Page 32 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

BIG JET ENERGY

Today. No weapons. Just heels.

You don’t get to make rules.

Princess, I don’t make rules. I just make sure no one breaks yours before I do.

I ’m laughing. Laughing, because damn .

He’s never seen me in color. Not once. Not even that night at the warehouse when the world cracked open around us. I’d worn black like armor—tactical gear. Tear gas. Knives in my boots. War in my bones.

He saw me like that—and still wanted more?

You only want to see me in green because you want to take it off.

Exactly. And then watch you put it back on so I can take it off again, slower.

Heat licks up my spine. I hate that I smile. I hate that I like this.

His car pulls up like it owns the road—matte black. The engine purrs low like a threat.

The driver gets out to open the door for me, but I wave him off.

I can walk myself into bad decisions, thank you very much.

He steps out of the backseat—black-on-black suit and sunglasses. He’s wearing his casual, sinful confidence like he didn’t just interrupt my entire life with a three-day abduction plan.

“Good morning, Princess.”

“I’m not a morning person,” I reply, dragging my suitcase with theatrical effort.

His driver pops out of nowhere and quickly takes it from me.

“Then I’ll ruin your mood more gently,” he teases.

Damn him. Why does he always say the sweetest things?

I don’t even have a retort for that, so I quietly slip inside his beast of a car.

The door shuts with the kind of hush that feels expensive. The interior smells like leather and something darker—cedar, maybe. Or war. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do I. The silence is sharp enough to cut.

Finally, I sigh. “You always travel like a Bond villain?”

He smirks. “Only when I’m trying to impress dangerous women.”

“Oh, so just on Tuesdays and hostage scenarios?”

“Exactly,” he chuckles.

I made him crack a smile, and he didn’t object.

I glance out the window as the city fades behind us. “This isn’t a kidnapping, right? Because I didn’t leave a note.”

He rests one arm along the back of the seat, body turned toward me now. “Bianca, if I kidnapped you, there wouldn’t be a return policy.”

My stomach does something I’m going to pretend is nausea and not of interest. Because inside, I’m melting, like the chocolate inside a lava cake, melting.

“Charming,” I snark defensively.

“I thought so,” he chirps. Then silence.

“You nervous?” he asks casually, like we’re discussing dinner plans, not my impending doom.

“About spending three days alone with a man who’s fantasized about burying my attitude in his backyard?”

“Yes,” his deep voice caresses my ears.

God, even his voice is sexy. I’m wet and I’ve only been sitting beside him for a minute.

I shrug. “No. But I’m wondering what your plan is when I don’t fall in love with you by Sunday night.”

He laughs—low and real—and for a moment, I hate how much I like the sound of it.

“You don’t have to fall,” he says. “Just lean.”

I turn to him, deadpan. “If I lean, I kick.”

“Noted,” he smirks.

God, I can’t even piss him off!

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he enjoys me shooting down his advances.

I look out the window as we approach a security gate. We drive onto the tarmac, where a sleek, silver jet waits like it knows it's better than everyone else. It has an attitude, just like its owner.

He steps out first and lifts my suitcase like it weighs nothing, gesturing toward the plane. It’s massive. Too sleek. Too elegant. Too… him. And definitely bigger than the Borrelli jet.

Of course it is.

I narrow my eyes. “Overcompensating?”

Then, in his low and sexy voice, he murmurs, “Overdelivering. It sounds better.” He grins at me—the nerve .

He opens the door, and I let him help me out.

The man doesn’t just walk—he stalks toward the stairs like he built the plane himself with grit and control issues.

I follow. Reluctantly. It’s as if I can smell my defeat.

Inside, the jet is a fever dream of luxury and power. White leather seats. Dark wood accents. A stocked bar. A discreet staff member who greets me like I’m royalty.

The second the door closes, my world disappears. And it’s just us. Which usually would have me hyperventilating, but oddly, I’m not.

“Well,” I say, dropping into a seat and crossing my legs slowly. “This isn’t terrifying at all.”

“You’re not scared of me,” he replies, unbuttoning the cuffs on his one-of-a-kind dress shirt.

“I’m not scared of anything. ” I pause. “But I do believe in survival instinct.”

