Page 8 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL

H e turns, slow and deliberate. One hand on his toned leg, the other draped over the leather seat like he owns the morning itself.

“I don’t need to look to know what power feels like.”

My pulse ticks. Loud. My panties are wet, like a monsoon hit.

Treacherous body.

My hands rest in my lap, my fingers curling against my leg, as his presence commands the city to fall away outside.

The driver drives like he’s done this a thousand times—smooth, cold, and with surgical precision—the city blurs, soft and detached. Inside, there’s no music. No distractions.

Just silence. And us.

Of course, I let him know I’m not pleased he’s late. But when he says he’s not going anywhere, it makes me pause. I can’t even commit to a grocery list. How can he promise that?

All too late, I realize I’m caught between the man watching over me...and the one who intends to own me.

“You realize you’re overcompensating, right?” I snark.

He lifts a brow. “How so?”

“This car. The whole ‘I’ll pick you up, I’ll drop you off” act. You think it’s chivalry, but really it’s just your control complex with cooled seats.”

He hums low. “You noticed the temperature-controlled seats.”

“I notice everything.”

I give him a side-eye, and his lips twitch. He doesn’t smile. But he almost does.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” he says, eyes still on me. “It’s not about control.”

“Oh? Then what’s it about?”

His knuckles flex. God, even his hands are beautiful.

“I’ve waited long enough to have you in my car, Bianca. I wasn’t about to miss the first time.”

My breath catches because there’s no flirt in his voice. He’s not giving me a line, just raw truth. He’s showing me a piece of himself.

He’s being vulnerable ?

I look out the window and pretend I’m unaffected because it hits home. I can’t let my guard down, not to him or anyone. I can’t be vulnerable. If I open myself up, I’m opening myself up to being hurt, and that’s never going to happen again.

I’ve never had a real relationship. My idea of commitment is an expensive bottle of Prosecco, a spicy romance book I can read in three hours, and takeout that’s delivered to my door.

So inside?

I’m reeling from his admission.

Ten dates. That’s what I asked for.

Ten dates is what we agreed to.

So why does every moment with him feel like it counts as three?

The 10th Round is a serious gym and boxing center—sweat- soaked mats, and the stench of adrenaline clinging to the walls. No one is polite, and it’s not pretty.

Just fists, breath, and bruises. Of which I’m hoping to leave him with a few to remember me by.

He steps out. I rebuff the hand he holds out to assist me. I’m not elderly for fuck’s sake. But he steps in again, and reluctantly, I take it.

His grip is firm, and it doesn’t help the predicament between my thighs.

We walk into the gym, and I drop my bag in the women’s locker room before grabbing my gloves. I return to the boxing area as I slowly lace up my gloves—the air hums with tension.

He’s dressed in my favorite tactical color—black.

His sleeveless tee stretched across shoulders that could carry an empire. His fitted training pants hug his thighs, and I can’t miss his firm buttocks.

And when he turns, my eyes zero in on his glutes—his tight-fitted shorts look like they were stitched there. He’s all testosterone—no smile. No apologies.

Just him .

I can’t help but gaze over the package he’s packing, and his gym shorts leave little room for guessing.

He’s well endowed. He’s the man I can’t wait to get a whiff of. He lives rent-free in my head—the man who invades my dreams and gives me sleepless nights.

He’s the man who makes my heart lurch every time I find him looking at me.

I know how solid his chest was the night of the shootout. I’m pissed I can’t stop thinking about how comforting it was to have his strong, tatted arms around me that night.

And I can’t get over how sexy he looks in fitted workout clothes. Every inch of him screams sex appeal.

And he steps into the ring like it’s a boardroom—a goddamn negotiation.

And I’d be hard pressed to find the words to refuse him anything.

I suck in a breath and pretend he’s an annoyance. But the truth is—God help me—I want him.

I exhale through my nose and roll my neck. Maybe if I don’t react and don’t look, I won’t want.

I warm up with a few jabs to the air.

He smirks.

“Princess.” His voice rolls over me like smoke and shadow. “You sure about this?”

I nod once. “Unless you’re scared.”

He chuckles. “Of you?”

I step into the ring. He follows, his hands loose and relaxed.

Smug bastard.

We circle. No warmup. No trash talk. Just heat. I punch first—straight to the gut. Solid. Clean.

He exhales. Not in pain. In pleasure.

Then he blocks my second strike and pins me to the ropes with his forearm. It’s a fucking turn-on. I’m dripping inside my Lycra leggings, and my breathing is ragged.

“You want to hurt me, Princess?” he murmurs, breath hot against my cheek. “You’ll have to hit harder.”

His scent—tobacco, leather, him —clings to my throat like a noose. I gulp air.

I need to focus. Think, Bianca.

I twist, slipping under his arm, jabbing him in the ribs in quick succession.

He grunts—barely—but there’s satisfaction in his eyes.

We dance. We fight.

It’s foreplay and war and something in between.

He’s older. Stronger. More patient than I expected.

And I hate how aware I am of him.

I hate that I want him to catch me again. I want him to throw me against the ropes, so that I can breathe him in .

“You do this often?” he asks.

“Only when I’m bored.”

“I guess I’ll have to keep you entertained.”

I swing wide on purpose.

He catches my wrist. Spins me.

I crash into his chest.

He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t blink.

He just looks down at me like I’m his next move.

“It’s getting hot in here,” I mutter, glancing toward the dial for the A/C on the wall. I swear it’s broken. “I’m not going to break,” I snap, before I run my tongue over my parched lips.

“Good,” he says, low and rough. “I don’t want something that breaks easily.”

Fuck. How does he do that? He has the best lines. Does he use AI to come up with this?

And for the first time since the ten-date rule, I worry I might lose because if I fail, I’ll lose myself in him.

I push off him, harder than I mean to. My chest rises fast. My gloves tremble.

Ten dates.

That’s what I asked for.

But now?

Now I’m starting to wonder ? —

Did I just invite the devil into the ring?

And if I did...

Why do I feel like I want to go to hell?