Page 13 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

His words ring in my ears while I watch him leave.

It has been a long time since I felt taken care of and protected.

I only catch a glimpse of it now and then when I talk to my family on the phone.

Not that they can protect me, but at least I feel loved and cared for.

My weekly conversations with them have always given me the strength to carry on, to not succumb to fear.

They've kept me from turning into the mouse Roberto accused me of being.

Those calls have kept me sane, kept me fighting.

Given me the reason I needed to go on another day, and then another.

"Oh, before I forget," Enrico stops, pulls out his phone, and hands it to Izzy. An astounded hiss escapes her when she stares at it.

"How did you get this? That's him! That's the man who took me."

Enrico's expression turns deadly, sending shivers down my spine.

For the first time, he looks like the dangerous mob boss he is.

For some reason, it's not scaring me, though.

It should. Everything about him should scare me, but it doesn't. On the contrary, seeing him like this only reiterates his protectiveness.

He's ready to go to war for his sister. And that is a trait I can only admire.

"Who is he?" Izzy hands the phone back to Enrico, like she can't stand to look at the image any longer. I'm curious and want to see, but over the years, I've conditioned myself to stay under the radar, and it's hard to let go of that.

"I don't know yet. But I will." His voice is hard. His words are a promise.

With that, he once again turns to leave, and I stare at his retreating back. I can't help but notice how his thigh muscles stretch his silky pants; the view creates a fluttering sensation in my stomach that makes me feel funny, a strange mix of excitement and nervousness.

"Alright, let's finish eating and then we'll go shopping," Izzy announces with fake enthusiasm.

I stop her. "We don't have to do this now. Or even today. I know seeing that man, even if it was just an image, rattled you."

Izzy stares at me for a long moment with glossy but defiant eyes. "No one's ever said that to me before," she says softly. "That we don't have to do something. That I can take a minute."

The words echo deep in my chest, not because, from what I've observed, she's usually all sass and storm, but because it sounds so similar to my experience. It makes me want to wrap her in a blanket and guard her with knives.

"I'm serious," I say gently. "If you're not up for it?—"

"No," she cuts in, in a steadier voice. "I want to go. Actually… I need to go."

She exhales, wrestling with her own demons.

"When he grabbed me, I wasn't even scared at first. Isn't that stupid?

I thought— this kind of thing doesn't really happen .

But then he slammed the door shut and locked it.

He never said a word. He just drove off, and I realized.

.. I was completely alone. With a stranger.

And no one knew where I was." She laughs mockingly, "I've been protected my entire life.

They warned me—my dad, my mom, my brothers, but…

I didn't believe them because I never saw that part of our world.

" She looks down at her plate and pokes at a bite she doesn't eat.

"He tied my hands behind my back, tied my legs, like I wasn't even human. Like I was an object. That's what haunts me the most. How easy it was for him."

My throat tightens. I slip my hand across the table and cover hers.

"So yeah," she adds after a beat, forcing a small smile, "retail therapy sounds kind of perfect right now.

Plus..." She leans in, her voice dropping into that mischievous, trademark Izzy tone.

"Enrico feels so guilty right now. I figure if I max out a few cards and buy something wildly unnecessary and stupidly expensive, it'll actually help him sleep better. "

A surprised laugh slips out of me, warm and grateful. When was the last time I laughed? Izzy is just so… Izzy. Endearing, full of life, even when she's gloomy. "I love that you just turned shopping into an act of emotional generosity."

She grins. "It's a gift."

And suddenly, I'm glad we're doing this. Not just for her. But for me, too.

She rises, already buzzing with excitement. "I love going shopping. We're going to have so much fun."

I smile politely back at her. I'm used to going shopping with Camilla, but it's never been fun.

Her tastes are vastly different from mine in the first place, and she delighted in humiliating me.

I internally shuddered whenever she would pick something absolutely atrocious up with a gleam in her eyes.

