Page 28 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

VUKAN

brUSHSTROKES AND BULLSHIT

T he invitation was suspicious from the start.

Wear something washable

Then a second later, as if it’s an afterthought.

Don’t ask. Just show up.

I should’ve known she would find a way out of my picking her up. She’s weakening. I can feel it. It’s the only reason she’d avoid an intimate car ride.

When I walk into the community rec center, I’m hit with the smell of acrylic paint, overwhelming perfume that is way too sweet, and an overwhelming wave of bingo energy .

There are easels. There’s a table of cookies shaped like flowers. There’s a woman in a sequined beret humming along to a Sinatra song.

And then there’s Bianca, s tanding in the middle of it like she’s always belonged here. A soft pink sweater, sleeves rolled to the elbow, smudges of blue paint on her wrist and cheek like an accidental crown.

She looks over and grins. “Welcome to date six.”

I look around. “Didn’t realize we were doing a retirement tour. I’m not that old,” I joke.

That earns me a smile as she walks up and presses a paintbrush into my hand. “We’re doing art therapy with seniors.”

I blink. “You brought a Serbian mob enforcer to paint with grandmas?”

“They’re vicious,” she deadpans. “You’ll fit right in.” And her eyes twinkle with a dare.

I end up at a table next to a woman named Edie, who tells me I have “the arms of a man who’s seen things.”

I don’t disagree.

Bianca’s across the table, half-distracted by the woman beside her who’s trying to recreate a Monet with the passion of a first-year art student and the accuracy of a drunk pirate.

Bianca laughs—light, full, and unguarded.

I don’t breathe for a second because I’ve seen her smile before. But not like this.

It’s the simple things that say she’s softening towards me, or perhaps she’s good with the elderly. God knows she’s full of hidden talents, and I can’t help but wonder what she’ll be like in my bed.

But tonight, the tone of her voice is almost carefree, like she’s letting go. And for a minute, I forget I’m supposed to be uncomfortable.

I dip my brush in green. I start painting something that doesn’t look like anything. I don’t care.

She leans over. “Is that supposed to be a tree?”

“It’s a tactical shrub.”

She snorts.

“I can’t believe you’re good at this,” she says. “You’re not even scowling.”

“I don’t scowl.”

“No,” she agrees. “You have resting gun-for-hire face.”

“And you have resting brat. ”

“Only when I’m winning,” she chuckles.

“You brought me here to break me.”

“No,” she says, softer now. “I brought you here to see if you’d stay.”

That lands like a punch to the sternum. Then, I look at her. Is she falling into me?

She’s still smiling, but there’s something behind it. Something vulnerable. As if she meant to hide it, but forgot to put on her armor this morning.

Edie, beside me, leans in. “Is that your girl?”

Bianca scoffs. “Absolutely not.”

I just say, “Yeah.”

They both freeze.

Bianca looks at me with wide eyes. “Did you just?—”

“I did.” And I mean it. Even if she doesn’t believe me yet.

I’m halfway through painting what might generously be called a “very abstract horse” when the chair beside me shifts.

An older man with a face like cracked leather and hands that still look like they could snap a wrist sits down with a groan. He smells like pipe smoke and peppermint candies. He eyes my painting as if it personally offended him.

Then, in thick-accented Russian, he grumbles.

“Ты держишь кисть, как будто это нож.”

You hold that brush like it’s a knife.

I snort.

“Я привык резать, не рисовать.”

I’m used to cutting, not painting.

He gives me a knowing look.

“Но ты рядом с девушкой с глазами, как летняя буря. Стоит научиться рисовать.”

But you’re sitting next to a girl with eyes like a summer storm. That’s worth learning to paint.

I glance across the table at Bianca. She’s laughing with Edie, paint is streaked on her hand, a small smudge on her cheek, unaware—or so I think .

“Она красивая. Опасная тоже.”

She’s beautiful. Dangerous too, I say.

He nods sagely.

“Идеальное сочетание.”

Perfect combination.