He sits across from me, sprawling like a man who knows exactly how good he looks doing it. “Then trust yours,” he says, voice low. “It brought you to me.”

I glare. Damn. That hits home because in the warehouse, he kept me safe. And now that I think about it, he grabbed me so his brother’s goons wouldn’t.

He probably saved me that night. But instead, I say, “That sounds like the beginning of a psychological thriller.”

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs. “But you’ll enjoy the ride.” And he winks at me.

And that’s the problem. I want to see him without his shirt. I want to touch every tattoo on his body. I want to kiss each scar, and I want him to fuck me into oblivion because I know he can.

The jet rumbles to life beneath us, and I welcome the vibration. I pull my thighs together, hoping he doesn’t notice. I glance out the window, then back at him.

“What exactly are we doing for three days?” I ask.

He smiles, slow and sharp. “Getting to know each other.”

“I thought that’s what date one was for.”

“No,” he says. “That was foreplay.”

Oh no.

Nope. Not going there. I swallow hard to distract myself and shift in my seat, suddenly too aware of how smooth the leather is, how dark his gaze has become, and how my body is not at all aligned with my sabotage strategy.

I look at his mouth and immediately regret it.

How the hell am I supposed to survive three days of this without doing something unforgivable to a man I don’t trust with my heart—but trust with my body?

This isn’t good. This is bad. His big jet energy is only surpassed by his big dick energy, and I know he will back it up with his hard cock.

I’m in a flying sex trap.

And worse?

I think I like it.

The jet lifts off so smoothly, I almost forget I’m airborne.

Almost.

Because I’m hyper-aware of him. Like the way he is watching me over the rim of his glass—ice clinking against crystal, his eyes tracking every movement I make like he’s mapping pressure points.

The way he looks at me is like he knows me. It’s warmth, safety, and downright intimacy. It’s as if we’ve been fucking each other for twelve hours and still can’t get enough intimacy.

Then there’s the fact that there’s a bedroom, a large TV, and an attendant who comes by hourly with water and snacks, asking if I need anything.

I should say something sharp to break the hold he has on me, and there is also the fact that he has me alone, with no interruptions and no distractions .

It’s disarming. It’s strategic. Damn it, it’s a perfect storm of seduction. He’s pampering me, taking me to an exotic location, and he’s giving me all his attention.

I want him so bad, but I can’t give in. Instead, I cross my legs again and pretend I’m unaffected.

He’s quiet. And damn if that’s not worse than talking.

“You always fly like this?” I ask, keeping my tone breezy.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to seduce your enemies into surrender.”

He tilts his head. “Would it work?”

I swallow. Goddamn him. He knows it will work; otherwise, he wouldn’t have done it.

“Not on me,” I scoff.

He grins like he doesn’t believe me. “No. You’d seduce me first. Then leave me bleeding.”

I arch a brow. “Don’t tempt me. I packed heels sharp enough to puncture a lung.”

His eyes darken, and suddenly there’s nothing between us but air that’s charged with something electric and far too dangerous to examine.

“Did you pack them for me?” he taunts.

“I packed them because I plan ahead.”

“For battle?”

“For escape,” I deadpan.

His gaze dips to my legs, then back up—slowly. He’s making a point as he undresses me with his eyes, and I hate how hot that makes me.

“I don’t think you’re running anymore,” he says.

“Oh? Well, it’s tough to do when we’re at thirty thousand feet. Do you have a treadmill?”

He chuckles. “I think you’re here to see how far you can push before you let yourself fall.”

I laugh—sharp and dry. “That’s cute. You think I’ll fall.”

He leans forward just slightly. “Everyone does eventually. ”

I feel it. The gravity of his words. The pressure.

And this plane suddenly feels smaller than it should.

I grab my water, hoping the cold will keep me from doing something stupid—like asking what he’d do if I did fall.

He watches me drink like I’m feeding his libido with every slow swallow. I set the bottle down with too much force.

“What’s the plan when we land?” I snap.

He smiles. Not kindly. “You’ll see.”

That’s it.

You’ll see.

Which is code for, “You’re at my mercy.”

But he’s wrong if he thinks I’ll go down easy. I may want him. I may crave him. But make no mistake, I will not lose to him.

And if this getaway is a game?

I’m still playing to win.