Page 38 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

VUKAN

FOR HER–THE WORLD

T he hotel suite delivered the blow I was waiting for. She didn’t melt completely, but she was close, and I’ll take that as a win. When she saw our suite , the look on her face was priceless.

And my adrenaline rush of moving her to feel something was like no other. I saw that sliver of softness when she stepped into the suite. It was in the way her fingers dragged across the carved wood of the terrace doors. It was the pause when she looked at the ocean view, and she sighed.

Because for half a second, she forgot to be guarded. And in that moment, she was mine even if she didn’t say it. Even if she didn’t touch me, and then—c lick. The lock slid back into place, like a latch on a hatch. Iron-clad.

I knew it was coming. I just didn’t expect to feel it this hard.

My euphoria crashed as she brushed past me like nothing had transpired. She threw up that perfect wall of indifference. Her arched brow and voice are dry, and she’s in control—again. And I let her have her tiny victory, because pushing now would be a mistake.

A mistake she’d use against me later, so I step farther into the suite after she walks out to the balcony. Her scent lingers—citrus and heat, something sweet, expensive, and dangerous.

She’s the kind of woman you don’t just undress. You worship. You conquer.

She’s out there now, leaning on the railing like she doesn’t know I’m still watching. But I am, and she doesn’t disappoint because every inch of her posture is performance. She’s elegant and bent on deflection, or strategic silence.

But I know better. In the sauna, she was mine.

And now she’s punishing herself for it. For slipping. She knows she wants me. She’s too proud to give in to it. She thinks pulling back puts her back in power. What she doesn’t realize is that I don’t need her to surrender. I just need her engaged.

And she’s never been more focused on me than she is right now.

So I smile to myself because the stakes are upped.

And I work best under pressure.

The car ride is quiet, not uncomfortable. Not tense. Just charged with sexual energy.

She sits beside me like royalty—legs crossed, dress poured onto her like liquid metal this time, silver with a slit so high it borders on criminal. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Her silence is the sound of power being held .

And I respect it. Tonight, I’m not asking for submission. I’m honoring the storm. Her.

When we arrive at the restaurant, the sleek glass doors slide open with a soft chime, and the scent of cedar and sea air curls around us.

It’s one of the most exclusive sushi restaurants in Okinawa—ten seats total. And tonight, not one of them is occupied except for ours .

Guests in designer clothes and diamond jewelry loiter outside, their tense shoulders murmuring their unhappiness in clipped Japanese. I don’t have to know their language to feel their disappointment because it cuts through their low voices like smoke.

Bianca steps out of the car, doesn’t look left or right, or flinch at the murmurs. She walks straight through them like they don’t exist. And they don’t, not to us, because tonight is just us.

Every step of her heel across the stone path is poetry in control. Her chin is high, her shoulders pulled back, her hair slicked and gleaming like a crown of obsidian.

And the whispering? The outrage?

It dies. She doesn’t speak a word. And still— they all yield. Their eyes follow her.

I follow behind, slowly, letting her take the lead and letting her own this moment because this isn’t about impressing her anymore.

She sees the empty dining room lit in soft golds and deep shadows, floor-to-ceiling glass that frames the Tokyo skyline like a painting. One table in the center—dark native wood, a table set for two with every candle flickering just right. Every curve of this room has been bent to intimacy.

And everything I planned for tonight suddenly feels insufficient.

That dress—green silk, high slit, the low back that’s currently begging me to forget how much control I pride myself on. She looks like power incarnate, and I want to wrap her in it and peel it off her in the same breath.

But I don’t touch her. I take her in. And wait.

She glances around, brow arching. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They had other plans,” I say smoothly.

It’s about showing her the world already knows what I do. And that she is someone you shut doors for. That she is someone you clear the room for. But once inside, she stops and takes it in with a glance. The chef bows low. The staff aligned like disciples and finally turned back to me.