Something she would never wear, but it would be in her next box of hand-me-downs.

The worse it made me look, the more she loved it.

I remember how she once told Roberto to look at the pretty little princess now .

At least Izzy seems to have good taste; she showed me her closet earlier this morning and told me to pick whatever I liked . It feels so good wearing her clothes. They are still a bit big on me, but that's not intentional, and at least they are what I would have chosen if given a choice.

"Go talk to Enrico, and then we'll go." Izzy decides, pushing her chair back up to the table. "I hope he makes it quick," she furrows her brows, "maybe we should just make a run for it." She winks.

She notices my discomfort and laughs, "Fine, go talk to him."

My stomach feels all kinds of funny when I rise. It must show on my face, because Izzy laughs, "You've got this. He won't bite."

"Haha," I reply dryly. It's easy to converse with her as if we'd known each other for years.

Her brother, however, intimidates me. Not that he's done anything to warrant my feelings, but he's so much of an unknown to me that it confuses me.

At least with the Giordanos, I knew where I stood.

Enrico is giving me something I haven't had in a long time: Hope.

I know all about hope. I had it for many years.

I hoped Papà would get the Carabinieri to rescue me, or Interpol, or anybody, but that never happened.

I hoped he wouldn't get reelected and I could return to Sicily, which did happen, but it didn't let me go home; instead, it cost me a finger.

In the end, Giovanni pumped so much money into it that the new mayor was merely a puppet—a puppet controlled by another puppet: Papà.

And I feared that Giovanni might end up liking the new mayor better, because where would that leave us?

But Papà only sat that one term out, according to the Italian laws, and then he ran again.

That was when all hope inside me died. Those four years, while Papà was nothing but a behind-the-curtain advisor to the new mayor, were the darkest of my life with the Giordano's.

That was when Giovanni's cruelty fully shone through.

He forced me to clean the cells and feed his prisoners.

I know how dangerous that hope is, and yet, I can't help but form it in my head. Will I really, finally, see my family again? Do I dare hope ?

My throat develops a pulse of its own and goes completely dry with each step that takes me closer to Enrico's office. Gathering my courage, I lift my hand to knock on the door.

"Enter," his voice calls from inside.

His office looked inviting last night, but in the daylight, with the curtains open, giving a view of a sprawling backyard, I like it even more. It definitely doesn't have the look of a mafia office.

Enrico is seated at his desk; his posture relaxed, with one leg angled over the other, his knee leaning against the mahogany wood. His hands are folded on his lap, and his eyes are expectantly trained on me when I enter.

His brother, Dante, whom I met last night, and Silvano flank him on either side, both holding their phones and a stack of papers in their hands. What looks like immense construction plans lay spread out on the desk.

"We'll finish this later, go get some coffee," he tells Silvano and Dante, and with short nods, the two take their leave, closing the door behind them. My throat feels even tighter now that it's only me and Enrico.

He rises from his chair and waves his hand toward the seating area where we sat last night. "Sit."

I walk over the soft carpeted floor on stiff legs toward the same padded chair I chose hours earlier. My hands clasp each other nervously after I lower myself down.

"Do you want anything to drink? Some water?" He asks politely.

"I'm good, thank you," I squeak, swallowing to get some moisture into my throat.

I should have probably said yes, but I just want to get this over with.

His presence is so big. So overpowering.

But he's not scaring me; it's my jumbled emotions that make me so uncomfortable. I'm not sure what to make of them.

"Alright, right to business then. Do you know why the Giardonos took Izzy?

" Despite the casual pose—his left ankle resting neatly on his right knee, shoulders angled like he has all the time in the world—there's no mistaking the presence Enrico carries.

Even seated, even silent, he radiates the controlled stillness of a predator.

One wrong word, and I get the sense he'd strike without hesitation.

I force myself to look into his intense gaze. "I don't know."

"Tell me exactly what happened." He demands.

