Page 35 of Dangerous Vows

The sheets are soft and far too luxurious for someone like me. I wake slowly, stretching against the plush mattress, blinking as the early morning light filters through the oversized windows. I don’t have to look to know Pietro is gone.

The place feels empty without him. But I don’t have time for that now. Those thoughts and feelings need to stay in the box. I don’t have the luxury of attachments. I know that anyone remotely near me can get hurt, whether they are in the mafia or not. Bystanders are often hurt simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I sigh, wishing I could stay here all day and sulk in the silk sheets that slip against my skin. With a heavy sigh, I scoot to the edge of the magnificent bed. My bare feet meet the cool floor as I stand and move through the suite.

I’m filled with curiosity about my father’s fate, and I’m starving. I pull on Pietro’s shirt, sliding my arms into it. It smells like him: minty, clean, like a spring day in the country. His cologne must have cost thousands, but it’s worth every penny.

I cautiously walk deeper into the hotel suite, but I find it’s more like a home, a costly and expansive home, as I catch a glimpse of Central Park through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

This is more than a temporary stay as I find multiple bedrooms, asprawling living room, and a view of the city that feels like something out of a dream.

Or a trap.

I reach for my phone, anxious to see what happened to my father. I’m torn. I briefly contemplate what will happen if he dies. Would it really be that terrible? Then, I’m consumed with guilt.

I scroll through the news out of habit as much as I am interested. I pull up Page Six, which is already buzzing about the Borrelli wedding. Flashes of silk and gold, expensive champagne, and handsome men in tailored suits fill my screen. The celebration appears to be something from a different world. A world I had a front-row seat to last night, wrapped in Pietro’s arms, nestled against his alarmingly muscular body.

But it’s the headline below that makes my stomach twist.

My father.

Hospitalized.

Stable.

Damn. And double damn.

I let out a slow breath, staring at the words like I could make them disappear. He’s not dead. Not yet. But maybe this will buy me time.

Setting my phone down, I walk to the kitchen, hungry for my caffeine fix, when I pass the dining room table. And that’s when I find a note in Pietro’s handwriting, which is sharp and precise, just like him. I smirk.

Amara, order breakfast. Dial zero, and Pedro will make anything you want. Later-P.

He’s gone, and my heart sinks like a rock. There goes my hope that we’d be anything more than a hookup.

Disappointment flickers through me before I can shove it down. I don’t know what I expected. He’s not the kind of man to linger. Still, something about waking up alone in an unfamiliar place unsettles me. I wish he were here with me. But I’m being ridiculous.

I shake off my yearnings for Pietro when my stomach grumbles. I pick up the phone and order Belgian waffles with a stack of bacon. I’m famished.

As I wait, I decide to take advantage of the state-of-the-artbathroom. I slip out of my shirt and step into the high-end walk-in shower. I am captivated by its sheer enormity, wishing I could wash my nightmares away. I step into the steam and enjoy the hot water, noting that the water pressure is illegal.

I dry off and slip back into his dress shirt. I’ve already decided to wear it when I leave. A quiet reminder that last night was real.

Pietro strikes me as a man with the memory of an elephant. He’s not one to talk unless he has something to say, either.

He’s a Borrelli, which means he’s worth billions.

My father is right. He’s connected. It all fits. He has a driver, and I notice men around the club who aren’t the standard variety for security.

Of all the men I could have met at the club, it’s ironic that I picked a man in the mafia. I don’t want to be in the mafia; perhaps my father was right about that, too. I can’t escape it.

I wonder what role he plays in the family business—this penthouse has to be worth hundreds of millions, and he doesn’t strike me as the boardroom type.

I try to recall what I’ve heard about the Borrellis. I remember the city council’s heated debates over the height restrictions for this hotel. But now that’s not all. The family also sponsors the domestic violence safe houses for battered and abused women.

My thoughts are interrupted by a soft knock on the door. I open it, and a hotel staff member greets me dressed in a starched, white uniform with red trim. I thank him and look around for my purse to tip him. Then, my heart sinks when I realize this meal probably costs a few hundred dollars, and the tip would be more than I can afford.

I glance at the man, who gives me a knowing look and says, “There’s no need. It all goes on Mr. Borrellis tab,” before he turns on his heels. He lets himself out like he does this every day. And perhaps he does.

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