Page 143 of Ruined Vows
We sit there in silence for a beat. Then she whispers, “So now what?”
I don’t have an answer. But I know I’m not walking away from him.
Because I can’t even if I wanted to.
Not when I’ve already started falling—and yet, it feels like flying.
Later,Dragon drives me to the Borrelli minions because my idle hands have become the devil’s tools. I’m lost in our cocoon, but I wish to know more about Wolfie, the man I make love to, and the man with a darkness I can’t explain—the man I want to understand.
I said I’d respect his privacy. I didn’t need to know who he was before me, because the man I’ve met—the man who terrifies and steadies me—is enough.
But here I am, walking into Matteo’s office with a knot in my throat and too many questions I’ve spent weeks pretending not to have.
Alena greets me in the hallway with a warm hug and a knowing smile. She always knows when something’s off, even when I’m dressed in all black and wearing enough confidence to pass for bulletproof.
“Matteo just fed Lorenzo lunch,” she says softly. “He’s in his office now.”
“Perfect timing,” I mutter. “I’m about to ruin his morning.”
She pats my shoulder. “You’ve done worse,” she teases.
She’s not wrong. I slip into Matteo’s office just as he’s closing a folder. His expression shifts when he sees me—part surprise, part concern.
“Bianca.” He leans back in his chair. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “Everything. I don’t know.”
“Sit,” he says immediately. No command. Justbrother.
I sit in the winged back chair I’ve dubbed mine.
“I need to ask you something,” I start.
His brows lift, just slightly. “About Vukan?”
I nod. He studies me for a long moment.
“You’re serious about him.”
“I’m serious about wanting to understand.” I’m not ready to announce to the world that we’re together. I enjoy having Vukan to myself.
Another pause. He sits back slowly, fingers steepled under his chin.
“You want facts,” he says.
“Not gossip.” He nods once. But then his voice drops. “Are you happy?”
The question floors me more than anything else he could’ve said.
“I think so,” I whisper.
He nods again, slower. “Are you afraid of him?”
“No,” I say. “I’m afraid of how much I care.”
That’s when he exhales and finally speaks.
It turns out Vukan was married before. Her name was Danica. She was Serbian. He was twenty-four. She died at twenty-seven. Their daughter—Lana—was barely three. They were killed in a bombing in Slovenia.
