Page 37 of Brutal Vows

“Act like I’m not here. Show me your normal routine,” I demand.

She sends me a withering glare over her shoulder before tossing her purse onto the shelf and dropping onto the narrow bench. The leashed fury in her every move as she toes off her shoes and shoves them under the bench with her heel relays herthoughts loud and clear. I step inside and close the door behind me. After a few seconds, the lock beeps and the sound of a bolt sliding home echoes from behind me.

Loretta gives my shoes a pointed glance before she rises and pulls the tie from her hair. Displeasure roars through me until she stalks deeper into her apartment. The sway of her hips and deft movements of her hands as she destroys my braid and fluffs her hair over her shoulders nearly has me disgracing myself.

She gathers her hair into a bun, yanks her socks off her feet, and snatches a pair of boxing gloves from the wall.

When I realize she took my words literally and is doing what she normally does when she gets home as though I’m not here, I can’t help but smirk.

She’s playing so dirty. I love it. Too much.

I drop the bags beside the table, sit on the bench, pull my shoes off my feet, and fit them beside hers before following the familiar sound of gloves striking a bag.

Sure enough, Loretta throws punch after punch against a full-sized freestanding punching bag in what should be the breakfast nook on the far side of the kitchen. She pauses, shakes out her arms, and meets my gaze across the room.

“Act like I’m not here. Do your normal search and destroy thing,” she quips.

I cross my arms over my chest and watch as she goes back to hitting the bag.

Her form is exquisite. She shifts her weight with agile footwork and follows through with each punch, and as I watch her, I wonder how much she held back over the last twenty-four hours.

She’s not even showing me everything now, either. By her carefully measured speed and her reluctance to veer from a specific set of combinations, I realize she might beat me in the ring if we followed official rules.

Which we won’t. Ever. I’ll never play fair. Not with her.

She’s mine. I’ll win every time, no matter what it takes.

After a few minutes, she pulls one hand out of her glove and retrieves a water bottle from the fridge. With a derisive lift of her brow, she questions my mental capacity before swigging half the bottle down.

I fight back a grimace as I imagine the cold water sliding into my stomach and infecting my chest. Although I’m healed from my surgery eight months ago, sudden temperature changes can be uncomfortable.

I saunter to the counter and settle onto a barstool to watch the show.Mia gattinadoes not disappoint, even though she doesn’t deviate from the combination she began with. Her sheer stubbornness as she pushes through the burn intrigues me. As sweat gathers on her temples and drips down her nape, lust builds in my veins.

Before my joggers lose the battle with my rising cock, I rise and stride to the fridge.

Bottles of water line the middle shelf. Condiments and sauces sit in neat rows on the top shelf. Cheeses and deli meats wait in their caddies. Eggs fill the plastic container on the door. Fruits and vegetables have their own separate drawers. Two glass containers hold leftovers.

I’ve never seen a fridge so rigidly organized. It’s well stocked but not full of unnecessary ingredients, and every surface gleams with cleanliness. I glance at Loretta over my shoulder. If she notices, she doesn’t give me any signs.

I close the fridge and open the freezer. The same meticulous organization glares back at me. She has the ingredients to make a dozen different dishes with no need to run to the store. None are anywhere near their expiration date. All the labels sit in clear view.

I close the freezer. A knot lodges in my gut, but I ignore it and open all the cabinets.

Ismia gattinaa neat freak? Can she not stand superfluous food in her house? Or is she constantly ready to entertain a guest as soon as the doorbell rings?

I realize it extends beyond food when I move into her living room. She seems to have only items with multiple uses. The couch is one of those modular abominations with barely any back support and so low to the ground my knees may as well be in my armpits when I sit. The coffee table lifts to become a dining table. The lamps swivel in all directions. Even the remote is a universal monstrosity for her sound bar, TV, and the gaming console perched on the entertainment system.

The knot in my gut tightens at the set of two identical throw blankets and pillows.

My suspicion grows as I stalk into the hall to the first door on the right.

I hope it’s the guest room. With a boring painting over the headboard and a pastel linen set on the bed—complete with bed skirt and five decorative pillows—and a single vase with faux flowers on the dresser, it looks like something straight out of a magazine. I open the closet and bite back a curse when every surface sparkles. Not a speck of dust infects the shelves. Two hangers hold a set of pajamas and a set of scrubs, but the rest are empty.

With growing aggravation, I stomp back into the hall. Loretta continues pounding on the bag. The bathroom proves just as spotless as the rest of the apartment.

An unexpected wave of anxiety crashes into me as I wrap my digits around the door handle to the last room in the apartment.

If what I suspect is true, then my kidnapping ofmia gattinais unfathomably tragic, but if her room is just as tidy as the restof the apartment, then I’ve lost my touch and should tell Nico Russo he needs a new consigliere.

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