Page 22 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

SHOULD I PACK A LIFE JACKET?

I wake up and discover a text from Vukan.

Hunting? I swear to God if this involves a weapon and a body bag…

Relax, Princess. No corpses. Just fish. Big ones.

You’re taking me fishing?

Deep-sea fishing. Water. Salt. No signal. Just you, me, and the open ocean.

This isn’t a date. It’s a hostage situation with a bait bucket.

Then pray I forget the handcuffs.

You’ re ridiculous.

You’ll love it.

You better have champagne and sunscreen, or I’m throwing you overboard.

Deal. I’ll bring both. You just bring that mouth.

I stare at my phone like it just slapped me.

Fishing? Deep. Sea. Fishing.

With Vukan Petrovi?.

If this is his idea of a date, I dread to think what “relaxing” looks like. Probably a weapons training course with a side of emotional sabotage.

I need reinforcements. I hit call. It seems he already has me calling back up—and it’s just a date.

I’d hate to see what a marriage counselor would charge for this.

Luckily for me, I have an incredible friend who loves to hear my drama.

My mother must have been my guardian angel the day I met Joanne, because she’s not only an awesome friend, but also acts as my counselor when needed.

“Bianca?” Joanne answers like I’ve already done something illegal.

“I just agreed to be trapped on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a Serbian warlord.”

A pause. Then: “Oh my God, you’re finally going on a honeymoon?” I chortle, she’s got a sense of humor.

“ Jo. It’s a date.”

“Same thing when you’re emotionally constipated and halfway in love.”

I groan and fall back onto the bed. “He said sunrise. Sunrise. What kind of man thinks 6 a.m. is romantic?”

“The kind who wants you sweaty and desperate before breakfast. ”

“I’m bringing sunscreen, a flask, and a knife.”

“Put that on a T-shirt,” she snarks.

I chuckle. She’s the best. I roll onto my side, staring at the text again: “ You just bring that mouth. ”

“You should see how he talks to me,” I mutter. “Like he already knows how this ends.”

Joanne hums. “Because he does.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

That’s not what I wanted to hear. What is she talking about?

“You’re going. Aren’t you?” she asks, breaking my train of thought.

“…Yes.”

“You’re already picking a bikini, aren’t you?”

“…Possibly.”

“Then it’s over. He’s in your blood. He’ll be in your pants soon,” she warns.

I hate her for being so, well, honest. She’s right. It’s my worst nightmare. He’s getting under my skin, which makes each date all the more dangerous.

I hate that the idea of being alone on the water with him makes my stomach flutter and my thighs press together. And he’s not even here. What will I do when I’m alone with him for hours?

He’s more sculpted than the most incredible works of art. His face and body are chilled, and his reserved demeanor makes him appear unavailable to most, but not to me. There’s a softness in his voice when he teases me that just melts me.

His salt and pepper hair makes him look distinguished, and I’m sure his eyes will be gorgeous against the backdrop of the ocean— like I need anything else to make him look even hotter than he is.

Maybe he’ll get hot and take his shirt off.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, I need to stop thinking about him!

“He didn’t even threaten me this time,” I say quietly. I wonder if he’s still going to pursue me or if he’ll surrender first. Is there any chance that I’m wearing him down?

“Oh, sweetheart,” she replies. “That is the threat.” Just thinking about him makes me hot. I groan as I toss the covers back. “This man is going to be the death of me.”

Joanne laughs, that low, dangerous laugh that always precedes trouble. “Just remember to hydrate. You’re going to need it.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” I snap, too quickly.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course not. That’s why you’re shaving your legs like you’re prepping for surgery.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You hate that I see what you won’t say out loud.”

I sigh, dragging a hand through my morning hair as I stare up at the ceiling. “It’s not just that he’s hot. It’s… the way he looks at me. Like I’m already his.”

Joanne’s voice softens. “And maybe that’s what scares you most.”

I go quiet, letting her words settle into the places I’ve been too proud to examine. She’s not wrong. He sees past my barbs. He’s a man who’s not me, not himself.

“I’ll wear the black one,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

“Oh, the lethal one. Good choice.”

“I’m not trying to seduce him.”

“Sure you’re not. Call me after. Unless you’re too busy getting shipwrecked on his dick.”

“Goodbye, Joanne,” I snark.

Her cackling laughter follows me as I hang up.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling, wondering when exactly this relationship turned into something real.

Because if I’m not careful, this fishing trip won’t just hook him.

It’ll hook me, too.

My phone beeps, interrupting my obsession over Vukan, as I wonder what he’s up to today. He’s a man of surprises and mystery. And perhaps that’s part of his plan to seduce me.

He wants to marry me. But what’s his story?

As far as I can tell, he’s unobtainable, according to the few articles I’ve found on his construction company.

He rarely appears in the press, even though he’s one of the world’s wealthiest men.

And when he’s shown, he’s always alone. The rumor mill says he’s a confirmed bachelor.

My phone pings, and my heart seizes. I reach for my phone, but instead of the man hunting me, it’s a friendly invite from my new bestie.

Amara texts me.

“You. Me. Lunch. No men. No mafia.”

I say yes without thinking.

It’s been too long since I had lunch without someone trying to seduce me, interrogate me, or kill me.

She meets me at a garden café tucked behind an art gallery, all pale wood, white linen, and overgrown bougainvillea. She’s already sipping iced lavender tea, sunglasses perched high on her button nose, wearing a soft smile that makes me relax before I even sit down.

“You look tired,” she says, blunt as ever.

“You look suspiciously peaceful.”

“Being pregnant will do that,” she chuckles.

I roll my eyes. “You say that like it’s not chaos on heels.”

“It is,” she grins. “But it’s mine.”

We eat slowly and talk. It’s the kind of conversation that slips beneath the surface without ever feeling like a dive. She asks how I’m doing. I lie. She lets me.

But then she says, “He’s different with you, you know. ”

I sip my water. “Vukan?”

“He watched you like you’re the thing that broke him in that warehouse. It was chaos, but I remember the look in his eyes. I was scared for you. You were helping me, and you got pulled into the fray.”

“I thrive on the fray.”

“You do,” she agrees. “But so does he .”

I don’t respond. Because what do you say to that? That maybe we’re both broken, and we thrive in the darkness?

And maybe he’s the first person who has noticed me for me?