Page 85 of Dangerous Vows

THE CALM IS A LIE

Today, sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains, casting soft reflections across the pale wood floors. The bedroom is enormous—larger than any space I’ve ever called mine. The bed is an Alaskan king, dressed in layers of Egyptian cotton and rich charcoal-gray linens that are naked without the smell of his cologne.

The sheets mock me.

I’ve earned the scorn of the one man I want to share my bed. I’ve pushed away the only man who loved my one-liners—the man who gave me a family when I didn’t ask for one.

Now, Pietro doesn’t trust me. I can’t fault him for what he feels. He probably hates me. He thought I got pregnant on purpose, and now, well, he’s hurt.

I want him to love me. But I doubt he’ll forgive me because I pissed him off. I should have confided in him, but I wanted to handle it on my own. I’m independent, and I won’t ask a man to fight my battles.

I never realized the consequences of my actions when I told my father I was pregnant. I thought it would end the arranged marriage. I foolishly believed that I would be off the hook.

But a promise made is a promise kept. I’ve learned this lesson the hard way, and now, my baby is in play, and wanted by every mafia family in the city.

The enormity of this baby and what it means to every mafia family scares the shit out of me. Everyone wants my baby. I have no idea if I can fix us.

Are we even fixable?

What will the Borrellis do when their enemies burn their warehouses and shoot at their men?

There will be a war.

I’m filled with angst. I need to do something to occupy my mind because right now, I’m helpless, and I hate feeling this way.

Pietro brought me here for safety, but this place is both a sanctuary… and a prison.

I step carefully onto the cool floor, and a sharp twinge rippling through my ribs reminds me of my past every time I move. My bare feet pad silently down the hallway. I spend time exploring the house since there’s nothing else to do. It’s time for me to become acquainted with the mansion.

And it is stunning.

Glass walls line the east side, revealing a sprawling view of the water, the horizon endless, dotted with white caps on the water. The shimmer of morning sun pirouette over the floor, like joy learning how to move.

The architecture is sleek, masculine, and with understated elegance. Dark slate and warm wood accents. Minimalist, but expensive. The silence is deafening, so I walk onto the patio that overlooks the ocean. I wrap the blanket around me and breathe in the fresh air. The scent of saltwater and cedar swirls in the air like something out of a memory I never had.

Every room is intentional. There’s a small library with floor-to-ceiling shelves and buttery leather chairs, a gym Pietro probably abuses every morning, and a kitchen that looks like it was designed by a chef who moonlights as a hitman, judging from the enormous amount of cutlery and the overhead metal rack filled with cast-iron skillets and copper-bottom pans.

When I finally push open the door to my walk-in closet, I freeze.

All my clothes are here, and some I’ve never seen.

Every single item is hung perfectly or folded with care. Even the expensive French vintage silk scarf Pietro insisted we buy is draped across a shelf like it’s been waiting for me. My expensive shoes, some of which I didn’t select myself, adorn the shoe racks.

An elegant ottoman sits in the middle of the spacious room. There are purses on the shelf that cost more than what I make in a year. I pick up the Louis Vuitton and sniff the rich leather before I run my hand over the rich exterior. Beside it is a Birkin. I’m afraid to touch it, and it sits on the white shelf like a unicorn.

I’m stunned into submission as my throat tightens. He did this. Pietro made sure I had everything.

How can he be so cold but have the foresight to do something so thoughtful?

I hear the guards talk outside and know that one will be in the house soon, and he’s probably hungry.

I know I am, so I return to the kitchen and grab the mozzarella and fresh tomatoes. I butter four slices of Italian bread, putting two slices in a skillet. Then, I add the mozzarella and tomatoes, making sandwiches for two. I search the pantry, my fingers land on a bag of chips, and I pull a soda out of the beverage drawer.

The butter sizzles. I add the tops and watch as the cheese melts. When the bread is grilled to a buttery crisp, I flip it.

Arman walks through the door.

“I’m happy to see you up and about,” he says.

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