself. She’s comported herself with the dignity befitting a mafia princess, just as she was raised, and as she’ll soon learn to become once more.

“Welcome,” Father Richard says, smiling benevolently at the large, well-dressed group of family members that have come after mass to witness Nicolo’s baptism. Nonna and Mama sit up front, Mama dressed in a form-fitting black dress, and Nonna wearing her own traditional black dress and sensible shoes as well. But among those in the congregation are my sisters, my brothers, the sworn brothers of The Family and their own loved ones, as well as my cousins, aunts, and uncles. Nearly every pew in the church is occupied with someone dressed in black or gold, like an Italian mafia photo shoot for a travel guide.

“We’ve come to witness the sacred ritual of baptism,” the priest continues. “What name have you given your child?”

“Nicolo Lorenzo Rossi,” Orlando says without hesitation, his chest nearly swelling with pride. Angelina beams at the baby, and as Nicolo begins to sniff and fuss, Elise automatically begins to sway from side to side to soothe him.

The priest begins the ritual of anointing, first making the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead, then leading Elise and the baby to the solid marble baptismal font that stands in front of our semi-circle. He lifts a small golden cup, Elise holds the baby over the font, and with the ritualistic prayers, Father Richard pours water over Nicolo’s head.

The baby starts, opens his mouth, and wails so loudly you’d think he was being tortured. Undeterred, Elise smiles and holds him steady while Father completes the baptism. Her pretty, dainty hand, adorned with several slender gold rings, her nails manicured and painted a bold, vivid red, cups the baby’s head gently.

“Here, Uncle,” she says, handing me the baby after the last sprinkling of water. I reach for him, gathering him up in the miles of satin, while he continues to wail his heart out. “Why don’t you hold your godson?”

I hold him up to my shoulder and tuck one hand against his bottom, and imitate her swaying from side to side. I have lots of younger siblings and a niece, as well as tons of cousins, so I’m not new to this. The baby nuzzles my shoulder and begins to quiet.