Page 102 of Dangerous Vows

Isabella – “means ‘devoted to God.’ Too soft?”

Romeo – “Too romantic, cliché?”

Adriana – “Sounds like fire—a handful like her mother.”

And next to the notepad is a book:Your Baby’s First Year.

I press my hand to my mouth and smile so hard I’m afraid my face will get stuck.

I need to get him back. I need to bring back the things we do that make us—us.

I’ll cook dinner. Nothing fancy—pasta, salad, something comforting but straightforward.

Tonight, I’m done waiting and no longer tiptoeing around the silence stretching between us like a chasm that dwarfs the Continental Divide. Pietro hasn’t touched me in weeks. Hasn’t kissed me, and he barely even looks at me unless it’s to ask if I’ve eaten or am in pain.

It’s torture.

So, I have to fight for what I want. No cause could be more worthy of a fight, and I won’t play fair.

It won’t be with bullets or bloodshed—this war is younger than that. This is about us. And I know exactly how to disarm a Borrelli.

My grandmother’s recipe for pasta all’Amatriciana is simple, bold, and spicy—like us—and should do the trick. I spend the day making a list. I move my fingers through cans in the pantry and grab one tomato and a box of linguini. I pull herbs and Italian ham out of the refrigerator and peruse the cabinet for spices.

I start the sauce from scratch, and soon, the scent of simmering tomatoes and pancetta curls through the house like a promise.

When I taste it, it’s amazing.

Now, phase two.. What to wear?

The dress is black and slinky, something I took for granted before vendettas and safe houses became the norm. It hugs my curves like a second skin, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh. I curl my hair, sweep on a bit of makeup, and dig through the digital music library on the stereo until I find the playlist—classic Italian love songs.

I hit play.Volaredrifts through the house like silk mist. And it’s not a second too soon, as Pietro is home earlier than I expected.

My heart leaps when I hear his footsteps—heavy, deliberate, slower than usual. His cologne precedes him. I inhale deeply to smell him and to summon my courage.

I smooth the dress down my sides and meet him in the entryway of the kitchen, prepared to use a wooden spoon in my hand like a weapon if he refuses to eat with me.

But his gaze dips, and then his eyes travel over me, and then he freezes.

His jaw is tight, but he can’t recover from his gaze that moves over me again, slower this time. He starts at my neckline, then over my torso and abdomen, and finally settles on my bare thigh, which shows beneath the hem.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, voice low and unreadable.

“Dinner,” I say simply. “And maybe a chance to talk.”

Pietro’s eyes flick to the stove, and the pans that I’ve kept warm, anticipating his arrival. Then, his eyes shift back to me. “You shouldn’t be on your feet this long.” It’s just like him to use the baby as an excuse to get me out of his sight.

“I’m fine,” I say softly. “I needed to do something.”

He crosses his arms. “What are you doing?”

“Making peace,” I murmur. “It’s an apology. There’s enough war and bloodshed. Can’t we be adults for one night?”

He doesn’t move for a second. Then he exhales, setting his gun on the counter, and walks to the wine rack.

I guess this means we’re a go. I have to be prepared for him to shut me out, but something tells me Lady Luck is on my side.

I plate the dinner with care. The table is set with linen napkins I found, and I hear him as he pours two glasses of wine. I know they drink wine while pregnant in Italy, so I’m not surprised. Besides, it’s the liquid courage I need.

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