Page 27 of Dangerous Vows

Sarah goes quiet for a beat. “You don’t have to tell me, but if you need help?—”

“No.” I cut her off quickly as my stomach twists. “The less you know, the safer you are.”

A pause. Then Sarah’s voice comes back, softer but still teasing. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Sarah sighs. “Okay, okay. Just know that if you need me, I’m here. But in the meantime, you need a distraction. So, I repeat—how big is his dick?”

I burst out laughing despite myself. “Sarah!”

“I’m just saying, if his ego matches, you could be in trouble.”

I shake my head, and my laughter fades, but its warmth still lingers. “You’re the worst.”

“I prefer the term ‘best bad influence.’ Now, get some sleep. And maybe, just maybe, try not to murder your boss tomorrow.”

I hang up with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

My father wants me back.

I won’t go. I can’t. And with that thought, I fall into a fitful sleep.

PIETRO

CHOKEHOLDS AND CHAMPAGNE

The room is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and fresh linens. My brothers and I are dressed to the nines. The sharp lines of our custom-made suits reflect our power and status. My jet-black suit has a subtle sheen that catches the dim lighting of the lounge area close to the guests. We’ve been relegated to this room as we wait for the bride.

My white dress shirt is starched and crisp, clinging to my muscles. I left the top button open now, knowing my tattoos aren’t fully covered. The three rings and tats on my hands are fitting for my world. The knot of my tie hangs loose as we wait for the ceremony to begin. Matteo adjusts his cufflinks—the Borrelli family crest embossed in gold—while Renalto, the groom himself, paces near the old fireplace, rolling his shoulders like he’s getting ready for a boxing match.

“You ready for this?” I ask him, smirking as I pull a flask from my jacket pocket and sip whiskey.

“There's no backing out now. This fucking curse is hanging over me like a bird waiting to shit. I hate waiting, and I hate feeling like a sitting duck. I want today to be perfect. Abigail deserves that.” I take four steps and hand the flask to Renalto, who exhales, shaking his head with a half-laugh. “Women, we can’t live with them. We can’t live without them,” he smirked, tossing back a belt.

“Damn right,” Matteo grins. "We didn't put up with months of wedding planning just for you to get cold feet,” he grumbles.

Before Renalto can respond, a sharp knock at the door has us all turning. One of our guards enters, his face tight. “Boss, we have a new development.”

Matteo and I exchange glances before Matteo speaks. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Warehouses are burning. Morettis.”

Silence stretches, thick and unspoken. We all know what this means. Moretti’s losing control of his operations, or someone’s sending a message. Either way, it can potentially ruin this day if we are next.

Renalto sighs, hands the flask to Matteo, and rubs the back of his neck. “Not today. Of all damn days.”

“We'll handle it," I say firmly. "No one ruins your wedding.”

Matteo pulls out his phone, steps to the side to make the call, and likely arranges for our men to monitor the situation. He mumbles into the phone before he turns back to us. “Let’s keep this quiet for now. If this is a play against Moretti, we’re spectators, not players—until we decide otherwise.”

We’re all on pins and needles when the door swings open again, and in strides Bianca, our youngest sibling.

Her dress is deep green, a flowing satin that makes her look like she’d rather be in combat boots than heels. She wears confidence like a second skin, her long, dark hair pulled back in an elegant style that likely took her minimal effort.

Bianca has spent a year secluded in Switzerland, sent to an elite private school that doubled as a training ground for martial arts and foreign languages. She could disarm a man in four languages before he even realized she was a threat. And yet, she dares to smirk at us like she’s here to enjoy the champagne and debauchery.

“What’s this? Are the legendary Borrelli brothers all looking like they might puke? Touching. Really.” She saunters over with a glass of champagne in her hand and drinks from the flute with too much ease.

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