Page 25 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

VUKAN

DIVE BAR AND BULLETS

I don’t invite her to the five-star rooftop with a harbor view. One day I will, but not tonight.

Tonight is a place I’d go if I weren’t wearing a watch worth more than most people’s cars. It’s a place that smells like spilled whiskey, wood rot, beer nuts, and sweat. Where the lights are low, the floors are sticky, and no one asks questions unless they want to leave with fewer teeth.

Bianca had a family dinner tonight, and she had her brother’s driver drop her off. It’s the only reason I gave in and didn’t insist on driving her myself. Family is to be revered. And from what I’ve learned of the Borrellis, they are the type of family one longs to be a part of.

And just like my little Kitten, Bianca makes an entrance.

Because when she steps inside the dive bar?

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pause. Nope, not my princess.

Instead, she looks around with her practiced half-smile like she’s walked into Versailles.

And God help me, she makes chaos look couture, and I want to be the fabric wrapped around her.

Tonight, she’s in black jeans and boots, wearing a tight T-shirt tucked just enough to look chic. Her blonde hair is in a loose braid that still looks like a threat. She could’ve walked into a gala or a gunfight, and no one would’ve dared tell her she didn’t belong.

She walks toward me and glances around at the peeling paint and patched-up stools, then quirks a brow as she stands beside me at the bar.

“You’re either trying to seduce me,” she says, “or getting me stabbed.”

“Why not both?” I deadpan.

I ordered us two bottles of beer, not glasses. The bartender doesn’t ask for a name. He knows mine.

We grab our drinks and move to the beat-up pool table in the back, past the broken jukebox and the woman yelling at the slot machine in Spanish.

She picks up a cue and spins it in her hand like it’s a dagger. I know Bianca, she’s a woman of action. God forbid she sits on the sidelines for anyone or anything.

“Wanna break?” she asks.

“Ladies first.”

“Careful,” she purrs. “I play dirty.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She breaks—hard. The sound cracks through the bar like a bullet. Balls scatter over the worn table, and two sink. Satisfied, she straightens up with a grin. “You’re already losing.”

She bends over the table again, and I almost die. Her sweet ass is smiling at me, taunting me. Oh, how I’d love just to reach out and grab it, and pin her to the wall, but I digress.

I’m encouraged when she misses her shot, and it’s my turn. Reluctantly, I tear my eyes away from her round, firm ass and shapely hips. I take my shot. Sink one. Then another.

I lean close, my eyes are locked on hers. “I never lose,” I murmur.

We play fast. It’s brutal. Every shot is a dare. Every look, a line drawn and redrawn. I can’t tell who’s winning and who’s losing. Who can keep score when her beautiful face fills the room? And her smile ?

It’s only for me. And I’m lapping it up like a hungry pup.

The game is heated with barbs exchanged. It’s not lost on me that every man in the room has their eye on her. But after a few pointed looks from me, they know better than to eyefuck my woman.

Bianca lifts her beer and tosses back like it’s been her vice for years. I watch the way her throat works when she drinks, the way her lips glisten, and worship the bottle, and I know— this is her comfort zone.

She’s not a socialite who’s in it for the glitter and champagne.

This. The noise. The competition. The shadows. The rugged men with unsavory pasts are her world.

And when we get to the parts of me that most people run from? The darkness, the silence, the stillness?

She leans in.

I’m already off my game as her breasts are on display. It takes all my willpower not to pull her into my arms and claim her here, on the pool table. I will my cock to play dead. But he’s not listening to me.

It’s impossible to stay focused with her in the room. And the way she’s moving around me like she owns me?

I love it because she does, even if she doesn’t know it, yet. But I’m sure she’ll catch up to me.

She lines up her shot, and her hips are angled just enough to be distracting, and I swear she knows it. She’s playing with fire.

“Eight in the corner pocket,” she says, casually confident.

I take my cue.

I lean against the wall behind her, arms crossed. “That’s the one you scratched on last time.”

She turns her head just enough to throw me a look. “You gonna hover, or are you hoping I bend over again?”

