Page 67 of Dangerous Vows

God help me, I love him with all my heart. I hope one day he will understand what I’m about to do.

I have to marry Vukan to save his life.

I’ve been befriending Luca, hoping to build his trust. He’s handsome, but nowhere near Pietro’s chiseled chin and unforgettable good looks. He’s friendly and young. And this is why I hope he’ll be easy to distract. I will slip out of the penthouse, and with any luck, it won’t be immediately discovered.

Pietro and I close the club and climb into the Hummer. I glance out the window and see not one but two black SUVs on the street. Even though the streetlights are dim, they cast a shadow on Elio, and I can see the gun in his hand.

He’s sending me a message. The clock is ticking.

I hold my breath, hoping they won’t shoot Pietro. He lets us pass, and I turn in the seat to see if he’s following us, but I can’t tell. I’m sure Joseph has an eye out for that sort of thing, and if discovered, it would tip the Borrellis off as to their plans.

Even I know the element of surprise is an advantage in war.

The mood inside the vehicle as we ride to the penthouse is morose. The air is thick with something foul—the stench of a dying relationship.

It seems my fairy tale has ended abruptly.

I’m cranky and hormonal. I feel like crying one minute and happy the next. It’s unnerving and can only mean one thing.

I’m pregnant.

I can’t get a test without alerting Pietro. How do I feel about this? I don’t have the luxury of time to contemplate my feelings because I’m worried about how I can pass the baby off as Vukan’s.

We arrive home, and I slip into the penthouse and head to the bathroom to undress. I’m eyeing the antique clawfoot tub. The bathroom counter around my sink is filled with the expensive makeup Pietro insisted on buying for me. I want to cry when I eye the raspberry bath bombs that sit on the bathtub tray. He’s been nothing but thoughtful and generous.

Pietro plays Italian music as I run the bath. When the water is warm and the tub is filled, I slip into the warm abyss. I find it relaxing, or perhaps it’s comforting because it is a part of our routine—Pietro and his music and me, having time to myself. I never had time to do this when I worked two jobs.

After twenty minutes of sulking, I step out and pull out the plush bath towel around me. I’m blotting the water that clings to my body when the door is flung open, hitting the doorstop. I’m startled as Pietro storms in.

“You’re pregnant.” His eyes flash at me, accusing me of this apparent infraction, and I’m speechless. Damn him, and his uncanny memory. He remembers my routine, and he knows I love to eat everything he sets before me.

“What do you mean?” I try to dissuade him, but I know it’s useless. He’s as cunning as a fox, and he has the memory of an elephant.

He grabs my arm. “We’ve been together for weeks, and we have sex every day. You’ve never had a period.”

“What if that’s normal?”

His face contorted into a look I’d never witnessed.

“You’re lying. You did this on purpose. Did your father put you up to it?” he sneers.

“We’ve had a ton of sex, Pietro. If you have enough sex, it’s going to happen eventually. What did you expect?” Never mind the fact that he knows who my father is, and he never mentioned it to me. I didn’t plan to get pregnant, but then again, I’m not the best at remembering to take the pill. It was never important before because I wasn’t seeing anyone.

“I didn’t expect this! I expected you to be responsible and tell me you weren’t taking your birth control. But you can’t do that. Can you?” His angry voice ricochets off the tiled wall.

“That’s easy for you to say. You have the perfect family. You didn’t grow up in my family. You didn’t get hit whenever your father was in a bad mood.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You know the large Borrelli tattoo on my back? It’s to cover up scars from a beating my father gave me. He used a belt and beat me within an inch of my life. He did it because I let my sister beat me in a race so she would be happy. He said it showed I was weak, and he wouldn’t have a weak son. So don’t tell me I don’t know what it’s like,” he shouts.

I’m surprised and shaken by his confession. He shared a piece of his past with me. A past that has molded him into the man he is today.

My face is wet as fresh tears stream down my face. I never knew we had fathers from hell in common.

And that makes the pain for what I’m about to do make me feel even worse.

“You don’t get a say. I’ll handle it. I’ll do it all,” I shout back.

Then he roughly pulls me into his chest, and the towel slips through my fingers.

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