Page 57 of His Little Angel
I have twin boys.
They are the light of my life. The center of it. The reason I wake up—and the reason I’m afraid to sleep too deeply.
They are Enzo’s in every possible way.
The same dark lashes. The same icy blue eyes. The same dangerous stillness when they’re quiet. If I hadn’t carried them and split open for them, I’d swear someone cloned their father and shrank him down.
Some days, when they look at me with those eyes, I understand exactly why Enzo is the way he is.
His obsession didn’t fade with time.
It grew.
So did mine.
All the love I have for my kids? Multiply it by a hundred, and you get my love for Enzo. No matter how deeply we love anyone else, it doesn’t even light a candle to what we feel for each other.
Enzo’s workdays are torture now—for both of us. Him leaving has never been easy, but some days are worse. Some days the world presses too close, and he goes dark. Possessive. Volatile.
Veronica called an hour ago.
He’s in one of his moods,she said.
I fasten my trench coat tighter around me. My heels click against marble as I move through the house.
The boys are napping.
I pause in their doorway, watching their chests rise and fall in sync. Three years old and already too much like him. I love it. I kiss their foreheads.
Our housekeeper—my lifesaver—meets me in the hall.
“Keep an eye on them,” I say.
She nods. She’s seen enough to understand that when I leave like this, it’s not a choice. It’s a necessity.
I go straight to Enzo.
Because after five years—after blood and vows and children and a love that borders on ruin—there is only one truth that matters:
When Enzo Morelli is losing control—
I am the only thing that brings him back.
The elevator ride up feels longer than usual, even though it’s the same quick climb to the top floor. It’s only been four hours since he kissed me goodbye this morning, but I know how fast things can spiral for him without me there to ground him. He starts to fray.
People glance up from their desks when I step into the hallway, but nobody says a word. They’ve seen this before—too many times. They return to work, knowing better than to interrupt.
Veronica is at her desk right outside his door, like always.
“He’s been pacing,” she says quietly, already unlocking it.
I give her a small nod and push the door open.
Enzo stands by the desk, staring out at nothing, his back to me. He hears the door click shut and turns. The second his eyes meet mine, his shoulders drop. The tight line in his jaw eases. He looks… alive again.
“Hey,” I say softly, locking the door behind me.
He watches as I shrug off my trench coat. It hits the floor, leaving me in nothing but black heels. His gaze drops, taking me in, and I see his throat work as he swallows.