Page 37 of His Ruthless Vow

Iwalk two paces behind Luca as we approach Giovanni Cappalletti's office, keeping my steps measured and my facial expression carefully blank. The building itself is unassuming—a renovated warehouse with brick walls and reinforced steel doors. The type of place that doesn't attract attention unless you know what to look for.

Working for the Don for so long, I do.

"You ready?" Luca asks without turning, his voice low and even. The question is perfunctory. Whether I'm ready or not is irrelevant.

Am I ready to face the Don I turned my back on and ask that he never retaliate against me?

"Of course."

We're here to end a war—though war might be too dignified a term for the endless cycle of retaliation that's been going on between our families. Territory disputes. Men disappearing. Product intercepted. The usual bloody chess match played out across Chicago's underworld.

Giovanni's men pat us down at the door—a formality since everyone knows we wouldn't be stupid enough to bring weapons to this kind of meeting. I submit to the search with practiced indifference, though I note how the guard's hands linger longer on me than on Luca. They all know what I am. Traitor. Turncoat. The man who walked away from the Cappalletti family and lived to tell about it.

The interior of Giovanni's office carries the stench of cigars and expensive cologne. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, and hunting trophies stare down with glass eyes. The man himself sits behind a mahogany desk, his fingers steepled under his chin. At sixty-five, Giovanni Cappalletti still cuts an imposing figure—silver-streaked black hair, shoulders that haven't lost their breadth with age, and eyes that hold decades of calculated violence.

Those eyes narrow when they land on me.

"Luca," he acknowledges with a slight nod, deliberately ignoring my presence. "I assume this is important enough to warrant bringing...him... into my house."

Luca doesn't bother with pleasantries. He never does. His face remains a perfect mask of indifference as he steps forward and tosses a manila folder onto Giovanni's desk. It lands with a soft thud that somehow carries more weight than it should.

"I've had enough of this little war with the Cappallettis," Luca says, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather instead of territory and bloodshed. As if I don’t know that he’d love to kill this Don like he did his father for kidnapping his cousin Maria. "It's time we end it, no?"

Giovanni's gaze flicks between Luca and the folder, suspicion evident in the tightening of his jaw. "And what's this supposed to be?"

"A repayment of sorts," Luca answers simply. "Open it."

I remain still, watching the drama unfold with calculated detachment. I already know what's in that folder—the fruits of Elliott Romano's digital excavation. The hacker had delivered more than expected: financial records that would make the IRS salivate, evidence of Alfonso Figarello skimming profits, proof of bribed judges, compromised cops. Enough dirt to bury the entire Cappalletti operation six feet under.

Giovanni's thick fingers flip through the pages, his expression darkening with each turn. A vein pulses at his temple. His knuckles whiten around the edge of a particularly damning document.

"Where did you get this?" he demands, voice dangerously low.

"Does it matter?" I interject, speaking for the first time. "What matters is we have it."

Giovanni's gaze snaps to me, hatred burning in his eyes. "You don't speak in my house, Rossi. Not after what you did."

I meet his stare without flinching. "What I did was survive."

"Enough," Luca cuts in, his voice soft but carrying finality. He leans forward slightly, those ice-blue eyes of his devoid of emotion. "Here's what's going to happen, Giovanni. This war ends today. You call your men off. We call ours off. We respect territories and stay out of each other's business. Just like we do with the Buetis."

Giovanni's jaw works, back teeth grinding as he weighs his options. I can practically see the calculations running behind his eyes—what he loses by agreeing, what he loses by refusing. The manila folder sits open before him, a Pandora's box of secrets that could tear his family apart from the inside.

After what feels like an eternity, he gives a single, curt nod.

The victory settles between us like fine mist as we walk out of the Cappalletti fortress, but I barely taste it. Giovanni's surrender should feel sweeter after what Alfonso Figarello did to me, how he stripped my ambitions away, relegated me to fucking babysitting duty. I should be savoring this moment—watching the old man squirm as he realized we had him by the throat. Instead, my mind keeps drifting elsewhere, to dark curls and a razor-sharp tongue that cuts just as deep as it entices.

"That went better than expected," Luca comments as we slide into the back of his black Bentley. His driver pulls away smoothly, leaving Giovanni's compound behind.

I nod, my eyes drawn to the notification-free screen of my phone. Why am I even checking? It's not like I told her to contact me today. Our arrangement doesn't require her constant attention—just her availability when I call. And yet here I am, like some fucking teenager, waiting for a message that isn't coming.

"We've bought ourselves at least six months of peace," I say, forcing my thoughts back to business. "Time enough to secure the north side properly."

Luca watches me with those ice-blue eyes that make hardened criminals piss themselves. Nothing escapes him—it's what makes him both an excellent ally and a dangerous enemy.

"You're distracted," he states flatly. No question, just observation.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders to release the tension building between my shoulder blades. My territory needs attention. The businesses need reviewing. The soldiers need direction. A million things should occupy my mind right now—none of them involving Kendra Washington's smile or the way her fingers unconsciously stroked Paige's fur when she thought I wasn't looking.

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