Page 50 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

VUKAN

TEA, SCONES, AND BLOODLINES

T he morning light cuts soft across the bed, golden and quiet like a secret we haven’t told anyone. I don’t want to leave her, but I need to work. I marvel at the fact that she’s still here.

She’s still asleep. Mostly.

One leg is flung carelessly over my stomach, her thigh warm against my abs, possessive in a way that makes my chest tighten. Her cheek is pressed into the pillow, lips parted, hair a halo of chaos from the night I unraveled her.

My hand slowly moves to her knee, tracing up the inside of her thigh. I can’t help it. I need to touch her. I’ll never tire of touching her, feeling her supple skin, and watching her react.

She shifts, just enough for me to feel the heat of her bare center brushing against my side.

Fuck.

I turn my head and press a kiss to her knee. Then her thigh. Higher. Slower. Her skin is soft and sleep-warm, and she sighs when I reach the place between her legs.

“Good morning,” I murmur against her skin.

She moans, eyes fluttering open as I shift to hover over her. My hand cups her jaw as I kiss her—deep and unhurried—like I’ve got all the time in the world to taste her again.

Because I do.

This morning, I’m not rushing. This isn’t about lust. It’s about her. It’s about the fact that we have our entire future together, and nothing has excited me more.

I drag my mouth down her neck, over her collarbone, tasting every inch of her like I’m memorizing her with my tongue.

She breathes my name when I suck gently at the pulse at her throat, and she arches when I run my palm over her breast, letting my thumb flick over her nipple until it pebbles beneath my touch.

Her body lies under mine, heat blooming as she wraps her arms around my shoulders and whispers, “You’re insatiable.”

“No,” I murmur, guiding myself to her entrance, “I’m just not done loving you. I’ll never tire of loving on you.”

I’m hard, and I push in slowly, bare and deep, watching her eyes darken with every inch I give her.

Her fingers tighten around me as I roll my hips, gliding in her deeper, smoother, and never breaking eye contact.

Her breath stutters; her mouth parts around a gasp that sounds too much like a confession.

“I’ve never…” she starts, but can’t finish.

I kiss the words from her lips. I know what she’s about to say. She never saw herself here, with me, like this. And perhaps before the first date, she didn’t.

I feel it in the way she clings to me—not just with her body, but her soul. Like she’s handing me every broken piece and trusting I won’t shatter them further. Now, she knows I won’t.

She’s mine to protect, mine to keep, and mine to love, and I make love to her like a vow, every stroke a promise carved into the morning light—her body molds to me like a prayer full of hope, promises, and vulnerability, but mostly, mine.

When she comes, it’s quiet. Our Eyes are locked. No walls. No masks. Just her. Raw and radiant. And beautiful, inside and out. And as I follow her into the fall, I know— this is the moment everything changes.

Because now? She’s not just under my skin. She’s in my blood.

After two hours of innate carnal activities, we shower and dress for the day. I head to work even though it pains me to leave her.

I text her throughout the day. She’s become friends with Irina, and I’m relieved they get along so well. Not that I ever doubted it. But then, again, Bianca doesn’t disappoint.

The smell of something sweet and unfamiliar greets me when I enter my home at the end of the day.

Not blood or metal. And not gun oil or bourbon, and nothing is on fire—yet. The only exception is my burning desire for my woman.

The smell is… vanilla. Cinnamon. Something warm and wrong. For a second, I think we’ve been infiltrated, poisoned, and ambushed by Martha Stewart.

I should consider myself lucky that there aren’t any dead bodies, seeing as how I left Bianca to her own devices for the day. It didn’t seem like a leap, but now I realize anything could have happened since she’s been left for the entire day.

Then I step into the kitchen, and there she is.

Bianca, barefoot, standing at the island, laughing— laughing —with Irina, the sixty-something Russian housekeeper who’s barely said three words to anyone since the last Petrovi? wedding, which ended in gunfire and a decapitated cake.

They’re drinking tea from porcelain cups like it’s a royal ritual. I notice freshly baked scones sitting between them on a lacquered tray I haven’t seen since my mother’s funeral.

Bianca glances over her shoulder when I walk in.

“Welcome home, soldier,” she smirks. “You hungry or just confused?”

“Both. ”

Irina actually pats my arm as she walks past, saying, “She’s good for this house. Loud, but good.”

Bianca beams like she won a marksman’s gun-shooting competition.

I’ve entered another timeline. But I take the iced tea Irina prepares for me, and we move to the living room where we catch up on the day’s events.

I fill her in on the Radovan situation, our next shipment, and the gun deal with her brother.

She listens attentively, and I learn she has a good head for business.

Later, we eat dinner in the glass dining room overlooking the back gardens.

There’s no staff, or silver domes covering our entrees— just roast chicken and wine.

Bianca is gorgeous no matter what she does with herself, but tonight, her hair is messy, and her bare legs stretch under the table like she already owns this house.

