Accidentally Yours Chapter 58

**Dom**

The main aisle was a wall of bodies—rows of booths spilling ink, merch, and noise in every direction. Dom kept one eye on the exits, the other sweeping for anyone lingering too long near Lola’s station.

That’s when he spotted him.

Rafael Bellandi. Vegas born and bred. The kind of man who could walk into a tattoo expo in a tailored suit and make everyone else look underdressed.

***And he wasn’t heading toward Lola’s booth—he was coming from that direction?***

***Why the hell is he here?***

Rafael clocked him instantly, that sharp, assessing look flicking over Dom before a slow smile tugged at his mouth—the kind that said he was already a move ahead.

“Dom,” Rafael said, smooth as silk. “Didn’t expect to run into you outside of Vegas.”

“Same,” Dom replied, voice flat. “Business or pleasure?”

Rafael didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifted back down the aisle towards Lola’s booth, eyes lingering slightly to long and then moving around. His expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker in his eyes Dom didn’t like one damn bit.

***Not liking the way you’re looking over there, Bellandi.***

“Little of both,” Rafael said finally, casual like they had all the time in the world. “LA’s full of… interesting encounters.”

Rafael adjusted his cufflinks, stepped around them, and disappeared into the crowd.

Gino’s eyes followed him for a beat. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

***Yeah, and I don’t like it.***

Dom angled toward Lola’s booth. “Let’s make sure she’s good.”

Dom spotted Lola from halfway down the aisle, wiping down her station, gloves off, hair pulled back in a messy knot. The booth still smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh ink. Gino fell into step beside him, both of them scanning the crowd without really thinking about it.

“Anyone suspicious stop by?” Dom asked as they reached her.

Lola glanced up, a towel in one hand, brow arched. “ That’s your opener? Define suspicious and please tell me you love me enough to have brought me a Monster.”

“Not you,” Gino said, smirking. “Someone who doesn’t look like they’re here for flash sheets and merch and no we definitely did not.”

She shook her head. “Just clients. Why?”

Dom’s gaze swept the crowd again.

***Because I don’t like that we didn’t see him leave. And I really don’t like the way he was looking at you.***

“Crowds like this pull all kinds,” he said instead. “Just making sure you’re good.”

“I’m fine,” she said, tossing the towel into a bin. “You two worry too much.”

Gino snorted. “That’s literally our job.”

***And Enzo’s going to have both our asses if we miss something. Especially when the last guy we saw anywhere near here is the same one I wouldn’t trust in a church full of cameras.***

**Lola**

The convention center had finally quieted, the crowd thinning to a trickle. Booths were getting packed up, banners rolled, and the air smelled like disinfectant and burnt-out coffee.

Lola leaned against her counter, every muscle in her body staging a protest. “I’m done. Over. You’re gonna have to carry me.”

Gino shot Dom a look. “Fireman-carry or princess-style?”

“Whichever gets me to the car faster,” she said, propping her chin on her hand like even holding her head up was too much effort.

***God, I feel like I’ve been ground down to bone dust. Just pour me into bed and let me die pretty.***

Dom swung her gear bag over his shoulder. “You’re lucky we like you, Princess.”

“She’s lucky she’s tiny,” Gino said, stepping in and hooking an arm around her waist. In one smooth move, he lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing.

She groaned, letting her arms hang limp. “Finally, my knights in shining sweatshirts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gino muttered, adjusting his grip as they headed for the doors. “Don’t get used to it.”

By the time they got her settled into the SUV, her head was tipped back, eyes already closing. The neon outside painted her face in shifting colors—pink, blue, gold—and she was about two minutes from passing out cold.

***Day one: conquered. Tomorrow? God help me.***

Morning light spilled through the hotel curtains like it owned the place, catching on the curve of Lola’s hip as she bent to slip on her stilettos. Black, sky-high, and the kind of heel you could commit crimes in. Her jeans were ripped to high heaven—each tear like a calculated peek at honey-toned skin—painted on tight enough to make sitting optional.

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.***

“Mind if I jump in for one?” she asked a buddy from another booth who was still cleaning up. He grinned and waved her over.

The buzz of his machine filled the space as she watched her own design sink into her skin, black ink biting deep. The knot and shield sat perfectly over her pulse, the laurel curling close around it like it had always belonged there. Forty minutes later, it was wrapped and perfect.

The shield was them. The knot was her. And the laurel? That was theirs.

***Give it a week, and I’ll have every last one of them in my chair—matching, marked, mine.*** 

Gino appeared like he’d been summoned by mischief itself. “You ready, Red?”

She was. For the bar. For celebrating. For whatever came next.