Bonus Scene 

LOST BET

Abby

“I hate you.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare at the smuggest man alive, lounging in his chair like a king surveying his kingdom. His emerald eyes gleam with victory, his lips tilting just enough to be infuriating.
“You hate losing, sweetheart.” His voice is smooth, amusement dripping from every syllable. He taps the deck of cards against the table, casual, lazy—like this was inevitable.
I shift in my seat, refusing to let my irritation show. I should have won. I was winning. But then he started watching me—leaning in just enough, murmuring things in the low, knowing voice that sends heat curling down my spine, distracting me until I made a mistake.
“I won fair and square.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze locked onto mine like he’s daring me to argue. “And I always collect, Abby.”
I lift my chin, feigning confidence. “Fine. What do you want?”
His grin is slow. Calculated. A trap I’m about to walk straight into.
He stands, stretching lazily, then moves behind my chair. I shouldn’t react, but my pulse betrays me, drumming against my skin as he drags his fingers over my shoulders, featherlight. He dips low, his breath teasing the side of my neck.
“I could ask for anything.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I refuse to acknowledge it. “You could,” I say, forcing nonchalance into my tone. “But will you?”
He hums, considering. I should not be holding my breath. Then, he shifts closer, his lips almost touching my ear. “Take off your dress.”
My breath catches. Heat flushes my skin. I snap my gaze to his, finally catching his smirk—full of dark amusement, of challenge.
“No,” I say automatically.
Enzo just watches me, his head tilting slightly. “No?”
I cross my arms tighter, pressing back into my chair, anything to create space between us. “That wasn’t the bet.”
He tsks, circling the table, his fingers grazing its edge. “A shame. Would’ve been a winning strategy.”
My skin burns. My lips part, words failing me. He wanted me to say no. He knew I would. And now, the air is thick with something that wasn’t there a second ago.
Something dangerous.
I swallow. “So what is the bet, then?”
Enzo leans against the table, arms crossed, pretending to consider. “Something simple.”
I arch a brow. “Simple.”
He nods. “For the next…” He glances at the clock. “Two hours, you do everything I say.”
My stomach drops. “You’re insane.”
“I’m opportunistic.”
“That’s the same thing.”
His mouth curves. “And yet you’re still sitting here.”
I should walk away. I should call his bluff. But the way he’s looking at me—calm, collected, knowing—makes it clear he already knows my answer.
And that’s why I say, “Fine.”
His grin sharpens. “Good girl.”
Damn him.

Enzo

She doesn’t realize what she’s agreed to.
But she will.
I take my time, watching her shift, watching the defiant way she lifts her chin, pretending she’s unbothered. “Come here.” My voice is low. Soft.
Abby hesitates. Just for a second. But hesitation is still obedience. Slowly, she rises from her chair, crossing the space between us. My gaze drags over her, taking in the way her dress clings to her curves, the slight flush on her neck.
She stops just shy of touching me.
I let the silence stretch. Let her feel it.
Then, I reach for her wrist, dragging my thumb over her pulse. It thrums beneath my touch, betraying her. “Sit.” I nod toward the chair beside me.
She exhales sharply, dropping down like it’s her decision. I let her keep that illusion.
I push the deck of cards toward her. “Shuffle.”
Her brows knit. “What?”
I lean back, watching her. “Shuffle, Abby.”
After a beat, she does. Her fingers move deftly, familiar, quick. But I see the tension in her shoulders, the curiosity in her eyes.
I let her finish before picking up the deck and dealing.
“Five-card draw.” I glance at her. “Winner picks the next command.” She freezes.
And then—slowly, slowly—a wicked little smile curves her lips.
Oh, sweetheart.
I’ve already won.

