Page 45 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)
BIANCA
ONE SIP AWAY
W hen Vukan called, he didn’t even bother with pleasantries.
“Coffee,” he said, like it was an order.
“Good morning to you, too,” I answered, already suspicious.
“Afternoon,” he corrected smoothly. “Pick a place. I'll meet you there.”
“So eager,” I teased, leaning back in my chair. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you're desperate.”
“Not desperate,” he said. “Strategic.”
I rolled my eyes even though he couldn't see it. “This isn't a date.”
“Never said it was,” he replied, tone far too amused. “Strictly tactical.”
“Right. Tactical coffee.”
“You coming or not, Princess?”
The line went dead before I could fire back.
Typical.
I grabbed my bag from my desk and headed toward the office door, only to run straight into Joanne, who was walking down the hall, coffee in hand, and eyeing me like I was a live grenade.
“Where are you going?” she asked, tilting her head.
“Coffee,” I said breezily, sidestepping her.
“With who?” she asked, suspicion sharpening her tone.
I hesitated half a second too long. “Vukan.”
Her eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might leave her face. “Seriously?”
“It's not a date,” I said quickly. “It's—strategic.”
Joanne snorted. “Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England.”
“It's coffee,” I insisted. “Not marriage vows. Not blood oaths. No satanic rituals. Coffee.”
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, grin wicked. “You're wearing lipstick.”
I wiped my mouth automatically, scowling when she laughed.
“I'll update you later,” I muttered. “Assuming I survive.”
“You mean assuming he survives,” she called after me.
I didn't answer because she might've had a point.
The coffee shop smells like cinnamon and burnt espresso—a familiar, grounding scent.
He was already there when I arrived.
He’s leaning against the railing outside the café, dressed in dark jeans and a black button-down, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins along his forearms. Casual, lethal, like he’d just walked off the set of a dream I wasn't ready to admit having.
And the smell of him—God.
Leather and spice, clean soap and something darker underneath, something that hit the back of my throat and made rational thought feel like a lost cause.
Not a date, I reminded myself savagely. Just coffee. Just? —
Yeah. I’m so screwed.
His eyes find me instantly, and that slow, crooked grin curves his mouth like he knows exactly what he is doing to me. It’s Vukan, of course. He knows what he’s doing. The man is the fortress of resolve and restraint.
“Bianca,” he says, like my name tastes good, like he’d been waiting to say it, and it drips with affection and sex appeal.
I swallow the knot in my throat and nod, hoping I look cooler than I feel. “You’re early.”
“You’re late,” he says, pushing the door open and letting me walk in first. Gentlemanly. And dangerous. He’s my wet dream wrapped in my favorite fantasy.
The odd swell in my chest that was foreign to me has now become an increasingly familiar sensation.
The coffee shop exudes warmth and a sweet aroma of cinnamon in the air, with espresso beans that are sharp and bitter, yet burned just enough to feel authentic.
My boots catch on the worn wood floor as we walk to the booth in the corner.
I walk him to my usual table, the little one tucked against the brick wall, half in sun, half in shadow—my table.
But I’m sure he knew that. It’s stupid. I know that.
Because routine is a weakness. Predictability is a death sentence.
But today, I needed something normal, and somehow he knew .
I slide into the seat against the wall. He settles across from me like he owns the space. In a way, it’s as if he’s always known we’d end up here .
He sits across from me, looking like a God with his muscular physique and chiseled chin. Sunglasses shield his eyes, and his posture looks relaxed—but I knew better. He isn’t relaxed. He’s on guard, as his eyes survey the front door and gaze acts as night goggles as they sweep over the guests .
He is watching everything. The street. The door. The rooftops. He hasn’t even touched his coffee.
I remind myself that this isn’t a date, it’s a check-in. It’s a pause to gain our breath before we dive back into the chaos waiting for us.
“Still drink it black with tons of stuff in it?” he smirks, eyes skimming over me like I’m something he wants to memorize again.
“Still hate small talk?” I shoot back, raising an eyebrow.
He smirks. “Only when it’s not with you.”
God. That mouth. That smirk. He has a way of making me feel special, even now, in a coffee shop. I know he remembers all of my likes and dislikes. It’s inside, it’s personal. And he’s way too close to my heart.
I look away as I try to find my footing, but the ground doesn’t feel steady—not with him across from me, looking like sin and safety wrapped in the same Grecian body that can melt stone.
“One of these days, your charm’s going to expire,” I say, chin tilted like I believe it.
“One of these days, you’re going to admit you like it.”
He looks so comfortable. So him. Like, no time passes. Like, he doesn’t carry the weight of what he broke, namely my resolve.
I glance toward the counter. “I’ll grab the drinks.”
He moves, hand halfway to his wallet. “Let me?—”
“I’ve got it,” I say sharply. I need the moment to distance myself from him. He’s giving of himself, and I don’t know what to do with it. I use the space to calm my racing heart, and it’s an excuse I use to catch a breath without him so close, because he takes my breath away.
It’s the way he looks at me, and he sees all my sins and regrets, and he still wants me anyway.
It’s in the way he speaks my name, like it’s his favorite endearment.
It’s in his calloused hands that touch my back with a softness that I never expected.
It’s him, the Wolf at my door, the man I adore, the man I want to seduce me.
.. But I don’t have a clue how to accept what he’s so willing to give me, namely, himself.
I’m humbled that he gives me more time than he has to spare. I’m humbled that he always thinks of what I want and delivers it, again and again, and I’ve never taken the time to say thank you.
When I return to him, he watches me like I’m a story he never finished. He wants to try again—it’s the same plot but with a different ending. And I know he’ll continue to pursue me no matter what.
I take a sip of my Frappuccino, ignoring the desire pooling between my legs.
His gaze flicks up at me, the tiniest frown tugging at his mouth, and God help me, I wish his lips were lapping me up like dessert—the dessert he threatened in Japan, the one that never happened.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low enough that no one else could hear.
I opened my mouth to answer?—