Page 40 of Brutal Vows

When my heart leaps at the prospect, I know there’s no turning back.

Loretta Giordano is mine.

All mine.

Chapter 11

Loretta Giordano

A sparring sessionhas never left me a boneless heap on the floor before, but I like it. Satisfaction flows through my soul. None of my attempts at self-soothing have been half as effective as beating on the massive male who kidnapped me and threatened my sister.

He let me hit him pretty hard without complaining. Most of the men I spar with at the gym always whine that my punches hurt so much more only because my fists are so small, but I know it’s just them being pussies. Ermanno Mancini doesn’t have an ounce of femininity in him. He’s all male with rock-hard muscles for days and overwhelming strength.

I want to think he didn’t hold back, but I’m not that egotistical or delusional. He offered me a service and, fuck, he delivered.

If he were to stalk back in here glistening with sweat and his muscles pumped from overpowering me, I’d go belly up. Ankles behind my ears. Hell, I’d probably get on my knees and beg him to let me suck him off.

My core clenches. I’ve never given head before, but with him, the experience might be so overwhelming I orgasm just from watching him find pleasure in my mouth.

Wow. I’ve lost my mind. He stole it.

Ermanno Mancini stole my heart and my mind.

I scoff and shake my head, but tears trail down my temples and sobs wrack my chest.

Alone and sprawled out on my apartment floor like so many times before, I can’t help but notice the stark changes deep within me all because a ruthless mafia man barged into my life yesterday.

Was it only yesterday? What the hell is wrong with me?

I drape my arm over my face but can’t stop crying, so I ride the wave of emotions, expecting them to wane any second, but the storm never abates.

Strong arms lift me off the floor and cradle me against a broad chest. My torrent of tears worsens. I cover my face with my hands, mortified over my lack of control but unable to stop, and tuck my face against his shoulder.

He smells too good. Without his normal cologne and after using my fragrance-free soap for sensitive skin, he smells clean and masculine. Very masculine.

I stink. Even through my snot and tears, my stench invades my nostrils.

He sets me on the bench in the shower and pulls the detachable showerhead off the holder before adjusting the temperature and slipping it into the handle built into the bench.

The door shuts. I peek through my fingers and sob harder as I confirm he left me alone in the shower. With limbs made of jelly and emotions pouring from my eyes, I strip and wash from top to bottom. By the time I rinse the conditioner out of my hair, sobs no longer wrack my chest. As I stand and rise on tiptoe to place the showerhead back in its top holder, tears no longer trail down my face. After I dry off my hands and face, I step out onto the bathmat and grab some toilet paper to clear my nose and end my pathetic sniffling before drying the rest of my body.

Belatedly realizing I don’t have a set of clothes to change into, I wrap the towel under my arms and peek out through a crack in the door.

I jump when Ermanno’s bare chest fills my vision, but he offers me the pajamas I left at the top of my clean pile in my closet.

“Thanks,” I croak through a sore throat as I take them.

He nods and pulls the door closed. I fumble a few times as I pull on the baggy long-sleeved shirt and fluffy pants. The dog and pizza pattern is absolutely ridiculous, and the orange and green colors shouldn’t work together, but the moment I saw it, I knew I needed a pair.

Which is why this set is three sizes too big.

I cinch the drawstring of the pants tight and tie it, but lose patience when the sleeves refuse to cooperate after the third time I try to roll them. I huff, bunch them onto my shoulders, and finish my facial skincare routine to give my emotions more time to settle.

When I open the door, Ermanno is right there. I fiddle with the door handle and look everywhere except at him as I gather my thoughts. After a deep breath laced with masculine pheromones, I meet his eyes and nearly melt through the floor from the soft, loving expression written on his rugged, handsome face.

After I killed my mother, I never thought anyone would look at me like that again.

It’s because he doesn’t know. The moment he finds out I’m the reason my mother died, he’ll hate me too, just like everyone else.

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