Page 14 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

SMOKE SIGNALS AND TEXT MESSAGES

I ’ve been so busy, I haven’t filled Joanne in on what’s going on in my life. So, I made it a point to confer with her face-to-face.

“I’m going to ruin him. Gut him and destroy him!” I huff as I sink into the chair inside our favorite coffee shop.

The coffee shop is small and understated, nestled between a yoga studio and a boutique that sells vintage perfume bottles and overpriced incense. The wood is dark, the lighting is soft, and the espresso? The kind that makes you believe in redemption.

Joanne doesn’t even look up from her iced matcha. “You say that like it’s a chore.”

“It is,” I say, stabbing my straw through the lid of my double espresso Frappuccino like it's his chest. “And I have to whine. Because if I don’t, I’ll end up married.

I refuse to marry a man I don’t love. And, I’m too young to get married!

” My voice is edgy, damn that man. He’s the bane of my existence.

She blinks and slowly lowers her lips to her drink. “Wait. Back up. What the hell are you talking about?”

She glares at me with confusion written all over her face .

I sigh. Dramatically. Because that’s the only way to survive this kind of betrayal.

“My brothers made a deal behind my back.”

Joanne’s eyes go wide. “Matteo and the stone-faced band of hot murderers?”

“Yes. Them.”

She leans in. “Talk.”

I cross my legs, annoyed all over again. I played it off in the meeting, but I’m still reeling. I can’t even drink my favorite drink. I’m so upset.

“Apparently, to broker peace and get rid of the horrible Petrovi?, leader of the Serbian syndicate, my brother, Matteo, offered me as a gift to his brother, Vukan. As in marriage.” I’m so pissed I could spit bullets. “Like I’m being gifted to him with a bow on top.”

Joanne’s mouth drops open. “Are you kidding me?”

“Oh, no. I walked into the war room and was very matter-of-factly informed that I’d be marrying Vukan Petrovi? like I’m some mafia-themed wedding favor.”

“And your response?”

I grin. “Fuck no, fucking fuck no. But, I came up with an acceptable alternative.” I pause dramatically, and the corner of my mouth forms a smile. “Ten dates.”

Joanne tilts her head. “That’s your punishment?” She takes a sip of her tea and rests her elbow on he table, engrossed in my dramatic family saga.

“No. That’s his.” I flick my hair over my shoulder and glance at my drink, spinning it between my fingers.

She blinks. “Bianca,” she says, as she tries to snap me out of my rage.

I glance at her, thinking to myself that she’s lucky she’s an only child.

“If he can make me fall in love in ten dates, I’ll marry him. If he can’t. I’m off the hook! I’ll walk. Simple. Elegant. And diabolically unreasonable. ”

“That’s evil genius,” she says as she hits the table with her palm to punctuate how impressed she is.

“Thank you.” I can’t deny I’m giddy. I nod in agreement.

Joanne shakes her head. “You really think he’s going to crash and burn?”

“I hope he crashes and burns. So I’m giving him the kind of dates that will do just that.”

“Okay,” she says, sitting up straighter, “let me hear your planned sabotage. It sounds like you have a strategy.” She straightened in the chair and leaned in.

“I already boxed him. I even landed a clean shot to the ribs.”

“Foreplay for you,” she snickers.

“Yeah, right,” I reply, like I’m ever getting laid. Most men are intimidated by me, and the ones who ask me out are push-overs. I can’t respect a man who agrees to everything I say.

Passive men are boring. I need a challenge. I need someone who can stimulate my brain and libido.

“Now I need to go for the emotional kill,” I say, deep in thought. The wheels in my head are turning. I need to come up with dates to scare Vukan off—the sooner, the better.

Joanne rubs her hands together. “Let’s ruin this man,” she grins.

I lean in, placing my elbows on the café table. I intertwine my fingers and move them methodically, as if I’m running scales on a piano.

“He agreed to ten dates. I pick half. He picks half. All I have to do is make him regret it,” I say, giving her my diabolical smile.

Joanne raises a brow. “By… what? Talking too much and ordering gluten, or bankrupting him with designer clothing?”

“Good idea,” I pause to consider it, but no, that’s child’s play. A man like Vukan is going to be tough to break. “I’m going to make him uncomfortable. Mentally. Emotionally. Existentially. ”

Her eyes light up like Christmas. “Go on.”

“Maybe the women’s shelter. Show him something vulnerable. Raw. Real. It’s intense, y’know?” I stir my frappe thoughtfully. “He won’t know what to do with empathy. He’s a ruthless Serbian mastermind.”

“Oh, even better,” Joanne says, eyes sparking, “take him to see the babies.”

I nearly choked on my saliva. “What?”

