Page 4 of Enzo (Legacy of Heathens #3)

“ Y ou know, your future bride might not be too thrilled about your stalking habits,” my brother, Amadeo, said dryly, materializing out of thin air.

He had a talent for appearing stealthily like that, as if he were a shadow slipping through cracks in the world. Even our father and uncle, men not easily impressed, said he was the best tracker they’d ever seen.

Amadeo had set his sights on becoming the most lethal hitman alive, and he’d started early. He’d been treating childish games like hide-and-seek as though they were phases of training. For him, maybe it was still a game.

It didn’t help that I was completely fixated on the woman promised to me, barely blinking as I watched her from the shadows of the hospital hallway.

“You clearly haven’t seen the books she and her friends read,” I muttered, shooting him an irritated glance. “Their Kindle libraries are full of stalker romances and Olympic-level BDSM. Zero chill.”

Amadeo let out a low whistle, his eyebrows practically launching off his face. “Even filthier than our aunt’s books?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, sounds to me like I need to meet her friends.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sì, that’s exactly what the world needs, you corrupting an already deranged book club.”

Not to mention the last thing he needed was more names on his overpopulated list.

He grinned shamelessly. “Just trying to educate myself and give back to the community.”

I sighed. “What are you doing here?”

He leaned casually against the wall, like he hadn’t just popped up uninvited. “Watching your back. You’re not supposed to be on DiMauro’s territory, remember?”

“Right.” I snorted. “And sneaking up on me like a serial killer is your idea of support?”

“You’re welcome, bro.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It will be my family’s territory soon.”

“But it isn’t yet.” He studied me before he said, “What is it with you and Penelope DiMauro?”

The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and old coffee, its pale walls washed in the sterile glow of overhead lights. I pressed myself into the shadowed alcove near the vending machine. The linoleum floor stretched ahead in a corridor of murmurs and distant beeping monitors.

My eyes flicked to the far end, where a young woman in a plain white uniform stood flipping through a medical chart.

She moved with practiced ease—efficient, composed, the kind of calm that only comes from routine.

Her gaze swept over the patients with professional detachment, but lingered just a second longer on one room.

Her sister.

She flitted in and out of Amara’s room the most, doting over her and making sure she was comfortable. She would adjust her pillows, bringing warm tea she never drank, brushing hair from her clammy forehead just to feel useful.

No one outside the family knew how sick Amara DiMauro really was.

Her father had made sure of that. Luca wasn’t driven by pride, he was driven by fear.

Fear of what people might do if they found out his youngest daughter was vulnerable.

Fear of the predators who lurked in the shadows of our world—people who traded in blood, power, and organs.

So he kept Amara’s condition hidden—locked away from allies, rivals, even longtime friends. Only those bound by his absolute trust were permitted beyond that door, and fewer still were entrusted with the truth.

And yet… I knew.

I hadn’t uncovered the secret by chance.

I’d gone digging for it—methodically, deliberately—because when it came to Luca DiMauro, the man who had spent the last two decades fighting tooth and nail to dissolve the arranged marriage he and my father worked out, I needed every card in my hand. Every weakness. Every secret.

Even if that secret had a heartbeat and the fragile face of a young girl fighting an illness that had no business touching someone so innocent.

“What is it about her you’re so obsessed with?” He continued to annoy me with his questions.

“She’ll be my wife, so it’s completely natural for me to want to know her.”

The excuse was inadequate, and since he knew me so well, he called me out on it. “You’re always claiming that women are too much of a headache to get to know them.”

“She’s not just any woman. She’ll be my wife .”

“So you’re really going through with it?” He scoffed, the disbelief clear on his face.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No delay.

“The date hasn’t been set yet,” he pointed out.

“It will be,” I deadpanned. “The sooner the better.”

“Somehow, I have a feeling it has nothing to do with the arrangement Father made all those years ago and everything to do with whatever you’re up to.” He threw his arms out on either side and sighed.

I didn’t bother answering him. Instead, I focused on the young woman with midnight hair and eyes the color of the Aegean Sea as she shifted from her reception desk duties to assisting a nurse drawing blood.

It had been a month since my little scheme at Revelation, and unfortunately, it didn’t help to ease my obsession. She thought she could wield her body like a blade and offer it to a stranger just to spite me. Give away what was mine.

