Page 42 of Sinner's Vows

“And by the look of you, you’ve been for weeks.”

“Let’s not talk about that,” I beg, but I bet it’s all he wants to talk about.

He has the plates and cutlery ready and is holding them out to me, but I hesitate. “Do you mind changing your shirt?”

I guess it doesn’t bother him as much as it bothers me, since he can’t see it. It’s the only thing I see when I look at him, and it drags my thoughts all over the place.

He gives me a calculating look and then shrugs. “Sure. Come with.”

He shows me the way in the opposite direction of where my room is situated, and I lead, passing closed door after closed door.

“In here,” he says and opens the one to his room. He switches on the lights but immediately dims them.

The interior is similar to mine, but much bigger. Darker colors, more masculine, yet impersonal. He walks past me to the mirrored closet, his eyes never leaving mine, and opens it to reveal a row of suit jackets, shirts, trousers, and drawers. It’s as if we’re in a hotel room but he’s been here for a while.

I drop my gaze when he turns to keep an eye on me while he unbuttons his shirt.

“Pick a color then, sweetheart.”

I can’t stop myself. My eyes flicker over his hands, where they’re busy with the suddenly very sensual motions of unbuttoning his shirt. And then, my gaze glues to his chest as the fabric falls away, with every button revealing more of his tattooed pecs. The visual sets loose a riptide of tingles down to my core.

No. Not this man.

I felt it when he carried me, when he held me in his arms. Dominic Scalera is strong, virile, and a man in his prime. Every muscle is toned, his abdomen ripped with subtle ridges of a six-pack, and as he plucks the shirt from his trousers, my gaze dipsto the V-shape muscles on his hips that draws the way south, to something I’ve never wanted. Not after my first time.

And yet, I find myself taking in the shape of him and the subtle hint that he isn’t small, not in any way or form. Heat flushes my face, and I look away to the bed, and then I blush even more.

“Grey,” I say, my voice edgy and maybe a bit louder than needed. There are several black shirts, but seeing him in one would only remind me of Franco and that’s the last thing I need. This man and Franco will never fall under the same category in my mind.

He chuckles as he tosses the bloodied shirt to the laundry basket in the corner, completely unaffected. “Grey, like my morals. Good choice, sweetheart.”

22

DOMINIC

For someone who has Randazzo’s seal tattooed on her lower belly, she blushes like a virgin while watching a man take off his shirt. And it makes my body react in places I’d rather it not given how?—

God just fucking help me here already. Ariana Morelli is the last woman on this planet I should think of sexually. Reminder:she could be my sister. And even if she isn’t, I have no business with a woman from Italy who has been trafficked to the States.

Our crime is ‘clean,’ and she is a stain that won’t come out.

Il Consigliohas steered clear from anything that level of illegal for years. The Don was never really into this type of shit to start off with. When it came to women, he was a real man-whore, and to say it straight, he was the last fucking guy who should have ever been let loose around women in the first place, but human trafficking? Nope. There are other jobs way less dirty, with easier money, less risk, and a better return on investment. And then came Matteo with bitcoin, Benedict with his hacking, Luca and Stephano with their e-commerce and clubs, all built on the foundation of the real estate empire the Don built. Money-wise, we’re untouchable.

We don’t traffic people, yet here I have a woman, in my bedroom, and she isn’t here of her own free will.

Brushing the thought away for now—because what the fuck are we actually going to do with her once those DNA results come back—I slide a light grey shirt from a hanger and dress again, making sure she only sees my good side. In the dimmed light and with my tattoos, she won’t see much to start off with, but I don’t want to show her the proof of my experience in the field of torture.

It’s quiet as we head back to the kitchen, but I observe her all the way. She’s trying to be subtle about it, but this one is on high alert all the time. She’s counting the doors, the steps from one place to the next, the light switches as we pass them, mapping the layout of the house as we go.

One thing is for sure, I can’t afford to take my eyes off her or let my guard down. Couldn’t leave her in the kitchen either. She’d probably wait for me around a corner with a knife and stab it right into a main artery. We caught her escape attempt on camera at the clinic, and Luca and I watched it a few times once we were done in the basement—we’d deal with Boris’s revelation soon enough, but first, our other guest. On the footage, she ran around as if she had her escape plan all mapped out. Something about this woman tells me we shouldn’t underestimate her.

When we’re back in the kitchen, I hand her a plate, and we sit down at the kitchen island. For several minutes, we’re busy dishing up from the various containers, and when I take a bite of my marinara, it’s already cold.

“Do you want to heat yours up?” I ask, breaking the tense silence which has stretched all the way from my bedroom.

“I’m good, thank you. This is delicious.”

She’s already two bites down, and my thoughts turn back to Franco and how she watched on as Stephano beat him to death. Then my mind flips over to the business this afternoon.She watched her tormentor being brutally killed, and I, in turn, became the monster who took photos of Igor Petrov’slong-lost fucking nephewwhere he hung strangled, before we let him drop to the floor. More photos. Evidence. Proof. To verify the other fucking Boris’s wild claim if we need to.

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