Page 37 of Dangerous Vows

Pietro.

How will he handle this? Handle me?

I hate taking off his shirt and giving it a place of honor, hanging it on the only wooden hanger in my closet, and fastening the top button so it won’t slide off. It’s the focal point of my sorry-ass-looking wardrobe.

I tug on another pantsuit, put my hair up, and apply makeup sparingly. I can’t afford to replace it, and don’t know why I’m even using it for work.

Except I want Pietro to see me at my best.

Last night was not my best.

I grab my handbag and hug Sarah before walking out the door. I enter the night, unaware of whose eyes might be watching me as I walk toward the subway.

PIETRO

SHE ARGUES LIKE SHE BELONGS TO ME

After spending time with my brother before he jets out to meet contractors, I return to my penthouse. My heart races as I approach the door, even though I know she won’t be here.

She either followed my instructions or was hungry, judging by how much she ate. The table is covered with plates, and most of the food has been eaten. I see a note.

Thanks for breakfast. A.

I chuckle. It appears we can communicate after all.

I enter the bedroom and am surprised to find the bed made. She left her shirt, which means she took mine. My heartfelt smile emerges. I pick up her garment and sniff it before I tuck it under my pillow. Then I find her panties and smile. I pick them up and sniff them before I place them in my dresser drawer.

I listen to Italian music on the vintage record player, tidy the dining room, and put the trays outside the door. I contemplate Amara and I working together. Even now, I wonder what we’re going to argue over tonight. I have to admit, she has fire. And I love a passionate woman.

I walk into my office and pull my laptop out of the safe. I review the investments for the family and make phone calls. Renalto sent me pictures of the two of them on the Amalfi coast, and for a minute, I’mhomesick. I’m happy for him, and it appears he thwarted the Borrelli curse.

I eat a large steak and pasta for dinner, sipping on an expensive bottle of Sicilian wine, but I miss Amara. I shave and shower before I dress in a Brioni suit and Italian loafers. I’m more at home in jeans and sneakers, but this is what the job requires. One can’t be commanding while walking around in everyday streetwear.

I slide my laptop into the safe and close it before I head out for what I assume will be an interesting evening.

The night at work was not as smooth as I had hoped. The club hums with energy, but there’s an edge to it, something simmering beneath the surface. It doesn’t help that Amara keeps challenging me at every turn, and I swear she does it just to piss me off.

She storms toward me as I lean against the VIP bar, looking like she’s ready to throw something. “Did you seriously book two VIP tables for those guys without running it by me?”

I barely glance up. “They’re high rollers.”

“They’re dangerous.” She stands authoritatively and my cock twitches. She’s adorable when she’s riled up.

I smirk, knowing it’ll piss her off more. “So am I.”

She exhales sharply, crossing her arms. “This is a business. I make the calls on events, and you’re a control freak who doesn’t understand the concept of compromise.”

I finally gave her my full attention, my eyes locking onto hers.

“Compromise? You mean letting you decide who walks through those doors while I sit back and hope you don’t piss off the wrong person? What if someone comes in with a gun or a knife? I supply the protection.”

She throws her hands up. “Oh, so now you suddenly care about safety?”

“Only when it involves you,” I say smoothly, and I see the way her breath catches. Not with fear. Something else. Something I want to push until she admits what’s between us is real.

She moves closer to me. “And what is it with your family anyway? I’ve heard things,” she says in a low voice.

“What have you heard?”

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