Her expression is unreadable. But her eyes see everything. And she knows this place was bought, reserved, and silenced…for her.

And in that moment? I’m in, and she lets me walk beside her again. Not because I demand it. But because I’ve earned it. Her lips twitch in understanding.

“You bought the restaurant,” she whispers.

I don’t answer. Instead, I pull out her chair and join her at the table. I pour her a glass of Cristal, cold, perfect, and chilled to perfection. She takes it with a suspicious look.

“You know,” she says, lifting the flute with a perfectly manicured hand and resting it on her lips, “most men would’ve just booked a private booth.”

I shrug. “Most men would, but we both know I’m not most men. Besides, they don’t have ten dates to make a woman fall in love.”

She takes a sip of the champagne, and I can tell from how her eyes flicker that she wasn’t expecting it to taste that good.

The chef appears next—silently, respectfully—with the first course.

Exotic nigiri and hand-crafted rolls: toro with shaved black truffle, shrimp topped with sea urchin and gold leaf, a sliver of fugu prepared under special license. It’s rare. Risky—just like her.

“Impressed?” I ask, watching her eyes move from dish to dish.

She doesn’t respond before she slowly takes a piece of the toro and pops it in her mouth. She chews and swallows it slowly.

Her eyes roll back in her head, and it’s the kind of look I would expect to see when I’ve pleasured her with numerous orgasms .

Then, finally, she says, “Your taste in food is exquisite.”

I lean back in my chair. I volley back with, “So is yours in men. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t have come with anyone else. Otherwise.”

She wants to protest, but she doesn’t. A small smile, barely there, but I can’t bank it in the win column. Next, sake is poured—warm, refined, the kind that slips down smooth and burns after.

We talk about Tokyo. She makes a biting comment about me kidnapping her in style.

By the time the final course—matcha-dusted white chocolate truffles with a sake-champagne reduction—hits the table, her posture has changed.

She’s not letting her guard down. She’s forgetting she has one. She leans over the table, and the candlelight casts shadows over the line of her collarbone. She’s perfection.

“Was this all part of the plan?”

“Every detail,” I say.

“And what happens next?”

I lift my glass to hers. “You tell me.”

And just like that—I know she’s not walking away untouched by this night.

After dinner, we take to the street outside. It’s late enough that the city hums softly like it’s exhaling. I offer my arm and she eyes it.

Then— surprise of the year —she takes it.

No smirk. No snide comment. Just her fingers, warm and sure, sliding into the crook of my elbow like they’ve done it a million times.

She’s quiet, and the moment stretches. But I revel in the fact that she’s letting me walk beside her. And that is no small thing, not for her, and not to me.

“You always wine and dine your enemies like this?” she asks eventually.

“Only the ones I want to keep close. ”

She scoffs under her breath but doesn’t pull away.

We pass a paper lantern flickering near a tucked-away alley. Its red glow casts soft shadows, and the scent of jasmine lingers in the air. The water is calm and quiet. Tokyo is beautiful like this—clean lines, history under glass, power behind silence.

“I never expected this,” she murmurs.

“What? Decadence?”

She glances up at me. “Softness. The city, the incredible food. All of it.”

I stopped walking. She doesn’t. And as she takes the next step, she realizes I’m not beside her anymore. And then she turns, slowly.

Her eyebrows furrowed questioningly.

I meet her eyes. “This isn’t softness, Bianca.”

“No?” Her voice is but a whisper.

“This is focus. ”

Her throat moves when she swallows.

“You think this is about impressing you,” I say, stepping toward her. “It’s not. It’s about seeing you.”

She shifts, but she doesn’t retreat.

“You talk like you already know me.”

“I know what I need to.”

She tilts her head. “And what’s that?”

I lower my voice. “You’ve never had anyone show up for you without asking what it gets them.”

She doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t have to. She looks at me like she’s trying not to believe me. And that’s when I see it.

She’s still fighting with herself. But something inside her a lready gave in.