Page 23 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

VUKAN

THE OCEAN IS THE DEATH OF HER

B efore dawn, and I’m already on the dock. I like being early, but today is special because I get another date with Bianca.

The sea air in my lungs and the salt spray are carried in the wind. Damn. It’s windy. My boots scuff against the boards as I scan the horizon, waiting for her.

She’s late. She wants me to wonder where she is— clever girl. But I know when she shows up, it will have been worth the wait. And she doesn’t disappoint as I catch a glimpse of her walking toward me.

She’s wearing black leggings and a white, body-hugging zip-up over what appears to be a black bikini. Her hair is knotted high, and her iconic oversized sunglasses cover half her face. Somehow, she makes boat shoes look like weapons.

She doesn’t dress down. She never does. She transforms. And this morning, even standing on a battered dock in front of a beat-up fishing trawler, she looks like the kind of myth men start wars over.

I step forward as she approaches, biting back a grin.

“Nice of you to join us, Borrelli.”

She eyes the boat. Then me .

“This is your idea of a date, Wolfie?”

“You like challenges.”

“I like champagne and room service,” she snarks.

“There’s champagne in the cooler.” I smile. She’s a vision, and I love her sharp wit.

She smirks. “God help me, you planned.” She pretends to be surprised, but she’s not.

“I always do.” She should know by now that I always keep my promises.

The boat is big. Ugly. Industrial. It was built to gut sharks and sling tuna, not for dates.

But she steps aboard like it’s a runway. She doesn’t stumble, and oddly, she doesn’t complain, which most women would. No, she plants herself beside me at the railing, with the wind teasing the loose strands of blonde hair around her face.

“I assume you’ve done this before?” she says, unzipping her jacket just enough to make me forget how to breathe.

“A few times.”

“Right. Serbian mob. Rustic hobbies,” she banters.

“And what do Borrelli women do for fun?”

“Win.”

We’re well off the coast, so I hand her a rod. “Then prove it.” I can’t suppress my smile. What can I say? She makes me happy.

The challenge is laid out, and we start casting.

I stand behind her and show her how to grip the rod. Oh, God, I wish she had my cock between her gorgeous hands and that I was watching her fingernails, painted blood-red, moving over my shaft.

My cock springs to life, and I’m helpless to control it. So, I work harder to keep my cock from pressing into her firm body. I try not to think of her naked, under me, and taking my nine-inch cock in one thrust.

I stifle my groan. I try to hide my desire and guide her hands on the pole. But I hear her breath hitch when my fingers graze hers. She doesn’t pull away. She never does when it counts.

She’s never held a fishing pole before, and I enjoy helping her, and it gives me a great excuse to wrap my arms around her.

The sun rises, a molten orange ball, slow and burning on the horizon. We don’t talk, but she watches me land a fish within fifteen minutes.

Then another.

She doesn't catch shit.

Her frustration comes in little waves—eyebrows drawn, jaw set, lips pursed. Then, she places her small hand on her hip as she turns to me.

“I swear this rod is broken,” she mutters.

“No,” I say. “You’re just impatient.”

“Or you’re cheating.”

I smirk. “Jealousy’s not a good look on you.”

“Bite me, Petrovi?.”

I lean in. “Gladly.” It’s a retort that renders her speechless.

I’m winning. I would gloat if it were anyone else, but not with her. No, never with her.

The ocean is choppy. I’m used to rougher seas, but she’s not. She keeps her eyes on the horizon, and it’s what one would do if they’re feeling sick. And, an hour in, I see the shift in her demeanor, then I notice her look of concern. Her face turns white, and she looks drained.

Then she blinks—slow and disoriented. I know that look—sea sickness.

“Bianca,” I say low, setting my gear down. “Come here.”

“I’m fine,” she says. It’s a lie—even her voice wavers.

“No, you’re not.”

She sways. I catch her before she falls.

I swoop her into my arms and carry her to the cabin, where it’s cool. I lay her down on the bench and peel off her life jacket. Even in the dim lighting, she’s gorgeous .

She looks so small like this. So not invincible.

I wet a cloth in the tiny sink and pressed it gently to her forehead.

She winces. “You don’t have to?—”

“Shut up,” I murmur. “I do.”

She blinks up at me. Her defenses drop like anchors. No fight. No sass.

Just Bianca. Soft and real. Vulnerable.

“You okay?” I ask. I shouldn’t have gone out today. The winds are high, making the sea rough.

She nods. Barely.

“I hate this,” she whispers.

“I know. But I love that you came. I should have picked a better day.” I brush the hair from her face.

Her eyes search mine. Not for jokes. Not for leverage. She’s trying to get a glimpse of me, the real me. She wants to know if I’ll care for her, so I let her see the real me.

“I wasn’t trying to impress you out there,” I say. “I just wanted to share something with you that didn’t involve suits, blood, or negotiations.”

She exhales slowly. “That’s not what I expected.”

“Good.”

I sit beside her, watch her breathe, and wait for the color to return to her cheeks.

After a long silence, she says, “You take care of things.”

I glance at her. “That’s my job.”

“No,” she says. “You take care of people. ”

And she says it like it’s a new revelation. Like it matters. Like I matter. She’s left me speechless, and I don’t respond. Because if I do, I might say too much.

So I take her hand instead. “It will pass,” I say encouragingly.

“Not soon enough,” she groans as she clenches her stomach, shifting on the bench. She’s fighting it and trying to push the nausea back down with sheer force of will .

She’s held it at bay, but suddenly, her spine stiffens, her hand clamped over her mouth. It’s as if I can see it happening, before it does in real time.

Then, her eyes grow wide with panic.

“Bianca—”

She shakes her head, stumbles upright. I catch her just as she bolts for the sink in the corner of the cabin.

And then—She pukes.

It’s forceful. It’s the violent, body-wracking movement that leaves one devastated, and it’s as if her body is trying to punish her.

I’m behind her in a heartbeat with no hesitation. I place one hand in her hair, holding it back, and the other braces around her waist as she folds over the steel basin like she’s trying to disappear into it.

“I got you,” I say.

She grips the edge of the counter. “God, this is humiliating.”

“No, you’re human,” I murmur.

She chokes a bitter laugh between coughs. “You’re holding my hair.”

“Would you rather I let you drown in it?”

She groans and leans heavily against me. I rest my chin against her shoulder, and her breath is slow but steady. I rub slow circles along her spine.

“Breathe,” I say softly. “Just breathe.” I kiss her forehead, and she sighs.

Her body sags against me, defeated and exhausted. Eventually, the worst of it passes, but she doesn’t pull away.

And that— that —means more than anything she’s said to me.

“I can’t believe you’re seeing me like this,” she mutters in a raspy voice.

I press my mouth to her temple again. “I’m not just here for the power plays and dresses, Bianca. ”

I keep my arms around her, and I feel her shift as she relaxes against me.

“You think being beautiful is your only weapon,” I say quietly. “But it’s this. Right here. You’re letting someone see the cracks and not flinching for the first time. And, baby, I’m in. I want all of you. The good, the bad, and the ugly. It’s real.”

She doesn’t respond with words, but her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, and she leans back into my chest and lets me hold her for real.

She’s softening toward me. She’s beginning to trust me, and it makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world.