Page 33 of His Ruthless Vow

I should argue. I should tell him I have plans. I should remind him that this arrangement doesn't include him ordering me around on a random Tuesday night.

Instead, I hear myself ask, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." He hangs up without another word.

Nineteen minutes later, I'm standing in front of my building in a fitted black dress that hugs every curve, my hair swept up in a deliberately messy updo. I've chosen understated makeup—just enough to enhance my features without looking like I'm trying too hard.

When his car pulls up, sleek and dark like everything else about him, I draw in a steadying breath. The passenger door opens, and there he is—Enzo Rossi in all his controlled glory. He's wearing charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of tanned skin and the edge of one of his tattoos. Even in this simple outfit, he exudes danger and control.

His steel-gray eyes sweep over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle with awareness. "You look good."

I slide into the passenger seat, keeping my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. "So do you. Where are we going?"

His mouth curves into something close to a smile—not that cocky smirk I'm used to, but something quieter. "You'll find out."

We drive in silence, the city lights painting shadows across his sharp features. I watch his profile from the corner of my eye, studying the way he holds himself—back straight, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. There's a tension in him tonight, something coiled tight beneath the surface.

The restaurant he takes me to isn't what I expected. No flashy valet service, no crowd of Chicago's elite waiting to be seated. Instead, it's a small, elegant place tucked away on a quiet street, with warm wood paneling and soft lighting that creates pockets of intimacy around each table.

The host greets Enzo by name, leading us to a corner table partially hidden by a curved wall. It feels... private. Protected.

"I didn't take you for the quiet restaurant type," I say once we're seated, the candle between us casting a golden glow across his features, softening the hard lines of his face. "I figured you'd be more about making a statement."

He shrugs one broad shoulder, picking up his menu. "Sometimes the statement is in what you don't show."

The conversation flows easier than I expected as we order, as the wine arrives, as our appetizers disappear. He asks about my work, listens with actual interest when I tell him about a campaign I'm developing. I find myself laughing at his dry commentary on Chicago's business elite—people we both know, though from very different angles.

Not once does he mention the deal between us. Not once does he make me feel like I'm here because I owe him. If I didn't know better, I'd think this was just... a date.

"Why here?" I ask halfway through the main course, curiosity finally getting the better of me.

His eyes flick up to mine, assessing. "Do you always need to know the 'why'?"

"With you? Absolutely."

That pulls a real smile from him—small, but genuine. It transforms his face, and for a second I glimpse what he might have been in another life, one without the weight he carries.

"The chef is an old friend," he says simply. "And the food is good."

After dinner, instead of leading me back to the car, he gestures toward the sidewalk. "Walk with me."

The night air is cool against my skin as we move side by side down the quiet street. He walks with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but that underlying tension still present in the set of his jaw.

"What's your favorite part of the city?" I ask, testing the waters of how much he'll share.

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "The lake at sunrise. Before the crowds come." A pause. "You?"

"The old buildings downtown. The ones with all the history and architectural details no one notices anymore."

We continue like this—small exchanges, little truths offered and received. His favorite season (fall), whether he prefers coffee or tea (espresso, always), the book he's reading (to my surprise, he's working through Dostoevsky).

I study him as we walk, the way the streetlights catch the planes of his face, the careful distance he maintains between us. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, like something wild temporarily at rest.

"You grew up here?" I ask when we pass a neighborhood park.

Something flickers across his expression—a shadow, there and gone. "No. South side." He doesn't elaborate, but there's weight in those two words, history I can sense but can't see. But he lets me keep asking questions until we go back to the car.

By the time we reach my building again, I'm unsettled in a way I hadn't anticipated. Tonight wasn't about power or control or our strange arrangement. It was about something far more dangerous—seeing glimpses of the actual man beneath the capo exterior.

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