Page 29 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

THE ART OF FALLING

I slam my door behind me and lean against it like it’s the only thing holding me upright.

Because it is. Damn that man, he’s under my skin, setting me on fire and making me feel things I’ve never felt before. Hell, I’m on the top floor of my condo building, my pulse is still racing, and my mouth still tingles.

What the hell was that?

I look down at my hands and discover they are shaking.

In one minute, we’re talking about seniors and paint. The next? I’m pressed up against the door of his stupid luxury vehicle with his hands about to breach my shirt and his mouth doing things that should come with a warning label.

And me?

I didn’t stop it. I started it. Well, I let it happen, which is just as bad. I let that kiss happen and then bolted like I’d just lit a match in a fireworks factory.

I pace the living room once—twice—grab a bottle of water, open it, and forget to drink it. It’s like I’m having a senior moment in my twenties.

“God,” I mutter to no one. “You’re so dumb.”

I toss the bottle onto the couch and start peeling off layers—shoes, dress, and my bra. It’s as if I’m trying to erase the memory of his hands on me.

The hands were on my skin, under it. And I didn’t just let it happen; no, I acted as if I wanted it.

I still want it.

And I hate how much that doesn’t bother me. He’s living rent-free in my head. I should block his number. Or send him a scathing one-liner. Or ignore him for three days to prove I don’t need him.

Instead, I just stare at the screen. I don’t know what to do because I’m losing control of him, us, and the bet.

Because for a moment in that car, when his hand touched my waist and I kissed him like I didn’t know my own name?—

I didn’t feel broken.

I felt wanted. Damn him, he made me feel warm and protected, and he gave me the feeling of what it would be like to reach for something in the dark, knowing someone would be there. He’s not the type of man who runs in the face of danger. He rushes toward it.

And now I’m here. Alone. Standing in my perfect condo with perfect lighting and the perfect emptiness of knowing that I ran.

Again. Because it’s safer to be untouchable than to feel.

The second I felt something real, I forgot how to survive. I forgot how to breathe . And damn him for making me want to feel more.

I’m half-asleep on the couch when my phone buzzes again. Maybe I’m in a lust coma, I’m not sure anymore.

I slip into my bedroom and tug on an oversized tee, and my phone buzzes. I don’t have to check to know it’s him. It’s always him now. I grab my phone without checking, because honestly, who else would dare?

“Hey,” I murmur, my voice still rough from sleep.

“You looked good today, Princeza,” he says in his low and wicked voice .

I blink awake instantly. “Are you stalking my painting date with senior citizens now?” I ask.

“I call it strategic protection,” he says, and I hear the smirk. “Old men are the worst.”

I laugh, curling tighter under the blanket I pull over me because I’m feeling naked. “Mr. Novak offered me a Werther’s Original and a crooked self-portrait. I think I survived.”

“Barely,” he says. His voice drops a note, only it’s making me, and he might as well be beating his chest and drum. “Next time you wear that sundress, I’m dragging you over my shoulder and locking you somewhere only I know.”

Heat coils low in my stomach. My breath catches. He wouldn’t dare, would he?

“You’re all talk, Petrovi?,” I tease, keeping it light even as my body betrays me.

He hums, deep and slow, like a promise.

“Keep telling yourself that, Princeza.” A beat of silence hangs between us. “Sleep, Bianca,” he says. “Dream about me.”

I bite my lip. “Bossy.”

“Always,” he growls, right before hanging up.

I stare at the dark screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Dream about him? As if I had a choice.

He’s always on my mind. He’s like a fungus I can’t kill with disinfectant.

I phoned Joanne with the update.

“Tell me you didn’t sleep with him,” she gushes.

I close my eyes. “Hi, Joanne,” I drone.

“Bianca. Tell me. Right now. Are you wearing his shirt?”

“No!”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No!”

“…Did you want to? ”

I sink onto the couch and groan. “That’s not the point.”

“Oh, honey, that’s exactly the point. Talk.”

“We kissed.”

“You’ve kissed before.”

“No. We kissed. Capital-K, knees-weak, car-window-fogged, hand-up-my-shirt?—”

“ Oh my God. ”

“And then I panicked.”

“…You ran? ”

“Like a coward.”

“Like he makes you uncomfortable,” she mutters. “Jesus.”

I rub my forehead. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Bianca.”

“What?”

“You’re falling.”

“I’m not. ”

“You are. And you know how I know?”

“Please. Enlighten me.”

“Because you called me. And you only call me when you’re scared you did something that might give you feelings. Y’know, when you let down your guard, and then you panic. Then, put up walls and deflect until you’re in control again.”

I’m silent. Damn. I don’t know if I should kiss her or be pissed because she’s right. And I hate it.

Joanne softens her tone. “What are you afraid of?”

“That he means it,” I whisper. “That he’s real and he’s into me and that he’s a good man.”

“Maybe he is real. And maybe he likes you. He probably likes you more than he should. Or, maybe more than what’s healthy for him.”

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” she says. “You just have to stop running like he’s trying to kill you.”

I sigh, staring at the ceiling. But running from men is what I do. It’s safe .

“Was it a good kiss?” she asks.

I press my fingers to my lips and smile before I can stop it.

“Bianca…” she cajoles me.

“It was... devastating,” I moan.

Joanne laughs. “Then, babe, maybe it’s time to be a little ruined.”