“Not hoping,” I smirk. “Just enjoying the view.”

She rolls her eyes, sinks a stripe, then misses the next .

Well played, my little Kitten.

“You know,” I say, stepping into position, “I think I finally figured you out.”

“Oh, do enlighten me, Freud.”

“You play like someone who’s used to getting her way… but only after she earns it.”

She sips her beer and watches me sink two solids like it’s foreplay. “And you play like someone who doesn’t care who’s watching, as long as they lose .”

“What can I say? Winning looks good on me,” I smirk.

“Cocky looks better on me,” she counters.

We finish the game neck and neck—she scratches the eight-ball, and I grin, lining up the eight-ball, and sink it clean.

I win.

She tosses her cue onto the table. “That table’s crooked.”

“You’re a sore loser.”

“I don’t lose,” she says. “I regroup.” But the smile in her eyes gives her away. She likes the game, and she’s jonesing for the next challenge.

“Sounds like something a loser would say,” I murmur.

She stalks over, yanks another beer from the bucket, and pops the cap off on the edge of the table like she invented the move. Then looks at me over the rim.

“Darts?”

I nod. “Loser buys the next round.”

“I thought you were a billionaire.”

“I like watching you reach for your wallet.”

She scoffs, takes a long drink, then walks toward the dartboard with the kind of strut that could end careers.

God, she’s chaos.

And it hits me— hard and stupid —that my brother would love her.

David’s going to take one look at her and call it before I can deny it.

“She’s the one,” he’ll say. And I won’t argue. Because I’ll know he’d be right. Even if she throws every dart like she’s trying to pin me to the wall next.

We drink beer and trade challenges. Then, she surprises me and barely misses the bull’s eye.

“Rigged,” she mutters, suppressing her disappointment.

“Skill,” I counter, as my dart pierced the red dot.

She punches me in the arm as guys would do, and I catch her hand. I hold it a second too long and pull her in for a kiss. A playful, lingering kiss.

And she lets me.

Then, she regroups and pulls away, not like a spooked deer, but gracefully. Then, she saunters up to the dartboard with the swagger of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing—and exactly how good her ass looks doing it.

It’s criminal. I’d say she’s cheating in our game of hearts and wit, but I’m not one to complain just because the opposition uses their assets with skill.

But damn, her jeans hug her hips like a second skin. The shirt also allows for the low curve of her back, which is visible when she leans forward to grab the darts, and when she stands, her shirt pulls her just enough to taunt me with her perfect, silken skin and voluminous breasts.

Then, she turns and places one hand on her hip. Hair loose has worked itself free now—half-fallen from its braid, so she reaches up and loses it, letting her hair cascade over her shoulders.

And me?

I’m trying not to groan out loud in the middle of a dive bar with three ex-cons and a drunk with a harmonica five feet away.

She walks toward me and lines up her next shot. Thwack. Dead center. She doesn’t even react—just glances over her shoulder at me, and raises one brow.

“You gonna stand there and stare, or are you throwing?” She says, challenging me .

I’m not one to back off a challenge, and I take a long pull of my beer as I drink her in. “Why would I rush? This view doesn’t suck.” But what I don’t say is that I’m captivated. Hell, I’m a goner.

She smirks, as if she knows she’s working my cock over, then zeros her eyes back on the board.

Another dart is thrown. Thwack. Just off the center.

“Don’t get cocky,” I say.

“Too late,” she replies flippantly.

“Confidence looks good on you,” I tease, my gaze lingering on her.

“So does winning,” she says as she throws her third and lands it just inside the ring.

I step up beside her and grab my darts.

But she lingers way too close. Damn, she smells good enough to eat as her apple scent fills my nose, and even overpowers the bar’s odors.

I’m drunk on her.

“You need me to show you how it’s done?” she whispers.

“I’m watching very closely. I pay attention, y’know?”

“Yeah?” she says, stepping back with that smirk that could level empires. “Then you’ll have a front-row seat to me kicking your ass.”

