Chapter 84
Up top, she wore an extra–cropped, ribbed white wife–beater tank with a deep V so low her black lace bra winked through at the cleavage. Her hair was pulled into two high space buns, front bangs left loose and swept forward with a black bandanna headband knotted just right. Black–rimmed cat–eye glasses, two sizes too big, sat perfectly on her nose, paired with makeup sharp enough to cut and a deep red lipstick that promised nothing about innocence.
Working bombshell. Handle with caution.
When she stepped into the living room, Dom’s head came up from his phone, mouth pulling into something halfway between impressed and alarmed. “That fit should come with a waiver.
“It does,” she said sweetly, tossing her bag over her shoulder. “Non refundable.”
Gino, leaning against the counter with a coffee in hand, gave a low whistle. “You’re not walking out of here without sending Enzo a picture. Give me your phone.”
She handed it over without hesitation. Gino set his cup down, angled her toward the window for the best light, and crouched a little to get the shot–hips cocked, chin tilted just enough to make it dangerous. He took three, swiped through them, and smirked before handing the phone back.
“Send that one,” he said, pointing to the last. “Guarantee he buys a ticket home.”
She sent it to Enzo with the caption:
Lola: Competition day. Think I’ll win?
The reply came fast.
Too fast.
Enzo: “You walk out of the hotel like that, kitten, and I’m buying a ticket home just to drag you back upstairs. Forget winning–the only thing you’ll be taking home is me, ruining those jeans until they’re unwearable.”
Well, that’s one way to start my morning at a boil.
She bit back a smile, thumbs flying.
Lola: “Better hope your flight’s fast, Daddy.”
The typing bubbles popped up instantly.
Enzo: “Hope you’re ready to work through the ache, because when I get back, the only ribbons you’ll be winning are the ones tying your wrists to my
headboard.”
“Are you coming,” Gino called, grabbing his keys, “or should I order breakfast for tomorrow while we wait?”
“With that reply, almost. Patience, Gino,” she said, breezing past him toward the door. “It’s a virtue. Ever heard of it?”
By the time they hit the elevator, she had Dom and Gino flanking her like bodyguards–which was hilarious, considering they were the real hazard. She just grinned, already picturing the way every head in that convention hall was going to turn.
Day two. Time to make them all look.
The competition wrapped, Lola’s forearms aching like she’d been arm–wrestling the devil for six hours straight. Second place. She could live with that—hell, she was almost relieved. The guy who took first? His piece was so clean, so layered, she half–expected the ink to start breathing. If there was a god of tattooing, that man was their prophet.
Most booths were already packing up, but she wasn’t leaving without doing something for herself. Something that said this happened. Something she could
carry when the days got loud and she forgot how much had changed.
She’d drawn it this past week–a solid shield, bold and unyielding, with a Celtic–style knot woven through its center. Around it, a laurel wreath, each leaf sharp and deliberate. The knot stood for trust and loyalty–threads that could stretch but never break. The shield, for the way they stood around each other like a phalanx–tight, unbreachable, every man covering the one beside him. And the laurel, for victory. Not the kind you win in public, but the kind you claim in quiet moments when you know you’ve found your people.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t begging for attention. But it was unshakable. Like a promise with teeth.
This isn’t just ink. It’s my boundary and my vow.
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