Page 40

I guess it explains why I'm still here, Fina in my arms. I don't linger in bed. I've never had a woman sleep with me through the night. I cut and run before morning because I suck at morning-afters, and also because staying begs a certain level of emotional attachment, and I don't do emotional. Never. But this time feels different, this morning feels like something I've been gearing up to all my life. Despite that it's anything but, it feels real.
I hate that she's unraveling me this easily. I hate that I'm starting to get all putty in her hands, but strangely enough, I don't want to stop. I've never had an issue with disengaging before, but Fina makes me feel things I'd never thought myself capable of feeling.
I feel her shift beside me, her body melding closer to mine. I want to say something, to break this quiet, but I don’t know what. “Fina,” I start, just as she says, “Enzo.”
We both stop, our eyes meeting. Her lips twitch, in a smile, and I see a flicker of softness in her gaze. She's a danger I should bewarning myself off, but I find myself nodding at her, my voice gentle. “Go ahead,” I say.
She opens her mouth, her expression shifting, like she’s about to say something heavy. My heart beats faster, my pulse loud in my ears. I’m not sure what she’s going to say, but it feels important. Maybe she's going to put a stop to this. Someone at least has to be sane enough to.
A sharp knock at the door cuts through the moment. It’s loud and insistent. I freeze, irritation flaring in my chest. I frown, my jaw tightening. Who could it be? Matteo? I look at whose expression had turned wary. “I'll go see who it is,” I say, sliding off the bed.
I pull on a pair of loose pants, the fabric hanging low on my hips. I move to the door, my steps quick, annoyed at the interruption. It feels like a betrayal, pulling me from her when we were on the edge of something monumental. Whoever it is had better have a damn good reason for this abrupt interruption. I feel Fina's eyes following me as I make my way to the door.
I reach the door and grip the handle, my jaw tight. I swing it open, the hinges creaking softly. A maid stands there, her auburn hair tucked neatly under a cap. I recognize her immediately. The head maid introduced her to me a while back, Giulia, assigned to Fina as her personal maid. Her eyes flicker over me, a quick, curious glance that takes in my state. I’m shirtless, my hair a tangled mess, Fina’s nail marks stark against my skin. I catch the brief widening of her eyes, the subtle shift in her expression.
I wonder what she thinks, seeing me like this, seeing us like this. A Don undone by his wife, standing here with the evidence of our night scratched into my skin. The thought makes my chest tighten, a mix of pride and unease. I’m supposed to be in control, always, but Fina has a way of unraveling me. Giulia’s gaze drops quickly, her face schooling into a blank mask. She knows better than to comment, to let her thoughts show.
She dips into a small curtsey, her movements practiced. “Buongiorno, Signor Mancini,” she says, her voice soft but clear. “C'è una telefonata per la Signora Mancini.” Her Italian is formal, respectful, and I notice the way she keeps her eyes averted now, focusing on the phone in her hand. It’s the manor’s phone, the one we use for official business. My mind races, wondering who could be calling Fina on this line.
I glance at her outstretched hand, the phone resting in her palm. My brows furrow as I try to piece it together. Who would call my wife on the manor’s phone instead of her personal one? The question gnaws at me, a quiet suspicion forming. I reach out and take the phone, my fingers brushing hers briefly. “Grazie,” I say, my voice clipped, nodding once. I shut the door with a loud click, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
I turn back to Fina, my expression tight. She’s sitting up now, the sheets pulled tight against her chest. Her heart must be racing, because I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands grip the fabric. I feel a sudden unease, like something bad is coming. I cross the room, the phone heavy in my hand, and hold it out to her.
“It’s for you,” I say, my voice steady, but there’s a tension in my chest that I can’t shake. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, a spark of heat shooting through me. I step back, giving her space.
She lifts the phone to her ear, her voice steady but clipped. “Aida?” I watch her closely, studying every move she makes. Her face stays calm, a mask she wears so well, but her eyes flicker as though troubled. Her free hand grips the sheet, knuckles white, and I know she’s agitated, hiding it behind that Rossi steel. Her lips press into a tight line as she listens, her body tensing with each second that passes.
She murmurs something back, her voice low, too quiet for me to hear. I catch the crack in her tone, just once, before she catches herself. She ends the call, her movements slow, and the phone slips from her hand, landing in her lap with a soft thud. Her eyes stare at nothing, like her mind has been transported somewhere else. I feel the shift in the room, the weight of whatever she’s heard settling over us like a storm cloud.
I sit beside her, my movements careful, and the bed dips under my weight. I want to reach for her, to steady her, but I hold back. She might not welcome that. “What is it?” I ask, my voice soft, bracing for her to snap, to push me away like she always does.
She doesn’t snap at me this time. She doesn’t push me away. She turns to me, her eyes raw, unguarded, and the vulnerability there hits me hard, harder than any of her barbs ever could. “My father,” she says, her voice flat… tremulous “He’s severely ill. Aida says it’s bad.”
Her words hit me hard, heavy and cold. I see the way her shoulders slump, her hands trembling just a little. Her green eyes darken, clouded with something I can’t touch. I don’t know the extent of her relationship with her father, but I can tell the news of his ill health weighs seriously in her.
I understand how disheartening it must be for her, even though Domenico is my archenemy, yet seeing her like this stirs something in me. Her pain is raw, real, and it cuts through the walls I’ve built. I hate how it makes my chest ache, how it makes me want to reach for her.
But I don't do either of those things. I don’t say anything. I’m her husband, but we’re enemies, bound by a truce, not trust. Yet her vulnerability tugs at me, stirring something I don’t want to feel, something that feels too close to care.
Her eyes meet mine, fierce, steadying despite the tremor in her hands. “I’m going to him,” she says, her voice firm, and I realize she isn’t asking for permission, she's just stating her intention to me. Like I have a say. I may not like Domenico and his daughter—even though I've been frolicking with her—I won't keep her from seeing him. I don't have that power over her.
She’s Fina. She's my wife. She's unyielding, even now, with her world crumbling. She slides off the bed, her movements quick and purposeful. The sheet fall to bare her skin, as she moves gracefully, marked by our morning of thorough passion.
I watch her as she moves to the door, her steps steady, her back straight, and I feel acutely, strangely bereft.
I make a decision then and there to let Luis go. More for me than her.
16
Serafina
I’m still tingling from last night as I grip the steering wheel, speeding toward the Rossi villa, toward Papa. My body’s still alive with the memory of last night through this morning. Enzo’s hands branding my skin, his scent clinging to me like an apparition I can’t shake. My thighs ache with every shift of the gear, a cruel reminder of how I let him unravel me, how I wanted it, how he made me scream till my throat got sore.
How many times is it now that I've let him get too close? Last night, I'd acted purely on adrenaline. Seeing that bullet graze him had scared me more than I care to admit. That fear had morphed into a desire that had been encompassing, and I'd given in to the heat between us after I'd promised myself it won't happen again.
Last night wasn't supposed to happen, but it had, and I'd reveled in it. But in the light of day, waking up to stare into Enzo's depthless dark eyes, I'd wanted to bury my head in shame. He must know how much power he has over me, and the thought that I let him is revolting. Once was enough. Twice? No, thrice. That's just me being foolish, and I'm never foolish. It speaks volumes to how much power he has over me.
I've said so much in my head that it's beginning to become laughable each time I have to remind myself—that he's my enemy. Enemies don't make you scream in the throes of pleasure. Enemies don't make you feel things you don't think yourself capable of. But, here I am—Enzo's enemy, Enzo's wife, Enzo's lover.