I throw my dart off-center. The second one is too wide. She doesn’t even pretend to hide her grin. The third one lands, but not enough to beat her score.

She walks over, retrieves her darts, and swings her hips like she choreographed for a fast country song.

She holds them up like trophies. “Looks like I’ll buy the next round… with your money.”

I stare at her.

God help me. I want her so badly that it hurts.

But more than that? I like her like this. She’s victorious, smug, and very alive.

I go to the bar and bring back two shots of tequila. I hand her one. She gives me a side-eye before she tosses it back like a boss. She sets it down on the table and returns to the game, all business.

My smile can’t be contained. In fact, it reaches my eyes and toes. She’s that special.

She misses once. Curses under her breath. Then nails the bullseye with a sharp, smug flick of her wrist.

I stand behind her, watching her hips shift with each throw.

She turns. “Eyes up, soldier.”

“No promises,” I chuckle.

She laughs—loud and unfiltered, but it hits me. She’s different than other women. I want her in my life forever. And I know one thing for certain—I can’t stop the feelings I have for her.

She’s authentic. Her essence isn’t polished, and that’s not what I’m looking for. It might not always be pretty. But it’s real .

And she’s mine for the taking.

“Rematch?” I offer, already knowing she’ll say yes.

She steps into my space, just enough that her breath brushes my jaw. “Only if you stop staring at my ass long enough to aim.”

I grin. “Impossible.” My heart warms. She’s amazing. She’s perfect. She’s mine .

We drank a few more tequilas and shared some laughs, and before I knew it, the bar was closing.

Where did the time go?

We pull up to her building just after two. The air’s warm, and thick with the scent of summer city—concrete and heat, jasmine blooming somewhere nearby, and my desire.

She doesn't move to get out right away. She sits there beside me, lips parted, eyes watching me under lashes that could cut glass. She’s tempting me in ways a man shouldn’t be tempted. A lesser man wouldn’t let the moment pass without crushing her lips or touching her voluptuous body.

I wait as her hand is paused over the door handle. I reach across and brush my fingers along her wrist.

“Goodnight, Princess,” I murmur.

She scoffs, but it’s weak. “That’s it?”

“You want more?” I tease.

She turns, slowly and dangerously.

“I always want more,” she purrs.

I lean in.

So does she.

We meet halfway. No hesitation. No lead-up. Just mouth to mouth, heart to heart, like we’ve been holding it back all night and finally decided to let it burn.

Her hand curls around the collar of my shirt.

Mine sinks into her hair. It’s not sweet, nor is it careful. It’s hard, and real.

When she pulls back, she’s breathless and smirking. Her lips are still slightly parted, as if she’s tasting me on her tongue.

“That was... okay,” she whispers.

I grin. “Liar.”

She steps out of the car without another word, hips swaying like that kiss didn’t level the goddamn earth.

And I let her go. I didn’t want to, but I gave her space so she’ll long for more.

I don’t drive away immediately. Like always, I watch her get into her building safely. And then I remain there. Letting the moment sink in. I smell her on the leather seat beside me, that she’s been baptized.

Then Luka clears his throat from the driver’s seat.

“You good, boss?”

I nod once. “Drive,” I bark.

My gruffness is fueled by the unfulfilled desire burning in my gut. My cock is hard again. Every date has left me with blue balls, and if that’s her strategy, it’s working.

The city rolls past as we head toward the edge of the estate. Luka glances at me in the mirror.

“That was date four, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s it going?”

“She’s not running,” I say.

He huffs. “She never really ran.”

“No,” I admit. “But she didn’t want to be caught, either.”

“And now?”

I look out the window. “She kissed me back,” I say. “Halfway. Like she meant it.”

Luka grins at me in the rearview mirror. “It sounds like progress.”

“It is,” I murmur. But damn, she’s under my skin, and she could break me with that gorgeous ass and sassy mouth. She’s got me right where she wants me, eating out of her hand. But I won’t back down. She could ask me to bow out, and I wouldn’t, because I claimed her, and I’ll have her.

Besides, she’s invaded all the places I forgot were still soft, and I’m still standing.