Page 31 of His Ruthless Vow

How much I want him.

18

ENZO

Iscan the room from my corner booth—habit, not paranoia. This place exists for people like me: men who need private conversations away from curious eyes. The Golden Hour isn't flashy from the outside—just another storefront in a row of businesses that close by five. Inside, though, everything whispers exclusivity: amber lighting that casts everyone in a flattering glow, leather booths worn to perfect softness, bartenders who mix drinks without asking names.

The ice in my whiskey shifts as I take another sip. Thirty minutes early, as always. I never walk into a meeting without knowing the exits, the faces, the potential threats. The crystal tumbler feels heavy in my hand—three fingers of top-shelf bourbon that costs more than most people make in an hour. Worth every penny for the burn it leaves behind.

My phone vibrates once. I don't bother checking it. Only one person has this number right now, and he's just arrived.

Elliott Romano walks through the door like he's entering his own living room, all casual confidence and calculated calm. His unruly dark curls somehow look intentionally disheveled, and those thick-framed glasses don't hide the sharp intelligence in his eyes. I watch how he moves—the fluidity, the awareness. He's scanning the room just like I did, only he makes it look like he's simply deciding where to sit.

He spots me immediately but takes his time, stopping at the bar first. The bartender nods in recognition—another interesting piece of information to file away. Elliott says something that makes her smile before he takes his drink and finally makes his way toward me.

He slides into the booth with enviable grace, setting his glass down without a sound. His sleeve rolls up slightly, revealing the edge of those infamous tattoos—Italian art blended with circuitry designs. An interesting representation of the man himself: traditional power merged with modern methods.

"You look like a man getting impatient," Elliott says, his voice carrying just enough amusement to border on irritating. He doesn't extend his hand for a shake—smart man.

I don't waste time with pleasantries. "Tell me what you have."

Elliott's lips curl into a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. He takes a deliberate sip of his drink—some pretentious cocktail with herbs floating on top—making me wait just long enough to establish that he's not intimidated by me.

Those clever fingers tap a rhythm against the table before he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a sleek black folder. The movement is casual, but his eyes never leave mine, reading my reaction with the precision of someone who makes his living understanding people's weaknesses.

"You're not going to like it, but it'll work," he says, tapping his fingers against the folder but not sliding it toward me yet. The implicit power play isn't lost on me—he has something I need, and he wants me to acknowledge it.

His confidence would be insufferable if it wasn't backed by results. That's why I'm here, after all. I've heard the stories about Elliott Romano—the last survivor of a family that chose independence over alliance. The mistake his father made is one I won't repeat. In our world, you pick a side or you die. The trick is choosing the winning side.

I flip the folder open, letting my eyes settle on the first page of data. Elliott Romano has a reputation—the man gets what you ask for, not what you need. There's a difference. But this time, he's delivered exactly what I required.

The financial records sprawl before me—a pattern of transactions that would look innocuous to someone who doesn't understand how the Cappallettis launder their money. But I know their methods. I helped design some of them before Alfonso decided I was too ambitious for my own good.

"All verifiable?" I ask, running my finger down a list of off-the-books payments that tie Alfonso Figarello to three judges and a police captain. The kind of connections that keep a man like him untouchable—until now.

"Every last digit." Elliott leans forward, tapping a particular set of numbers. "That account there? Points straight to Alfonso's pet project. The one he doesn't want Giovanni knowing about." His voice drops. "Apparently, our friend has been skimming from the top for years. Building his own insurance policy."

I bite back a smile. Alfonso always was a greedy son of a bitch, but I hadn't realized he was stupid enough to steal from Giovanni. The Don has overlooked many sins in his time, but theft isn't among them.

The next page holds transaction records for two of the Cappalletti capos—both men who stood by and watched when Alfonso stripped me of everything I'd built. Their dirty laundry is spread before me like a feast. Drug habits, gambling debts, payments to women who aren't their wives.

This is power in its purest form. Not a gun, not a threat—information. The kind of leverage that forces men to bend, to give up their grudges for self-preservation.

"This will be enough." I close the folder, already calculating how best to use what I've been given. But I know who it will be of most value to.

Elliott smirks, leaning back in the booth. "It always is." There's a smugness in his tone that should irritate me, but I can't fault him. The man delivers.

But as we settle the details of when and how the information will be deployed, Elliott leans back, studying me with too much interest. His analytical gaze shifts from professional to personal in a way I immediately recognize.

"And here I thought you were a man who never let himself get distracted." His tone is lazy, but his eyes flicker with amusement.

I maintain a perfectly blank expression, though something cold settles in my stomach. I simply pick up my drink, swirl the amber liquid, and smirk. "Stay in your lane, hacker." My voice carries just enough edge to make it clear this topic isn't open for discussion.

Elliott chuckles but he nods, message received. We agreed not to bring the girls into this—neither my Kendra nor his Mikayla. Some things remain separate from business, even in our world.

19

KENDRA

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