She should have known that no sane man would ever let her do that. And I wasn’t entirely sane. I was fucking obsessed with her.

The moment I saw her in that club, the invitation I sent her clutched in shaking fingers and defiance burning in her eyes, I knew we’d reached a point of no return.

Dio mio , she looked so beautiful in that dress that captured the sway of her hips perfectly.

It was as if she were performing for me.

Or maybe punishing me. I was still undecided on that one.

There was one thing that Penelope didn’t anticipate, and that was how far I’d go for her. I’d intercepted all the other men who thought they could have her, and she was too naive to know I’d never allow her to give her innocence to anyone but me.

I was the one who stepped out of the darkness. The one she reached for with trembling fingers. The one who pulled her into the candlelit room and took what she thought she was giving away.

Her first time. Her last rebellion. Her innocence.

And she was still oblivious.

She still doesn’t know it was my hands on her waist, my mouth stealing the breath from hers, my voice whispering in her ear—low and reverent, like a prayer laced with obsession. She thought she was breaking free. That she was choosing someone, anyone but me.

But I was always the choice. The shadow behind the curtain. The hand guiding the knife she thought she held. And God help me, I’ve never stopped thinking about that night.

About her.

How soft she was. How unguarded. How she bloomed under my touch like a secret garden I wasn’t meant to find.

I should have revealed myself, told her the truth, given her the dignity of choice. But the moment I saw her standing there—ripe with fury and innocence—I knew I wouldn’t.

I’d worshiped her for far too long to let anyone else touch what was mine. So I stole her virginity, her moans, and her touches.

I’d have to ensure she never learned of my deceit because she would never forgive me for it.

My jaw clenched at the memories, especially the one from three years ago. It was that night that’d thrown me into this state of mind. A seemingly insignificant day in Paris changed everything.

At eighteen, she’d managed to awaken something in me that had been dead for a long time. However, she’d been too young to pursue back then, so I resigned myself to being patient.

But my patience was waning.

I’d thought up a plan to scratch the itch and hoped it would cure me; unfortunately, it backfired big-time.

Since the night we shared at Revelation, she’d been all I could think of. If I’d known that my obsession would go into overdrive and it’d be game over for me, I would have reconsidered my plan to seduce her.

Jesus , I’d fucked up. Massively.

But what should I have done? Ever since we first crossed paths, I’d wondered if she tasted as good as she looked.

Imagined the sounds I could coax from her.

And damn if she didn’t taste even better, like she was made for me.

Sounded even better, too. Shit— enough .

I didn’t need an erection on top of all my other problems right now.

I seriously considered seeing a goddamn therapist. Maybe my mother’s mental instability had rubbed off on me despite my father’s best intentions to protect me and my brother.

“Is she studying to be a nurse?” Amadeo questioned, and it was just what I needed to get back to the present.

“Pre-med. Then oncology.”

“Kind of depressing, huh?” he deadpanned. “Gross too.” When I remained quiet, he leaned against the wall and continued talking. “ Fratello , you’ve got to stop this full-blown-stalker shit. You know how well that turned out for our mother.”

It wasn’t a reminder I needed. Our mother had been crazy, selfish, and murderous—and that was just scratching the surface. She’d caused her share of damage while she was still alive, and somehow managed to continue fucking us up in her death.

“Want me to talk to Penelope and put in a few good words?” he drawled. “Women usually respond well to me.”

“You won’t fucking glance her way, never mind talk to her.”

The threat escaped me, deadly and cold, surprising us both. Amadeo and I had always been close; sharing the trauma of a dark childhood had a way of bringing brothers together.

“I see,” he stated slowly, concern filling his eyes as he watched my face.

“Go wait for me in the car.” I sighed. “I’m right behind you.”

“Father wants to talk to us. He sent us both a message, but you’ve turned off your phone.” He turned to leave, shaking his head. He took a few steps, then glanced over his shoulder. “Be careful, Enzo. If love is a curse, obsession is a plague. We both know how those worked out for our mother.”

My chest twisted with a reminder of her as aversion slithered through my veins. My skin stretched at the reminder of Mother’s deep hatred, a fact proven by her many attempts at killing us.