Maybe she does. And halfway through the meal, I pull a card from my pocket and slide my black Amex across the table. This causes her to raise a brow.

“What’s this?”

“Redecorate. Do whatever you want.”

“You trust me with this ?” She flips it like it’s dangerous.

“I trust you with far more dangerous things.”

She eyes me. “Like your heart?”

I smirk. “Like my house.”

She laughs. “You want me to soften the murder estate?”

“Call it what you want. Just make it ours. ”

The word slips out before I can second-guess it.

She hears it, and her face turns somber. She feels the weight of my words, and she doesn’t run. She places the card on the island, beside her cup of tea, and says, “I hope you like bold.”

“I like you,” I reply, and she knows it’s deeper than like because she doesn’t have a comeback. But her lips part slightly. After a few more bites, I shift the mood .

“There’s something you need to know.”

Her spine straightens.

“Radovan is ready to stage a coup.”

Her eyes narrow. “And your uncle?”

“He still thinks the title should’ve passed to him after my father. Nothing will ever change that. He’s quiet in public. But he’s making noise. I have no doubt they are in this together.”

“Is he a threat?”

“Not yet. But Radovan is.”

When she hears this, her jaw tenses.

“Don’t go anywhere without Luka or David. I mean that.”

She doesn’t argue. Instead, she accepts it and nods.

“Good girl,” I reply with smoldering eyes, remembering her underneath me last night.

“I’ll wear heels and the bodyguards can follow my lead,” she says flippantly.

I lean forward. “Bianca.”

“I heard you,” she says, softer this time. “I’ll be careful.”

And in that moment, watching her drink wine, and if I know her, she’s quietly preparing for war.

I know exactly who I gave the house to, and I’m not taking it back.

It’s another morning, and I wake up to her beside me. I love mornings like this. I love us. And yet, I’m still in disbelief. She didn’t leave, and she’s still not running.

Weeks have passed, and we’re blissfully happy.

She curls into my side like it was the most natural thing in the world—like I’m not soaked in sins I’ll never confess, or a past I can’t forget.

But she makes me want to forget the darkness. And at times, I do. It’s happening more often .

She’s my obsession, my addiction. I was bent on making her submit, not knowing she would bring me to my knees.

The pad of my thumb brushes her spine. I run a hand down the soft dip beneath her ribs and the curve of her waist. I can’t stop touching her.

She stirs, then blinks up at me.

And smiles. I love her smile. Today, there’s no sarcasm—just that quiet, dangerous thing she’s given me—her trust.

I kiss her before I can stop myself. It’s deep, raw, and possessive. She’s naked beside me, and when she kisses me back, it’s like I’m the only man in the world, and it’s only the two of us.

We take our time making love, and every movement is a secret surrender. And every breath is a question neither of us can answer, but we ask anyway.

When she falls apart beneath me, she doesn’t look away. She watches me. And that’s the moment I know this is no longer about winning her. It’s about not losing myself.

I let her leave the bed when it’s time to get up, because I like watching her go. I love her hard ass and sinking my fingers into it. And her hips are perfect. Perhaps we’ll have children, and the thought excites me and makes my cock swell.

But make no mistake—I’m still in her head under her flawless skin. And my cock wants round two.

I saw her tremble when I made love to her, and I heard the silence between her words when she begged me to fuck her again. She can pretend all she wants, but her body doesn’t lie—not to me.

She wants me as much as I want her, and she’s falling for me. I see it in the way she looks at me when she’s unaware that I’m on to her. It’s the way she accepts my presence without challenging it.

She touches my hand with the softness of a woman who’s falling in love. It’s about how she says my name when she comes.

After breakfast together, I walk through the halls of my home, my footsteps echoing in polished stone. Every inch of this place was built to showcase control. And right now, she’s a hurricane blowing through it.

Bianca Borrelli is unlike any woman I’ve met. She meets my stare like she’s the one holding the blade. She throws punches for fun and then dresses like vengeance. And beneath that sharp tongue and curated fashion, there’s something raw.

Something untouched and sometimes unspoken but always—perfect.

She’s perfection.

But Radovan’s voice is the one that drags me back to reality. He’s on my mind and should be because he’s a menace, and his presence reminds me that my time with Bianca is under a magnifying glass.

He wants a meeting. He says the Borrellis cost us Milo?. He thinks I’ve lost the fire that earned me my crown. He’s wrong.

I haven't lost my fight. I've just chosen a new war. And Bianca Borrelli?

She's the battlefield. But she’s also the weapon.

I tap my fingers against my huge desk as I consider my next move. The dates weren’t just play—they’re tests. Triggers. Psychological traps. Each one brings her closer.

She thinks she’s playing me. But she doesn’t understand the rules. She set the battlefield. But I brought the war.

Tonight, I’ll plan the next strike. Because now I don’t just want her body. I want her total surrender.