I cross my ankles beneath the chair, not very ladylike, but the pressure helps—a small, grounding sensation to anchor myself. Otherwise, I might float—or fall—under the weight of his gaze.

He's by far the best-looking man I've ever seen.

And that's saying something, considering I grew up in a house full of beautiful monsters.

His black hair is swept back in effortless waves, not a strand out of place.

His eyes are a bottomless black. There's no light in them, but they see everything, like he's cataloging my every move, every breath, every flicker of weakness.

The way his leg rests over the other stretches the fabric of his tailored pants tight across his thigh, offering an indecently perfect view of thick muscle, coiled and still. I force myself to focus on his knee, on the smooth line of his trousers, anywhere but higher.

But I see it anyway.

The shift of fabric when he sat down. The unapologetic bulge that my traitorous eyes dart to for a split second before I snap them back up.

Madre di Dio , I pray, don't let me look again. Don't let me look.

I don't even know why I want to. I've never been that kind of girl. Not the kind who ogles a man in silence, who wonders what's beneath all that elegance and control. But the urge is like an itch under my skin. Hot, irrational, and dangerous.

It takes every ounce of willpower to drag my gaze to his face and keep it there. To fixate on the cut of his jaw, strong, square, and shadowed with the kind of stubble that looks like it belongs there, like it's sculpted into him.

His mouth doesn't move, but I feel like I'm being spoken to. Teased. Judged. And maybe— God help me —seduced.

For some reason, the image of him holding Izzy in his arms last night comes back to me. A yearning spreads through my chest. What would it feel like to be held by those powerful arms like that? To lean against him, to feel safe?

With a cracking voice, I recount last night's events, starting with me sneaking into the kitchen.

"Why did you have to sneak into the kitchen?" He interrupts before I can even begin with the story he is more likely to be burning to hear.

"Uhm, I was hungry." I manage.

"I get that, but why sneak? They didn't want you to eat at night?"

I almost say, they never wanted me to eat , but I suppress it. Instead, I just shake my head. "No, they didn't like for me to go get food from the kitchen."

He tilts his head questioningly, looking so handsome, small electric jolts move through my body.

I can tell he isn't satisfied with my answer, sensing I'm withholding information.

A bead of sweat rolls down my neck. If he starts thinking I'm not telling him the truth, that I'm lying, will he hit me? Like Giovanni would? Or worse?

"They are very controlling with their food." I supply. "Last night I was sent to my room before dinner; it's how they punish me." I hate saying these words, but I'm too afraid for him to think I'm lying.

"Punishment for what?" He wants to know, his jaw clenching.

Why is he asking me? He's clearly impatient to get to the details about his sister, so why does he want to know about my life with the Giordanos?

"I… I told Camilla that I didn't like one of the dresses she gave me." I lower my head, remembering last evening.

"The dresses she gave you?" He shrugs. "I don't understand."

I take a shuddering inhale. He's going to make me spill it all out. "Camilla always gives me her old clothes to wear."

"They didn't let you go shopping?"

"Well, I go with her," I set the record straight.

"But when you do, she doesn't let you pick anything?" He concludes astutely.

"No."

He leans forward, his hands resting on his knee now, and suddenly they become my whole focal point. They're strong hands, with long, masculine fingers and callouses that speak of work— real work, not boardroom deals. Strong veins run up and down them, disappearing beneath the cuff of his shirt.

On the back of his left hand, just below the knuckles, a tattoo peeks out in black ink, sharp lines, elegant and dangerous. At first glance, it looks like a crown. But then I see the points are dagger blades, and there's something written in looping script beneath them, partly hidden by his sleeve.

Latin, maybe. Or a name.

I shouldn't be staring, but I can't help it. A pulse beats visibly just below the ink, steady but hard—he's agitated—and I pray it's not with me.

"I see," he says finally, his voice low and rough, followed by an audible controlled and measured breath. His words should be reassuring, but I can feel the shift in him. Something is coiling just beneath the surface, drawing tighter.