Page 101 of Dangerous Vows

“I am,” I admit. “It was the first time I laughed in a long time.”

“Good.” He pulls something from the bag and holds it to me—a giant, plush, stuffed bear, wearing a pale blue onesie with a little bear stitched over the heart. “I thought the baby could use a friend.”

I can’t suppress a smile. “You bought a stuffed bear.”

“Protection detail,” he deadpans. “Goes by the name Don Snuggles.”

I snort, the laugh slipping out too fast to catch.

Then I’m hit with a wave of nausea. I press a hand to my stomach and close my eyes, trying to breathe through it.

Pietro doesn’t hesitate. He is already moving toward the fridge, popping a ginger ale before I even ask. He hands it to me, brushing his knuckles against my wrist.

“Drink,” he said. “Small sips.”

It was sweet of him to know what to do to help.

“I want to start working again,” I said softly. “Even just remote stuff. I need to dosomething. I’m going stir-crazy here.

When I look up, I find him watching me, and he frowns slightly.

“Absolutely not,” he says immediately.

“Pietro—”

“Amara, no.” He folds his arms decisively. “Besides the safety risk, I don’t want you overworking. Until this feud is over, you’re not leaving. And I don’t want you working.”

“So, I’m a prisoner.”

“You’reprotected,” he counters.

There is a softness in his voice that almost makes me want to relent.

“And when this war is over?” I huff, fishing for answers.

“We’ll deal with it. Until then, you stay put.”

I’m not surprised at his answer. If their enemy gets hold of me, the Borellis will cease to exist. And from what I’ve heard, they’re the oneswho broke up the human trafficking ring. I should be pissed about it, considering it changed the course of my life.

But when I think about the fact that I could have been trafficked, or Sarah, I’m glad they did.

The Borrelli’s are cut from a different cloth.

When Pietro’s phone rings, I hear his muffled voice. He quickly leaves, stating he’ll be back in an hour.

I wander through the hallway on his side of the house and find his office door slightly ajar. I pause, curiosity tugging at me as I glance around for Arman.

He’s nowhere in sight. I slip inside, looking to learn something about him.

The room smells like cedar and something darker, like espresso and cologne. His desk is neat, with everything in its place.

But there, sitting half-tucked under a leather-bound planner, is a notepad.

Baby names?

I blink.

Scrawled in his sharp handwriting were columns—boys and girls. Names I loved. Names I hadn’t even thought of. Some were underlined. Some had notes beside them:

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