Page 79 of Dangerous Vows

Matteo nods. “Already arranged. Blindfolded and on the way in. We can’t be too careful.”

We don’t trust anyone—not when a Borrelli has a target on his back.

Sarah steps forward, hesitating nervously.

Matteo glances at Luca. “Take her to the Borrelli mansion. She’ll be safe with my wife.”

“Will she be alright?” she asks anxiously, eyeing Amara, who is limp in my arms.

“She will be,” I say without looking at her as I carry Amara into the house.

I vaguely hear Joseph speak, and then they disappear into the night.

Inside, I lower Amara onto the bed in the master bedroom, my jaw is aching from how hard I’ve been clenching it.

“Who shot at you?” she asks, her voice hoarse. It’s only now that I realize my arm was grazed and that it’s my blood on my shirt.

I kneel in front of her. “You tell me.”

Her lips part, and for the first time, I see it. The hesitation. The fear.

“It’s my father… or Miloš Petrovic.”

I go still.

The room crackles with unspoken tension.

Matteo steps forward. “Miloš Petrovic? He doesn’t have this kind of reach.”

“He knows Amara works at the club. He showed up there. The club was full of his men tonight,” I tell Matteo.

“He could have someone inside Moretti’s organization feeding him information. If that’s the case he would be able to get all the intel he needs to burn Moretti’s empire to the ground,” I reply, my eyebrows furrow pensively when I look at Matteo, waiting for his reaction. But his face is somber as he contemplates my words.

Then, I turn. I watch Amara closely, and the way her fingers are clenched and the fact that her breath becomes ragged like she’s teetering on the edge of something.

“Elio,” she says finally, her voice but a whisper. “The man in the black SUV.”

Matteo and I exchange glances.

“My father’s right-hand man. The one who always knew where I was, but I didn’t know how,” she gasps. She swallows, and I notice her lips are dry. “He’s the only one who knows whereallthe warehouses and stash houses are.”

This calls Elio’s loyalty into question. I admit it’s logical that he’s the mole. “He’s a traitor,” I murmur, and I’m surprised when I realize I spoke instead of thinking to myself.

Amara exhales sharply like she’s been holding this inside for too long.

I shift closer as I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands grabbing hers, giving them a gentle squeeze for support. “Who hurt you?”

She stills. The amusement in her expression fades, replaced by something guarded.

“Amara,” I say, my tone is louder now because I’m angry someone did this to her, someone who should love her and protect her.

Her hands open and close in a rhythm—a cadence she’s using to keep herself calm.

“Everyone hurts me, what’s the difference?” she says in her soft voice that tears me apart.

It’s the first honest answer she’s given me.

But it’s not fucking enough.

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