Page 32 of His Ruthless Vow

Islide into the plush booth at The Vault, my third home after my apartment and office. The familiar bass thrums through my body, but not even the top-shelf whiskey in my hand can ease the tension lodged between my shoulder blades. The sleek black tables, the purple mood lighting, the exclusive clientele—normally this atmosphere energizes me. Tonight, it feels like I'm performing.

Jazz paces alongside our booth, her curls bouncing with each emphatic gesture. "These assholes trashed the VIP section last night. Champagne on the walls, cigarette burns in the new velvet couches—do you know how much those cost?" She stops, hand on hip, eyes flashing. "And Nerio expects me to smooth it all over by tomorrow night for some bigshot client."

I take a long sip, letting the whiskey burn a path down my throat. "Send them the bill. Double it."

"Triple it," Jazz corrects, finally sliding in next to me, her silk blouse catching the light. "Already done. But that doesn't fix my immediate problem."

Across from us, Mikayla hunches over a cocktail napkin, her pencil moving in swift, delicate strokes. Her soft features are creased in concentration, completely absorbed in whatever she's creating. The sweetness of her focus is a stark contrast to the rest of us—hardened in ways she isn't yet.

Then there's Skye, looking like she just stepped off a runway in her tailored jumpsuit, amber eyes fixed on me with that look I know too well. The "I can read your mind" look. The "you can't bullshit a bullshitter" look.

I narrow my eyes, downing more whiskey. I'm not ready for this conversation.

If only Maria was here tonight to distract her. But she’s been more and more absent lately, and I don’t even know why.

"So," Jazz continues, signaling the server for another round. "The cleaners are working overtime, and I've called in reinforcements from that disaster restoration company that owes me a favor."

"Smart," I nod, grateful for the distraction. "Did you?—"

"Alright, out with it." Skye cuts through Jazz's rant with surgical precision, manicured finger pointing directly at me.

I arch an eyebrow, aiming for nonchalance. "Out with what?"

Skye makes a sweeping gesture toward me, her diamond bracelets catching the light. "The reason you look like you've been overthinking yourself into an early grave. This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain 'Hades' I keep hearing about, would it?"

I groan, dropping my head against the table with a thud that rattles our glasses. The cool surface does nothing to soothe the heat crawling up my neck.

Jazz snickers, the ice in her drink tinkling as she swirls it. "I like the nickname. Fitting, really. Making deals, lurking in the shadows, terrifying but sexy."

I don't need to look up to know she's wearing that smug smile, the one that says she's enjoying my misery far too much.

Mikayla finally glances up from her sketch—something that looks eerily like Enzo's Dobermans. "I still think it's a bad idea," she says, her voice carrying a gentle concern that cuts deeper than Skye's directness.

I sigh, lifting my head. "It's not a bad idea because there's nothing happening." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Jazz squints at me, leaning forward. "But you wish something was happening."

I huff out a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. "I wish he'd leave me alone."

The look Skye and Jazz exchange is quick but loaded—a silent conversation about my obvious bullshit. My stomach tightens. I've built my career on reading people, on control, on never showing weakness. Yet here I am, transparent as glass to the women who know me best.

But then Mikayla speaks up, her voice softer than the others. "Are you sure?"

I blink, caught off guard. Sweet, naive Mikayla isn't usually the one pushing. But her gaze is steady, full of something close to concern that pins me in place.

"Because from the outside, it looks like he's already gotten under your skin."

I open my mouth to argue—but nothing comes out. The words are there, ready to deny, deflect, dismiss. They're my standard weapons, my professional armor.

But the truth is, they're right. With one phone call, one arrangement, one goddamn deal, Enzo has managed to invade every corner of my mind. And that realization sits heavy in my chest, even as Jazz launches into another story and Skye signals for more drinks.

I'm staringinto my closet when my phone vibrates on the nightstand. It's been exactly twenty-four hours since my girls' night, and I still haven't figured out what to do about the Enzo situation. My heart sinks when I see his name lighting up my screen.

I answer with my professional voice, the one I use for difficult clients. "Hello?"

"Be ready in twenty minutes."

No preamble, no greeting. Just that voice—deep, controlled, authoritative—the same voice that turned husky as he kneeled between my legs the last time we were alone. My body reacts instantly, a flush of heat that has nothing to do with the temperature in my apartment.

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