Page 39 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

INFINITY AND OTHER TRAPS

W e return to the suite after our walk. The silence in the suite is worse than the silence in the street.

At least out there, I had excuses. There were the city lights and crisp smell of cherry blossoms, and Kuchi-nashi floated on the breeze. I focused on the rhythm of my heels on the pavement to keep my illicit thoughts off him .

He’s dressed to kill, and I would be a willing victim. In here, it’s just me. Me and my reflection that mocks me. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.

I’m still in the green silk dress. My lipstick is perfect. Every strand of hair is pinned like a weapon. I look like the woman who was in control all night.

But my skin tells a different story. It’s too warm. I’ve been seen. I let him see me. He peels back my layers, and it leaves me exposed, raw, unguarded, and vulnerable. I don’t know how to handle it, or him .

He intrigues me, his banter stimulates me, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about what it would be like to be with him, under him, and on top of him.

I toss my clutch onto the velvet chaise, kick off my heels, and pace the room once. Twice. Then stop. His words haunt me.

This isn’t softness. It’s focus.

You’ve never had anyone show up for you without asking what it gets them.

And maybe that’s true. And maybe that’s the problem. Because it feels good to be seen and understood. I’m getting used to it, but I’m not sure how I feel about it. I cross the room and stop at the minibar. I pour myself a glass of water. My hands are steady, but I’m shaking inside.

He didn’t kiss me tonight. What does that mean?

He only touched me to help me get in and out of the car or place his hand low on my back as we walked the sidewalk so he could steer me around uneven pavement.

But he stripped me bare anyway.

How did he do that? It was so subtle…

A soft knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. I freeze, knowing it’s him.

“Bianca,” his voice calls—low, unreadable. “You left your wrap.”

I open the door just enough to take it, but he doesn’t hand it over immediately. He looks at me. And our gaze meets, and his eyes are filled with raw, unbridled emotion. It does something dangerous to me.

Like I’m not just beautiful—I’m real.

“I’m not used to this,” I admit before I can stop myself.

His brow lifts. “To what?”

“To being seen. And not… measured. You scare me when you look at me like that.”

He steps forward just slightly.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then we’re even.”

He doesn’t push for more, and he doesn’t try to walk in. He hands me the wrap, and his long fingers brush mine like a whisper. Then he turns and walks away. And he just broke me .

I stand in the doorway, holding a piece of fabric like proof that I’m losing this war and with it, myself.

He’s left me breathless. Not because he won. But because I don’t want to fight anymore. I want more of him. He’s made me want him. He made me want the very thing I swore I never believed I could obtain.

I lay awake. It was the perfect day, the perfect trip, the perfect dinner…and he’s a helluva man.

He’s all man. He’s testosterone, musk, and muscle, with a smirk I adore. His cold gray eyes warm when I walk into the room because he only has eyes for me.

I’m sure he’s received texts for work, but he’s given me all his attention when he’s with me—he’s present.

And it’s with that thought that I fall to sleep. The fact that he’s in the room next to mine both comforts and frustrates me.

I stretch beneath the softest sheets money can buy and stare at the ceiling like it has answers I haven’t been brave enough to say out loud.

I remember the way he looked at me last night. The way he didn’t touch me. The way he walked away.

And now I’m lying here, wet, just thinking about him.

His deep voice strokes my ears—his strong jaw and his rough hand that brushed mine like a vow and a dare.

Why didn’t he take me?

He had the chance. The timing was perfect. The permission—whether I said it out loud or not, my body was screaming it.

And he just walked away.

The audacity.

Does he not want me?

Am I losing my touch?

I shift beneath the covers, slick between my thighs, breathing fast.

God, I want him .

Not in the way I usually want things. Not for control or ego or a rush of power. I want him. The man, the negotiator, the wolf, I know he is. I want it all.

He’s a man who doesn’t make promises he won’t keep, and that’s what terrifies me.

Because now I don’t know what game we’re playing anymore.

Or worse—maybe he’s not playing anymore.

I throw the blanket off and sit up. This ends tonight. Either he breaks—Or I do.

And if I have to be the one to light the match? So be it.

I grab my phone off the nightstand, as if it owes me answers, and text the only person who will tell me the truth and still love me afterward.

You’re not gonna believe this.

HE STILL HASN’T FUCKED ME.

Joanne replies instantly.

Excuse me??? You’re telling me you wore the Ravella, smirked in slow motion, slept in the same hotel… and he WALKED AWAY?

Not even a kiss. Just vibes. And a glass of champagne. And a hand graze that fried my entire nervous system.

Well, that’s a kick in the pants. That man is playing the long game.

I hate him.

You’re obsessed. Admit it.

I’m MAD. He had every opportunity. He could’ve ruined me. And he… exercised restraint.

That’s not restraint, babe. That’s strategy. He’s under your skin. He has you wanting him.

