Page 17 of Ruined Vows
Oh, God. I can’t think about it. I want to, because he has the type of body that rivals Greek statues. But I can’t.
No, no, no.
I force myself to think about my upcoming Adopt a Dog event, hoping it will extinguish the fire between my legs.
Today,I wear black again. Not because I’m stubborn—okay, I am—but because it reminds me I’m in control. Tactical black leggings. Sleeveless compression top. My hair is slicked back in a tight braid, so tight it could cut glass. No lipstick. No games.
The 10th Round, Niccoló’s pride and joy. Polished concrete, blood-slick mats, and state-of-the-art everything’ll surround us. No one here cares about cardio. This place is built for pain.
It’s the perfect place to launch our war.
I chose it on purpose because I want him off balance.
I want him bruised. I want him to hurt if for no other reason than the fact I can make him hurt.
There’s no way in hell I’m marrying him. Of all people, my brothers could have been in cahoots with, it had to be him.
The Serbian accents make me itch. Their history is soaked in blood. I have enough of that in my family tree, thank you.
And—I hate being told what to do.
Which is precisely why I’m standing on the edge of my front steps, arms crossed, fully dressed in tactical black, waiting for a man I don’t want to want… to pick me up.
Like it’s a date.
Like I’m some simpering debutante who needs an escort to a fucking ball.
This isn’t a date.
It’s a strategic play. A reminder of my terms. A power move.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I fume because he’s late.
6
VUKAN
RUNNING LATE
Radovan is a pain in my ass.
I have a run-in with him as I leave my estate. His unannounced visits are annoying. He delays me, and now I’m running late.
Fuck, she’s going to hate the fact that I’m late. And I can’t blame her.
I brush Radovan off, but he’ll return the moment he hears I’m marrying Bianca Borrelli. My family might think I’ve caved, marrying the Italian, but they’re wrong.
Having just swept it for explosives, my right-hand man, Filip, opens the door of my bulletproof Bentley.
“This is a date?” he asks, eyeing my outfit. I look like a gym rat—nothing special—but a damn good one. I smile, knowing I’m better looking than men half my age.
“Yeah,” I gruffly mutter. He’s a friend and loyal supporter. I shouldn’t vent my frustration at him. I slide into the car.
Filip is with me when I start my illegitimate business after the Kosovo war. Times are tough, and we see the market for weapons. It’s lucrative—and still is. It’s terrible that war is not only profitable, but a never-ending business opportunity.
I’m surprised at Bianca’s request for this date.
I’m pissed she doesn’t want me to pick her up. I put an end to that quickly. Any man who doesn’t pick a woman up for a date is a loser. Some call it old-fashioned. I call it manners.