“You said he’s older, right? Most mafia men lose their minds around tiny humans. It messes with their power complex. Besides, what man wants to commit to a wife and babies? Brings up stuff they haven’t processed. Give him a preview of what his future with you would look like.”

“Babies.” I must admit, she has a point. Men don’t like small humans. They are loud, messy, and they suck the life out of you. He’s older, so this will be cringeworthy. “I like it!”

“Yep,” she nods to emphasize her support. “One whiff of baby powder and he’ll be texting Matteo to cancel the engagement.”

I blink, considering. “…Actually, that might work. I can take him to the shelter, let him see the kids at recess when they are sweaty and dirty. The noise will drive him crazy.”

Joanne leans in. “Sounds perfect.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Okay, what’s the next date gonna be? What else?” Her eyes flash with excitement, and she peers into mine, waiting.

“Something slow. Mundane. Non-lethal. I want to make him sweat.” I rack my brain. A man like Vukan is accustomed to making decisions and having men follow orders. “He’s used to action. The jet-set life. I want to show him boring.”

She gasps. Her mouth twists as she thinks. “Like a paint-and-sip?”

“No, I want to ruin him, not give him a concussion from cringe. Paint and sip is for married women.”

She laughs. “Alright, I’ll give you that.” She pauses, then thinks out loud. “Gardens, or—wait, wait—a school play?” Then her eyes grow wide with her next suggestion. “What about a day volunteering at a senior center?”

I contemplate this for a minute, and then a slow grin emerges. “You’re evil.”

She shrugs. “It’s why we’re friends.”

I make a mental note of the possibilities:

Children

Elderly

Something slow

Whatever will break him

“I think I should take him to a retirement home—freak him out about growing old with me. Cause let’s face it—I’m a handful.” I take a long pull of my frozen drink, and then I experience a painful brain freeze.

“That you are. Can’t you stomp him to death with your four-inch stilettos? That might be easier.”

My frappe sputters in my mouth, and I purse my lips to keep it in.

I give Joanne a side-eye. Did she have to say that when my mouth was full?

I swallow and say, “If I do this right, he’ll call it off before we ever hit the halfway mark.”

Joanne sips her matcha again. “You know this only works if you don’t accidentally fall for him in the middle of all this.”

I scoff. “Please. He’s a six-foot-two slab of Serbian nightmares who stares at me like he wants to wear my skin.”

I never considered falling for the man. I mean, he was our enemy, until he wasn’t. And the only reason that he isn’t our enemy is because my brothers pimped me out to win the war. This is a house of cards, and if I pull one on the bottom, it will fold like quicksand.

Joanne smirks. “And yet, you flushed when you said that.”

I scowl. “That was the caffeine.”

“Uh-huh.” She rests her chin on her upturned palm.

Joanne fiddles with her drink with a sigh that’s half thoughtful, half anticipation.

“Okay, you’ve got the psychological warfare lined up. But now we need to talk strategy.”

I lift a brow. “I thought we just did .”

“No, no.” She waves her perfectly manicured hand. “I’m talking fashion strategy. You can’t pull off a full mental takedown wearing last season.”

I chuckle. “This wrap dress is Saint Laurent.”

“Exactly. Last season’s Saint Laurent.”

I glare. Perhaps she has a point.

“You’re lucky I love you. You know how I am about my clothes.”

Joanne grins like the cat that has just caught a new designer mouse. “There’s a new drop from Ravella. Custom line. Only released in three cities—Milan, Paris, and New York.”

This piques my interest even though I’ve been acting like I’m in control of the situation. Despite myself, and always knowing when there’s news in the fashion industry, I ask. “The Ravella? The twisted silk with the spine-cut backs?”

“Mhmm.” She pulls up a photo on her phone and slides it across the table.

The dress is emerald. Barely there. Sin and art stitched together with cruelty and genius. This will wreck any man. But will it break Vukan? He’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants. I just need to wait him out and make him die from sexual frustration.

“Oh,” I whisper. “That’s evil. I love it. You’re pretty good at this,” I marvel at her thoroughness .

Joanne smirks. “And it would look illegal on you.”

“I’d be in his mind if I walked into a date in that.”

“Exactly. Make him sweat. Make him forget how to speak. Make him suffer .”

I laugh, my head tipping back so far that my long hair dangles off my back. I want Vukan to trip over his feet. It would be nice if he fell on his face and broke it, too. “God, I love you.” I lean over and hug her.

“So we’re buying it, right?”

I pause. “We?”

“You think I’m letting you do emotional sabotage in couture alone ?”

I grin, already opening my purse. “Charge it to hell.”

I scroll past the Ravella dress. I inserted my card and placed the order. Fucking hell. Like, I need an excuse to order more couture clothing.