I stare at the screen. It’s infuriating because it’s true. I want to scream.

What do I even do with that??

You show up to breakfast looking like a sin he should’ve committed last night. And then you don’t touch him. Make him sweat.

Oh, I plan to!

Make that man beg. Godspeed, sinner queen.

I don’t sleep. Not because the palace bed is uncomfortable. Not because I’m afraid of him—at least, not in the way people think. It’s because every time I close my eyes, I feel his voice on my skin.

The way he said he could smell me. The heat of his breath on my neck. The fact that he didn’t touch me—when we both knew he could have.

It would’ve been easier if he had.

I pace the marble floor in a silk robe I should’ve never accepted. The windows overlook Tokyo’s skyline, but all I see is him—his restraint, his control, his dangerous patience.

He wants me undone.

And damn it, I’m unraveling.

Joanne is a queen. She’s good at this game, and I’m glad she’s my coach and not his. Not like he needs any help .

So, when I walk into the breakfast terrace wearing a sheer dress that shows off my figure, I’m done pretending.

I’m committed to giving him a taste of what he could’ve had last night.

Let him want.

And I find that he’s already at the table, wearing a black T-shirt stretched over that chest like the devil, reading something on his phone— like he didn’t ruin my entire emotional equilibrium by not touching me last night.

His expensive gold watch catches the sun’s reflection because we’re on the terrace. There is no shame in his eyes for leaving me wet and unfulfilled last night—only hunger.

He looks up. And freezes. It’s only a second, but I know I won.

He rises smoothly. He’s always a gentleman, but he moves like a sexual savant in disguise. He pulls my chair out like I didn’t spend the last ten hours trying to manifest him into doing unspeakable things to me.

"You look like sin," he says.

"You look like ego."

He chuckles.

I sit across from him and eat fruit just to make him watch my mouth. If he wants games, I’ll give him one he won’t forget.

“You slept well?” he asks, low and calm.

Too calm.

“Like a baby,” I lie sweetly. “Must be the hotel. Or the fact that my bed stayed so… empty. ”

He pauses just long enough to tell me he heard that.

“Would’ve thought you’d be the type to toss and turn,” he says, pouring me orange juice.

“Only when I’m unsatisfied. ”

His smile is slow. It’s dangerous. I love his smile, and the fact that I make him smile is bliss.

“I’ll take that under advisement. ”

Breakfast is elegant and unbearable. The eggs are so soft they melt, the fruit is perfectly cut, and the fresh-baked bread smells like luxury. And him .

Right there—his calm and ever-confident self.

And he’s still not touching me.

It’s infuriating. His scent is everything manly, musk, and aged tobacco. I hate to admit it, but his gray eyes are smoky and endless like a deep pool.

I purposefully lick syrup off my fork, cross and uncross my legs, and lean forward to take a sip…

He notices.

I know it’s killing him just as sure as I am of the fact that his pants are filled with his hard cock.

Good. Let him suffer.

After breakfast, he takes me to the pool.

Infinity edge with a skyline view. It’s the kind of water that looks like it touches heaven.

I step out in a black one-piece that hugs every inch. It has an open back and a low-cut front. I paired it with oversized sunglasses and an “I don’t need you” attitude.

He’s already shirtless, and I take in his inked body. It’s scarred, tanned, and sculpted like he was born in war.

His board shorts cling to his hips, and the sexy indentation, the V at his sides, accentuates his eight-pack abs.

I hate him.

I want him.

The air is too heavy. We seemed to be in the lull of a trust as we sank into the side-by-side loungers.

The staff brings champagne and sliced mango.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. He just sits there, sipping champagne and watching me like he’s memorizing the moment.

I shoot daggers at him.

“Say it,” I murmur.

He turns. “Say what? ”

“You’ve been looking at me like you’ve got a confession to make.”

He leans in, and he’s so close I can feel the heat of his skin.

“I want you.”

I smirk. “That’s not news.”

He exhales like he’s holding back something brutal.

“But I want you to want me, too.”

I blink because I already do.

And he knows it.

The heat in the water is nothing compared to what’s burning between us now. I turn my face away before I say something dangerous.

But inside?

I’m drowning.

His eyes darken. “You’re not ready for what I’m willing to give, Bianca. But you will be.”

I sip my champagne as I pull my knees together, pretending my body isn’t screaming for reassurance, and that I won’t jump him…because making a move means I lose.

He leans forward. “When you beg?—”

“Not happening.”

“—I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget how to lie.”

My lips tremble—just a little. And damn if he doesn’t see it.

But I smile like the predator I am. “Good luck, Petrovi?. You’ve got four dates left.”

He chuckles. It’s low and deadly. “That’s four more than I need.”

The tension between us hums like a live wire.

This isn’t a game. It’s a war, only—I’m not sure who’s winning.