Abby

I study my cards. My pulse is still hammering, my breath still uneven, and my mind? Still stuck on the fact that Enzo told me to take off my dress like he was ordering dessert.
Cocky bastard.
But I have the upper hand now. I won this round.
I lay my cards on the table, the smug smile already curling on my lips before Enzo even looks. “Three of a kind. Read ‘em and weep.” I expect a smirk. Maybe a curse under his breath. Some sign that I just threw him off his game.
Instead, he just leans back. Silent. Unbothered. Like he expected me to win.
Like he let me.
Nope. I refuse to acknowledge the way my stomach flips at that thought. I won fair and square. I have control. And I’m going to prove it.
I pick up my wine glass, taking my time as I sip, watching him over the rim. “So.” I set it down, tracing the stem with my finger. “I guess that means I get to give the next command.”
Enzo lifts a single brow, his green eyes dark and unreadable. “That’s how it works.”
I tap my lip, feigning thoughtfulness. “Interesting. Very interesting.” I let the moment stretch, savoring it. Then, I sit back, mirroring his relaxed posture. “Take off your shirt.” Something flickers in his gaze.
Amusement. Approval. Maybe something darker, something that makes my skin prickle with heat.
For a second, he doesn’t move. He just watches me. The tension stretches so tight it’s almost unbearable.
Then, slowly, he reaches for the top button.
I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. He undoes one. Then another.
His movements are deliberate, measured. A man completely in control of himself, even when following my order.
Especially when following my order.
The crisp fabric parts, revealing smooth, tattooed skin. The sharp cut of his collarbone. The inked letters on his chest.
I should feel victorious. Instead, I feel like I just played myself.
Enzo shrugs the shirt off, letting it drop onto the chair beside him. Then he settles back like nothing happened, like he didn’t just raise the temperature in the room by a thousand degrees.
“Happy?” His voice is deceptively light, but there’s something else underneath.
Something dangerous.
I clear my throat, ignoring the way my fingers itch to touch him. “Ecstatic.” His smirk deepens.
And then, just like that, the moment is over.
He picks up the deck, shuffling with practiced ease, his fingers moving with fluid precision. “Next round?”
I swallow. “Obviously.”
He deals. The first card I flip over is good. The second? Even better.
Enzo watches me closely, his smirk just barely there, like he already knows the outcome.
I force myself to match his expression. To settle into my chair, to pretend like my pulse isn’t thundering at the base of my throat. “What happens if I win again?” I ask, drumming my fingers against the table. “Am I going to have to order you to take off your pants next?”
Enzo hums, unbothered. “You could try.”
I could try. But that would require winning.
And somehow, deep down, I already know…this time, I won’t.

Enzo

I let her think she has control.
Let her lean into that false sense of power.
Let her feel like she’s winning.
Because that’s the only way this game is fun.
I watch her study her cards, her lips pursed, that little line forming between her brows as she weighs her options.
She doesn’t realize she’s already lost.
Her tell? The way she presses her thigh against the chair. The slight part of her lips when she thinks she’s ahead. The way she refuses to look at me, which only means one thing.
She wants to. Badly.
I place my hand over my cards, leaning in slightly. “Are you going to call, or are you going to drag this out?”
Abby huffs a breath, trying to seem unaffected. “I love dragging things out. It makes the victory so much sweeter.”
I almost laugh. Because she still thinks she’s winning.
Adorable.
She finally lays her cards down, her confidence flaring. “Straight.”
I glance at them. Then I glance at her. And then—I lay mine down.
Her breath catches. Her eyes widen.
Because she knows before I even say it.
“Flush.”
Silence.
Beautiful, charged silence. I sit back, slow and easy. “Well, sweetheart.” I drag my gaze down to her lips, then lower. “You know what that means.”
She swallows, but to her credit, she keeps her chin up. “Fine.” She gestures toward herself. “What’s your command?”
I take my time. Let the anticipation crawl over her skin.
Then, I smile. “Come sit on my lap.”
Her breath hitches. My smirk deepens.
She hesitates—but just for a second.
Then, with slow, deliberate movements, she rises from her chair.
I spread my legs slightly, inviting, challenging. She steps closer. Lifts one knee over mine.
And settles.
Warmth. Softness. The press of her body against mine, fitting exactly how I knew she would.
She exhales, like she’s trying to calm her breathing, but I can feel her heart hammering against my chest.
“Comfortable?” I murmur, trailing my fingers up her spine.
She shivers.
Then—because she’s Abby fucking Mercer—she tilts her chin and whispers back, “Is that the best you’ve got?”
Oh, sweetheart. We’re just getting started.