I chuckle under my breath.

“Ты знаешь, что мы не пара.”

You know we’re not a couple.

The man shrugs.

“Ха. Ещё.”

Yet.

Before I can answer, Bianca’s voice cuts in— in Russian.

“Может, мы не пара… но вы не совсем ошиблись.”

Maybe we’re not a couple… but you’re not entirely wrong.

My head jerks toward her. She’s smirking, sipping her juice like she didn’t just blow up the entire language barrier between us.

“What,” I say slowly, “the hell was that?”

She shrugs. “I studied abroad. Languages stick.”

“You understood all of that?”

“Every word, soldier.” And she gives me the biggest grin.

Son of a bitch.

How did I forget that? I thought I was being clever.

The old man chuckles, pleased with himself. “She’s clever,” he chuckles. Then, looks me dead in the eye. “You’re doomed.”

Bianca raises a brow at me and shrugs. “He’s not wrong.”

I look at the man. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He shrugs. “I call them like I see them.”

I can’t believe this woman. I know I’ve met my match. I can’t believe she hasn’t caved already. Now I’m wondering if I can make her fall first.

Later, when we’re washing brushes and the seniors are haggling over who gets to take home the extra paint and cookie, Bianca chums up beside me .

“You did good, Petrovi?.”

I shrug. “They’re tough. I respect that.”

She bumps my arm. “You surprised me today.”

“You’ve been surprising me since day one.”

She glances up, and her eyes are softer now.

“You gonna kiss me again?”

I smirk. “Depends. You gonna let me get to third base on the next date?”

She laughs. “Not a chance.”

I lean in to whisper against her ear. “Then I’m saving myself,” I smirk.

The ride back is quiet in the kind of way that says everything without trying to fill the space.

She’s leaning against the window, hair down now, wind tugging at the loose strands. There’s a streak of yellow paint still drying near her elbow. She hasn’t noticed, and I don’t tell her.

I like it there. It’s a reminder of our date, and it’s unapologetically her . Just… Bianca.

When we pull up to her building, my driver hasn’t unlocked the door.

She looks over at me. Still waiting and still watching.

“That was nice,” I say, and the words feel foreign. It was better than nice.

She arches a brow. “You say that like someone held a gun to your head.”

“No. I mean it. It was…” I clear my throat. “Needed. It was special.”

She studies me a second longer, like she’s deciding whether to believe me. Then she relaxes, barely. “Yeah. It was. By the way, Edie might want a date with you.”

She catches me off guard, and I laugh. It breaks the tension, but the heat between us can fog the windows.

Her hand’s already on the door when I reach across and curl my fingers around her wrist .

She pauses and looks at my hand, then up at me. I don’t ask. I lean in, and she meets my lips. And this time, it’s not cautious. It’s hungry.

Her hands are in my hair. Mine are on her hips. I press her back against the passenger door, and her leg curls against my thigh like instinct and survival.

She tastes like a juice box, and danger—like she wants to ruin me and can’t decide whether to do it slowly or quickly.

My hand slides under her shirt—just enough to feel the warmth of her skin, and the arch of her back as she leans into me.

She moans—softly, surprised—and then?—

She breaks away. Fast.

“Shit,” she whispers, breathless.

“What?”

She straightens her shirt, but her hair is a wreck. “I forgot—I have a thing.”

“A thing.”

“Yes,” she says quickly, already reaching for the door. “A very important thing. Calendar. Engagement. Something.”

I raise a brow. “You forgot a calendar engagement.”

“Shut up.”

She grasps frantically at the door, opens it, and climbs out before slamming it behind her. She looks back at me, and her cheeks are flushed, and her red lips are swollen.

“Thanks for going today,” she quips, and then she’s gone.

And I’m sitting there, hard as a damn rock, my hand is still tingling from her skin, and I’m trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

One second, I was kissing her like she was mine. And the next? She vanished like she was afraid of feeling the moment or the possibilities beyond the kiss.

I thought I was gaining ground, but now, I’m not so sure.