Page 16 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

And yes, he walks through the center like he owns it—and somehow he doesn’t disrupt a thing as he moves through it. He’s the calm in the middle of chaos.

The crowd parts instinctively, like even strangers recognize he’s not the kind of man you bump into casually. And he’s not the type of man one would want to piss off.

He doesn’t say anything when he reaches the donation table.

Just slides an envelope across the surface, gives the coordinator a single nod, and turns to leave, except he doesn’t go.

And that’s when his eyes meet mine.

And everything slows.

I feel sweat on the back of my neck, the sticky heat of the afternoon, the ache in my calves from the heels I swore I wouldn’t regret. But none of it matters.

Because he’s here .

In a place he doesn’t belong. And the only person he looked for was me. He’s out of place. He’s not with bodyguards. He’s not looking to interrupt, but my heart thrums.

He’s everything I want, but shouldn’t—too dangerous, too serious, too him .

But he came.

He showed up . He’s in the one place I swore he’d never be, but he is!

And he’s not making a scene. He’s not throwing his weight around.

My chest squeezes before I can will it away because he’s here to see me.

I don’t know what bothers me more—that he makes me feel seen, or that he’s better at noticing me than anyone has a right to be.

He walks toward me slowly, casual as anything, but there’s nothing casual in how he looks at me. It’s intimate. Direct. Like the rest of the fundraiser could burn to the ground, and he wouldn’t flinch—unless it touched me.

“You,” I say when he finally reaches me, “are wildly overdressed for face painting and free-range glitter.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t come for the glitter.” His eyes are intense. I’m lost in his gray eyes that hint at blue.

“Obviously,” I snark.

I should tease him. I should say something sharp. But all that comes out is the truth: “You didn’t have to show up.”

“I did.”

And that’s it. That’s the three words that silence me.

He reaches out, brushes a speck of something from my shoulder—his touch is soft, reverent—and then his hand lingers.

Not possessive. But protective. And I forget how to breathe. I gulp air because men like him don’t belong here. They select designer dogs and have staff to feed and walk them.

And yet—he fits perfectly into the space beside me .

He doesn’t say anything after I thank him for coming. He doesn’t gloat or make a snide comment. There’s no grandstanding.

He just stands there, still as stone, his hand dropping back to his side like he didn’t just short-circuit my central nervous system with a simple brush to my shoulder.

I shift my weight. I’m uncomfortable in a way I don’t hate.

“You want to see it?” I ask, nodding toward the back. It’s the least I can do. He’s a busy man, and he took time out of his day to be here. And oddly, I’m not upset he entered my space.

“The shelter?” His eyebrows furrow. He’s surprised I offered, and it only endears him to me more. He’s not asking me to entertain him.

I nod again. I’m holding my breath, waiting for his answer.

“The real part,” I explain. “Not the booth with cupcakes and face painting. You know, the actual reason we’re here.”

He doesn't hesitate after that and says, “Lead the way.” He extends his hand for me to lead.

The impromptu, makeshift tour isn’t fancy. It’s a converted space just behind the main event—modular fencing, crates, and kennels. Everything is clean and organized. It’s full of the soft sounds of wagging tails, squeaky toys, and the occasional bark that feels more curious than aggressive.

I glance at him as we walk. He’s looking at the dogs in the kennels, and he slows. His eyes are still sharp, and his mouth is thoughtful. He’s watching everything—especially me.

His inquisitive eyes turn to me.

“I started volunteering with this shelter a year ago,” I say nervously.

He’s so intense, I almost forget to breathe.

“They were underfunded, understaffed, and barely scraping by. I walked in one day to donate supplies and left three hours later with a volunteer shirt and a list of dogs that needed walking.”

He looks at me quietly. His eyes show compassion.

Damn him.

I’m not sure why I’m jittery, but we continue walking .

“There’s something about this place,” I say. “The way the dogs continue to love even though they’ve been left behind. The animals, the people… It’s heartbreaking. It's messy. It can be loud. But it’s important to me. It’s a worthy cause.”

Oh, God, I sound like a commercial. Why am I rambling like an idiot?

We stop near a pen with a small, older mutt that is sleeping in the corner. He cracks an eye when he hears us.

“That’s Meatball,” I murmur, and I kneel, putting my fingers to the fence. Meatball leaps to his feet and comes over, tail wagging. “He was dumped in the middle of a hurricane. He hates loud noises.”

He watches him like he matters.

“He still flinches if you move too fast. But he lets me sit with him, and he’s sweet. Once he gets to know you, he’s fine. It was slow at first, but it’s still progress.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he says, “You see them.”

I glance up.

“You don’t just rescue them,” he adds. “You recognize them, y’know. Their journey in life.”

My throat tightens. He’s intense. He sees things I haven’t articulated. But he’s right.

I didn’t expect him to be so deep. And this adds another layer to him.

I cross my arms because being defensive is my go-to in situations that make me vulnerable.

“Why are you really here, Vukan?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because you love this,” he says. “And I needed to see it.”

The answer hits harder than I want it to. He knows how to pack a punch, and not only in the gym.

Because it’s not charming here, it’s downright heartbreaking. And I know what he says isn’t a ploy. He’s being honest.

And suddenly I realize that this man, who could own anything, wanted to witness something he couldn’t touch, or buy—only feel.

He wanted to see me in a space he didn’t build .

He came to me, a place where I’m comfortable.

And I think that melts me more than anything else.

Later, after I’ve decompressed at home, I get a call from the Chairman of the Adopt a Pet campaign. He informs me that a substantial donation was made in my name.

The donation was anonymous, but he thought I’d want to know that my involvement raised money for the cause. And he thanked me.

Vukan.

My eyes mist. How does he know me so well? Perhaps we have more in common than I thought. This is a side to him that I didn’t know existed. It makes him…human.

He has a heart. And maybe all the sweet things he says to me aren’t just ploys to soften me up, and that he does care about me. Is it possible that he wants me?

I have a difficult time falling asleep. How do I compete with a man who doesn’t play fair? He’s got me in knots. He surprises me at every turn. But the shelter, I didn’t expect that.

He’s shown me a side of himself that is thoughtful, caring, and…dammit, downright endearing.

And for a minute, I forget I’m at war.