Page 6 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

TEXT ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT

S leep doesn’t come easily.

Not that it ever does, but tonight it’s worse. My sheets feel like sandpaper, and the room is too quiet, dark, and still. My thoughts run in circles—fast, sharp, and impossible to leash.

But when I shut my eyes, he’s there.

That damn Serbian. It’s exhausting because I can’t get him out of my head.

His voice is low, dripping with the promise of wicked sexy. It sticks in my ear. His rugged hands, tattooed, steady, and patient, are pressing mine against a wall. His gray eyes stare into mine with that wolfish stillness. Not begging.

Not seducing.

Claiming.

In the dream, I’m back at the warehouse. Broken glass crunches under my boots. The air smells like oil and gunpowder. I’m dressed for war, and he’s waiting for me, alone in the shadows.

“You came,” he says.

I draw a blade .

He steps forward.

And I freeze.

Because he looks at me like he already owns the ending. Like my war is the kind of story he wants to bleed for.

I wake with my heart slamming against my ribs and his name stuck in my throat like a secret I don’t want to swallow.

Fuck.

I drag myself to the kitchen and slam down an espresso, savoring it like shots. It’s not enough. Nothing is.

The first date.

Hm.

The first date won’t be …

A dinner date or a gallery. No, too easy.

Something I’m good at—fighting.

A match, facing each other in the gym.

I’ll make him hurt. And, the bonus?

I will make him hurt.

Niccoló has a state-of-the-art boxing facility, and he’s a skilled boxer who has trained me. I hope this will intimidate Vukan.

Yeah, right, that’s probably not going to happen. But it’s worth a shot. There is no way in hell I’m marrying him!

I love languages and foreign places, but I have no desire to live in his country. Serbian food sucks, too.

I look at my watch and it’s six a.m.. He’s older, and older people tend to be early risers, so he should be up.

Reluctantly, I text him.

First date, The 10th Round. 8 a.m.

I’ll pick you up.

I’m good.

A date consists of me picking you up and taking you home. This is not negotiable .

Damn him. He’s taking every opportunity to be alone with me.

I huff.

Fine.

Are you planning to wear black for every date, or just until I earn a smile?

He won’t take no for an answer. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Maybe it’s because most men give me what I want—immediately.

And I hate them for it. I want to earn what’s mine, and I don’t appreciate anything that’s handed to me.

I stare at the message, then snort—bold of him. But then again, so was showing up to a mafia shoot-out wearing thousand-dollar shoes and a death wish.

It’s slimming. And practical. In case I need to bury someone during a workout.

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when the screen lights up.

God, I hope it’s me. I want to be the first man you look at while wielding a shovel.

I lose it. My grin slips out before I can stop it.

This man.

He’s not trying to win me with flowers. He’s trying to get under my skin.

It’s almost working.

You have a strange death wish, Petrovi?.

And I hate that I type faster than I think.

Pick me up at eight. But be warned…

I like warnings.

I’m still armed.

So am I. And I’m not just talking about the Glock under my seat.

Fuck me.

He’s deadly even without a gun!

I have to admit he’s got a sense of humor. That’s a plus. And he’s creative. Which makes me wonder what he’s like in bed.

Oh, God. I can’t think about it. I want to, because he has the type of body that rivals Greek statues. But I can’t.

No, no, no.

I force myself to think about my upcoming Adopt a Dog event, hoping it will extinguish the fire between my legs.

Today, I wear black again. Not because I’m stubborn—okay, I am—but because it reminds me I’m in control. Tactical black leggings. Sleeveless compression top. My hair is slicked back in a tight braid, so tight it could cut glass. No lipstick. No games.

The 10th Round, Niccoló’s pride and joy. Polished concrete, blood-slick mats, and state-of-the-art everything’ll surround us. No one here cares about cardio. This place is built for pain.

It’s the perfect place to launch our war.

I chose it on purpose because I want him off balance.

I want him bruised. I want him to hurt if for no other reason than the fact I can make him hurt.

There’s no way in hell I’m marrying him. Of all people, my brothers could have been in cahoots with, it had to be him .

The Serbian accents make me itch. Their history is soaked in blood. I have enough of that in my family tree, thank you.

And—I hate being told what to do.

Which is precisely why I’m standing on the edge of my front steps, arms crossed, fully dressed in tactical black, waiting for a man I don’t want to want… to pick me up.

Like it’s a date.

Like I’m some simpering debutante who needs an escort to a fucking ball.

This isn’t a date.

It’s a strategic play. A reminder of my terms. A power move.

That’s what I keep telling myself as I fume because he’s late.