Page 17 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

VUKAN

I DON’T BELONG HERE BUT YOU DO

I ’m not supposed to be here.

Charity events aren’t my thing. Daylight, small talk, volunteers in matching T-shirts—it’s not exactly the kind of place a man like me fits in.

But she’s here. And that’s all that matters.

Wherever Bianca is, I’m going. If it’s important to her, it’s important to me. Besides, it’s a part of her that makes her, her .

I know she loves to help others. I’d be naive if I didn’t look into her background. For most people, charity work serves as a means to ease their conscience, obtain a tax deduction, establish connections with influential individuals, or enhance their professional profile.

But Bianca? The kids at the shelter and the rescued dogs are traumatized. She understands what it’s like not to have a voice. She helps those who can’t help themselves—the vulnerable populations. And, ironically, it’s the one thing Bianca can’t be herself.

Vulnerable.

Perhaps we have that in common, too.

I stride toward the main table, past donation boxes, volunteers, and a nervous-looking organizer with a clipboard and sunburned cheeks.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

I nod once, since I called ahead. “My foundation would like to contribute.”

I slide an envelope to her.

She opens it. Blinks. She opens it again, as if she hadn’t read the zeroes correctly the first time.

I’m already walking away when I hear the “Oh my God,” she breathes.

I planned to drop off the donation and leave, as I didn’t want to invade Bianca’s space.

I don’t need applause for the donation.

I just want her .

So I left it up to fate. But before I took two steps, I saw her.

I take in her tired face. It’s a hot day, with kids and dogs running amok, and the music for the event is overkill. It’s chaotic enough without it.

She’s by the adoption tent, crouched beside a Great Dane. She’s showing a young boy how to pet it. She’s laughing as it tries to lick the glitter off her fingers. I hope it’s edible glitter for the dog’s sake.

Her hair’s pulled up in some effortless twist, but soft tendrils keep escaping and frame her face like they’ve given up obeying her, too.

She’s wearing a blue sundress, and the heart-shaped sunglasses are perched atop her head. The dress has thin straps and a cinched waist. It’s the kind of dress that flutters when she moves, and I’m already aware of the fact that she has the type of body that makes men forget their own names.

She radiates love and goodness. And her smile?

It guts me.

Not because it’s for me. Because it’s not. It’s for the dog. The child. The world. And I’d give everything I own to make her look at me like that.

Our eyes lock across the chaos of families and balloons. Dogs are barking, and animals are everywhere, but all I see is her, and the chaos melts into oblivion. My world stops.

Kinda like the shootout at the warehouse. The gunfire, the killing, it happened to someone else, not me. Because Bianca made me forget how dark my world is. And I wanted to protect her.

I didn’t enjoy the fact that others had to die. And I’m not proud of the fact that I have to kill others. But I wield my blade for those who genuinely deserve it.

And to save Bianca? It’s worth it.

And now, Bianca’s green eyes are taking me in, too.

What does she see? Does she know I’m bearing my soul to her?

If she thinks these dates are a game, she’s wrong.

It started as a game, but it’s so much more meaningful than just dates.

It’s a chance to discover who the other person is, and it’s building a future together based on trust.

Now, she’s walking toward me. It’s slow, and she uses measured steps. She has that look in her eyes, the one she wore the night she walked into the warehouse, a queen with blood on her heels.

She stops before me, crosses her arms, and pretends she’s not affected by my presence.

“You don’t do fundraisers,” she points out the obvious.

“No,” I reply gruffly.

“And you don’t do cute.”

I shrug. “No. But you do.”

Her eyes narrow, and her lips twitch. “Are you stalking me?”

“No,” I say smoothly. “I showed up to stalk you.”

She rolls her eyes, but I see the heat behind them. She wants me, she just hasn’t given in to her desire to give herself to me .

“I should be mad,” she mutters, but the corners of her mouth are anything but mad.

“You’re not,” I call her bluff.

I’m not a young man nor the type to be easily ruffled by her darkness.

She’s a woman who gets away with murder, and I won’t be that man.

The yes man. I won’t pacify her to make points.

Or, the man who lies down without a discussion.

Not I won’t be the man who placates her.

Never that. That’s too easy. That takes away from her .

I want to know her opinions. I want to know what she likes and dislikes.

I won’t give in to being easy just to make her happy. When she smiles at me, it will be because I earned it.

