Page 49 of Brutal Vows

I curl my hand into a fist and tuck it beside my hip.

Ermanno hasn’t met my eyes since we left my apartment, and while I understand why he’s vigilant about our surroundings—the world is a dangerous place, especially for him—dread builds in my chest as the distance between us grows.

He was busy on his phone the last ten minutes before we left, too. His face grew more serious as he texted back and forth with someone, and my skepticism grew when he dressed in suit pants and a long sleeve button down, but when he rolled the sleeves instead of donning a suit coat, I decided not to voice my concerns.

Is this it? Was it all some elaborate scheme to break down my defenses before he dragged me to stand trial for my stepsister’s wrongs? Now that he had fun with me, is he throwing me to the wolves?

I push the thoughts aside and curse as I instinctively rub my sweaty palms on my thighs again.

“You must not have many repeat customers,” Ermanno growls.

I jump.

“What?” I ask.

“Sweaty palms. Jumpy. Are you this nervous at work?”

When I realize he’s insinuating I’m a terrible anesthesiologist, fury roars through me.

“Excuse me? Just because we had sex doesn’t give you the right to insult me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And I’m not nervous at work. I studied hard for twelve years to learn everything I needed to learn to become one of the best anesthesiologists in the state of New York. I don’t get nervous at work because I have time to prepare for all outcomes.” My heart jolts as he flicks his eyes over me for the first time in what feels like ages. “You haven’t let me prepare for anything,” I accuse.

He sighs and places his hand, palm up, on the center console.

After a moment of consideration, I weave my fingers into his and breathe a silent sigh of relief when he gives me a reassuring squeeze.

“We’re taking my father to a doctor’s appointment,” he says.

The way he keeps his eyes trained on the busy streets and his heavy tone suggests his father’s health isn’t good.

“Oh, I—wait. You’re taking me to meet your father while I’m wearing sweats?” I scold.

“Trust me,gattina, the cute and cuddly outfit is exactly what we need for this meeting.”

I stiffen and groan as I throw my head back against the headrest.

“He met Julieta all those years ago, didn’t he?”

“Ifmio papàwasn’t such a devoted husband tomia mamma, she’d have tried to get in his bed too, but he saw through her the first time he laid eyes on her. The bastard warned me, but I wouldn’t listen,” he says.

“I think I like your father already,” I deadpan.

He chuckles.

“I hope so,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Is he sick?” I ask.

“Stage four lung cancer. A few months at most.”

My heart quails. I swallow and squeeze his hand.

We drive in silence for a few minutes.

It may hurt, but my gut tells me I’m going to love his father more than I love my own. It’s cruel to ask someone to fall in love with a dying man, but for Ermanno, I already do.

This is going to hurt so fucking much.

A familiar landmark catches my attention. I’ve never seen it in real life, but my father made sure I knew how to identify it. In fact, my father made sure I kneweverythingabout the family who owns it.

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