Abby

I should’ve stopped while I was ahead. I should’ve folded, taken my win, walked away.
But no.
I had to push him.
Now I’m in his lap, and my heart is thrashing against my ribs, and he’s looking at me like he already knows—I’m done for.
His hands are slow, deliberate as they settle on my waist. A possessive weight. A claiming.
I brace my palms against his chest, trying to pretend I’m unaffected, that my pulse isn’t a chaotic mess under my skin. “I hope this is the part where I get to pick my forfeit.”
His fingers flex. Tighten.
“No, sweetheart.” His voice is pure sin, low and steady, like he’s enjoying this. Like he planned this. “This is the part where you learn the difference between winning and winning.”
My breath stutters.
“Because, tesoro, the thing about playing with me?” His lips brush my jaw, his breath warm against my skin. “The house always wins.”
I open my mouth—to argue, to push back—
But I don’t get the chance.
Because in one smooth, effortless movement, Enzo shifts—
And suddenly, I’m the one underneath him. My back hits the poker table. Cards scatter.
And Enzo? He smiles.
Smug. Slow. Deadly. Like a man who just laid down his real winning hand.
My breath catches. “You cheated.”
His knee slides between mine. “I played the game.”
I gasp, my fingers flying to his shoulders, nails digging into the solid muscle there. “You—”
“—Won.”
His lips brush mine, just a ghost of contact. Teasing.
His fingers trail up my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress higher.
“You were so confident,” he murmurs, his mouth just shy of mine, his voice a velvet rasp. “So sure you could keep up.”
My thighs clench around his leg.
I want to argue. I can’t.
He’s already got me. His hands. His weight. His control.
I should’ve known.
You never beat Enzo Bianchi at his own game.
And right now? I don’t want to.
I lift my chin, my breath uneven. “So what happens now?”
Enzo’s smirk deepens.
And then—
He leans in.
And ends me.

Enzo

She thought she could win. Match me. But the second she let me pull her into this game, she lost.
And she knows it now. The way she’s looking at me—wide-eyed, breathless, torn between defiance and desperation.
My favorite look on her.
I let the moment stretch. Let the tension coil so tight I can feel her shaking under me.
Then, I dip my head and kiss her like I’m collecting my real prize. A slow, deliberate claiming.
Deep enough to steal the air from her lungs.
She moans into my mouth, her fingers tightening in my hair, and fuck, I love that sound.
“Still think you were in control, tesoro?” I murmur against her lips, sliding my hands down the backs of her thighs, lifting her exactly where I want her.
She exhales shakily. “I let you win.”
I chuckle, dark and low. “Liar.” Her eyes flash, and I know she’s going to bite back.
But before she can—I press down. And she breaks.
A sharp inhale. A shiver. Her lashes flutter, her head tipping back, exposing that perfect throat.
And that—that’s when I know. She’s mine.
She may have sat across from me, thinking she could beat me at my own game.
But now she’s on this table, breathless and desperate, shattered by a single move.
I won.
And I’m going to spend the rest of the night proving it.
Because in the end?
Abby Mercer never stood a chance.

Are you ready for the last book in the series?

Some roads to love are littered with rose petals…this isn’t one of them.

Ari Bianchi is the Cosa Nostra’s wild child, testing every rule that’s put in place. When she defends herself and jeopardizes an alliance, the only man willing to marry her is the Bratva’s infamous madman.
Maxsim Volkov is feared by everyone who crosses his path. No one defies his orders, much less argues with him…until he encounters the Mafia’s rebel princess.
Ari Bianchi is not only beautiful but a challenge that is finally worthy of his talents.
Intrigued by the fearless woman, he agrees to an arranged marriage that will not only solidify the alliance with the Italians but allow him to hold lightning in his hands.
Come see what happens when a loose cannon and a madman unite.
The criminal underworld will never be the same.

Read Twisted Vows