I watch as her cherry red lips part. They’re perfect, and I want to taste them again. Sure, I kissed her, but once wasn’t enough. All it did was make me want more, more of her lips, more of her. But this isn’t the time or place.

She stands before me, she’s speechless. And it’s all I need.

I lean in slightly.“You looked happy,” I say. “I wanted to see it.”

She stares at me, like she doesn’t know whether to kiss or curse me.

And the best part? I’ll take either. Because today I didn’t come to claim her. I came to witness her.

I’m already ruined for anyone else. Now, I have to ruin her.

She tilts her head, watching me like she’s trying to see through the clothes, my shadow, and my name.

“You don’t strike me as a dog guy,” she says after a moment.

“I had dogs,” I answer. “Growing up.”

I notice the slight lift of her brow. This surprises her.

“What kind?”

I glance toward the big mutt still chasing shadows near the adoption tent .

“Guard dogs. Shepherds. A Rottweiler named Juro.”

She blinks. “Wait—you had a Rottweiler?”

I nod. “We didn’t pet them. We trained them. Fed them. Watched them fight.”

Her lips part. Just slightly. Then she says, softer, “They weren’t pets.”

“No,” I admit. “They were protection. They weren’t there to love us. Just keep the wrong people away.” It brings back painful memories of my youth. I love animals. Who can resist them?

I hated my father for making those dog weapons. I was too young to be left home alone. I did the best I could to take care of David. Dad and Mil?s could be gone for days. Mom left us, and I’m sure it was to save herself. Dad had a way of using his words and fists.

I longed for a dog to comfort me on lonely nights, nights when I was scared of the dark. But I knew Dad would ruin any dog we bought home, so I went without, and I told myself that I saved an animal by doing so.

Bianca looks down at her feet for a second, then over at the dog again—the one who smeared glitter down her arm like war paint.

“I always wanted one,” she says quietly.

“A Rottweiler?” She doesn’t seem to be the type to pick a Rotty.

“A dog,” she replies. “Any dog. Something cute, soft, and loud. I used to beg my father for one every Christmas. Every birthday. Once, I even put together a little presentation folder—like a pitch for the cause. I was six.”

That does something to me. She’s a woman who isn’t afraid to work for what she wants. One wouldn’t think she’s ever worked by looking at her. She’s always put together—her hair, makeup, and everything are designer.

I try to picture her—tiny, in some oversized sweater, holding her folders and her hope like armor—and I want to burn the world for her all over again.

“What happened?” I ask. I know she didn’t have an ideal childhood either. Some assume that we had the best of everything because we come from money. We’re living proof that it’s not always true.

Bianca shrugs it off like it’s nothing, but I know she’s sad, and that there is a reason she feels this way.

“Dad said pets are for children who don’t forget their place. I was supposed to be a Borrelli, not a girl. We don’t get to love things.”

My jaw tightens. The bastard. She was sweet and innocent, and he ruined it for her. He wanted her to be like him, alone and miserable. Her father was an asshole, just like mine.

I push the rage down like I always do. I’ve been doing it my entire life. I bury it beneath control. But my fingers itch.

She shouldn’t be telling this story. She should’ve had that dog. And I vow I’ll be a better father than ours. I’ll be a great husband and treat her right. She’ll have whatever she needs and more. I will give her the world.

I just hope she sees me for who I am, and that I’m not just a man who kills his enemies, but a man who loves deeply. I want her to know that I’ll be faithful to her. And that I’ll never steer her wrong.

“I hope he’s rotting in a hole somewhere,” I snarl. It flies out of my mouth like a reflex—a reflex that’s been ingrained in me, and one that vents my unspoken anger.

She looks at me, startled by the venom in my voice.

Then she smirks.

“He is.”

Good. Be sure if he wasn’t, I’d kill him myself. And then I remember the fact that her father died over a year ago, and that her life revolves around her four brothers.

She turns back to the tent. “It’s funny. I never really thought I’d still care about something so… simple. Why is that?”

She pauses.

“It feels good to give to those who appreciate it. And your generosity of time spent with the animals doesn’t revolve around your need for power or favors or silence in return.”

I look at her. Really look.

Her lashes are thick, her red lips look soft and supple, and her shoulders relax in a way that tells me she’s at ease with me. She contemplates what I’ve said.

“You’re right,” she agrees. “That’s profound.”