Page 2 of Vendetta Vows

"And what about the man lurking in dark alleys?" I retort, then immediately regret it. "Not exactly above-board behavior either, even for this town."

What am I doing? I shouldn't banter with strangers. Especially not the impossibly handsome ones who make my stomach do little flips.

You're acting like Isabella from the script, throwing yourself at danger because he has nice shoulders.

But instead of taking offense, he laughs. A rich, deep sound that makes me want to hear it again.

"I stepped out for a moment." He captures another wayward page. "Not a fan of the photographers floating around."

"Same." I can't help join him in laughter as I retrieve another page. "Ithoughtthat the script would offer a nice distraction to help pass the time before I go back inside, but I'm starting to have second thoughts."

And, I think, he is amuchbetter distraction.

His laugh fills the alley again, and I find myself smiling. We work in silence for a moment, gathering the last few pages.

"So," he says, handing me his collected stack, "it's that bad?"

I snort before I can stop myself. "It's ridiculous. Girl falls for dangerous mob boss who killed her father. Apparently patricide isn't a deal-breaker if the killer has good cheekbones." I wave the pages. "Throw in a well-tailored suit, some brooding stares, and a few passionate kisses, and suddenly murder is forgivable."

Something flickers across his face, so briefly I almost miss it, before another heart-skipping smile returns.

"Totally unrealistic," he agrees, but there's something in his tone I can't quite read.

"Absolute Hollywood fantasy," I continue, suddenly unable to stop myself. "These writers just string together a bunch of sexy clichés without a care for how real criminals operate. The real Bratvas don't wear tailored suits and recite Pushkin while holding guns."

His eyes stay locked on mine, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips as he leans against the brick wall.

"Is that right?" he encourages, and the genuine interest in his baritone voice sends a little thrill through me. "Would you prefer they wear Adidas track suits and quoteThe Sopranosinstead?"

"Well, it'd certainly be more believable."

I shouldn't be saying any of this, especially to a stranger. But something about the seclusion of this alley, and the way he's looking at me like I'm the most fascinating person he's met tonight pulls the words from me before I can stop myself.

It's freeing. Almost intoxicating.

And a reminder of something that I haven't dared to feel for seven years.

He tilts his head. "What else would you change? If you were writing it?"

My heart skips again. No one ever asks my opinion like this. Like what I say matters.

"For starters, trauma doesn't just vanish because someone's attractive." The words tumble out faster now. "Isabella should be suspicious and guarded. The weight of her father's death needs to haunt every interaction she has. Especially with Ivan. How could she even look at the guy without seeing what he did?"

"You don't think she'd ever forgive him?"

"If she does, it won't be because he broods prettily. He needs to go through real atonement, and have a real understanding of what he took from her."

He leans closer, voice dropping to a murmur that seems meant only for me. "So forgiveness isn't the pivotal moment, but realizing the gravity of what he's done?"

The unexpected depth in his response makes me pause. He's not dismissing my critique or defending the script.

He's extending it.

And as he speaks, my chest tightens with emotion.

"Exactly. Because some things can't be undone." My voice catches on the last word.

And just like that, a familiar dark memory claws to the surface.

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