Page 35 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

VUKAN

DRESSED TO KILL

S he slept in the bed last night, and I wished I were there beside her. Hell, I wish I were the sheets she snuggled into. I’d do anything to be that close to her for more than a few minutes.

She must have showered and changed after I left the room because she smells sweet and determined, and God help me, I want to ruin her.

She steps onto the tarmac as if the asphalt should be honored because she’s touching it.

She’s wearing emerald silk trousers—high-waisted, tailored to sin, flowing like liquid wealth around her legs. She’s wearing green, which I knew would enshrine her as my queen. She’s trying to unnerve me. It’s her play at maintaining some control when she knows she has very little.

And her black halter top? The one that leaves her back bare, and her shoulders exposed so that I can see her alabaster skin that was made to be kissed—repeatedly.

She drapes a blazer over her shoulders like a fucking crown.

She’s not wearing the outfit. She commands it.

Her stiletto boots snap across the tarmac like gunfire, unapologetic.

Hair? Pinned in a loose twist—some strands rebelling, falling across her cheek like temptation I don’t deserve but fully intend to claim.

I swear, watching her walk—her hip-sway, silk swish, the occasional flash of bare back—I forget why I ever thought this was a game.

Because it’s not. Not anymore. She’s not just a challenge. She’s the goddamn reward. Bianca Borrelli, dressed in war paint and disguised as elegance.

And the scent that hits me as she passes? Apple. Smoke. Heat. Temptation. It’s an apple orchard filled with soft suggestions and deadly intents.

She smells like a memory I haven't made yet, so I stare longer than I should, but she doesn’t even look at me.

She lowers her sunglasses slightly, raises one perfectly arched brow, and says, “Relax, Petrovi?. I packed flats.”

My mouth curves before I can stop it. I’m laughing. I don’t laugh, but God, she brings out the best in me. I could get used to this.

“You packed regret,” I reply.

She smirks, but it’s no ordinary smirk, no, hers are slow and lethal. “If I wanted regret,” she says, climbing into the limo, “I’d have invited your Uncle Milan.”

I blink in surprise, then laugh because she’s right. She’s momentarily won this round.

Then it sinks in. She knows my uncle, the cigar-smoking relic of old-world patriarchy, and a man who might be after me.

How does she know about him?

Now that the enjoyment over her remark has passed, I realize that she sucker punches me without lifting a hand. That dig stung.

And she knows it.

Because Bianca never plays fair, it’s the subtle barbs she lands like a knock-out. She plays to win. And she won’t hesitate to take an opening when she sees it.

I gesture to the driver to drive before I text my brother for an update. He needs to investigate Bianca further. How the hell did she know about my Uncle?

And what else does she know that she’s not telling me?