Page 11

11

KENDRA

I tap my manicured nails against my keyboard, staring at the email that's been sitting in my drafts for twenty minutes. The client wants changes to the campaign—again. For the third time this week. I've rewritten this response four different ways, each version getting progressively more direct while still maintaining that veneer of professionalism.

My phone buzzes against my desk, and I glance down to see Enzo's name on the screen.

Don't forget about tonight. I'll be there at 8.

No question mark. No "if that works for you." Just a statement, an expectation that I'll comply. And the most infuriating part? I will.

I pick up my phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This has become our dance over the past two weeks. He gives an order disguised as a casual comment, and I push back just enough to remind him I'm not one of his soldiers.

I'll check my schedule , I type back, even though we both know damn well I'm free tonight.

Three dots appear immediately. Don't bother. You're free.

Heat crawls up my spine—not anger, something more complicated. The way he says it, so certain. Like he knows my movements, my patterns. Maybe he does.

Pretty presumptuous of you. I send before I can stop myself.

Is it presumptuous if I'm right?

I set my phone down without responding, returning to my email with renewed focus. I'll make him wait for a reply. Let him wonder if he pushed too far.

Two hours later, my assistant pokes her head into my office.

"The Morton account called. They love the new direction."

I look up from my computer and smile. "Good. Tell Jamie to start on the visuals—I want mock-ups by Friday."

She nods and disappears, and I lean back in my chair, satisfaction warming my chest. I'm good at what I do. Damn good. I know how to read people, how to package exactly what they want before they even know they want it.

So why can't I figure out Enzo Rossi?

I pick up my phone again. He hasn't followed up, hasn't pushed for a response. That's not how most men operate in my experience. They demand attention, validation, confirmation.

But Enzo just... waits.

It's maddening. And effective.

Because by six, I'm standing in my closet, towel wrapped around me, staring at my options. " Something nice ," he said. Deliberately vague. Another move in our game.

I run my fingers over a red dress that hugs every curve, the neckline low enough to be interesting without veering into desperate. I pull it out, hold it against me, considering.

This is dangerous. Every time I see him, I step closer to the flame. Every text, every loaded silence between us, every time those steel-gray eyes lock on mine—I'm playing with fire. And I know it.

But I don't stop.

Maybe it's the way he looks at me—like he sees past all my carefully constructed walls. Maybe it's how different he is from the men I usually encounter, men who mistake arrogance for confidence, volume for power.

I hang the red dress back up and pull out a black one instead. More subtle. Sophisticated. Less like I'm trying to prove something.

As I apply my makeup, I recognize the pattern that's emerged between us. Enzo never pushes first. He creates the space, extends the invitation, but waits for me to step into it. He lets me hover at the edge of admitting what I want—what I really want—and then pulls back just when I'm about to fall.

I apply a final coat of lipstick, the rich burgundy catching the light as I press my lips together. Perfect. Not too much, not too little. Just like everything else about tonight's look—calculated, deliberate. The black dress skims my curves without clinging, the neckline modest but the back dipping just low enough to be interesting. My curls fall in defined waves around my shoulders, and gold hoops catch the light when I turn my head.

I look good. I know I look good. And I hate that I care so much about looking good for him.

When the doorbell rings precisely at eight, I wait an extra thirty seconds before answering.

Enzo stands in my doorway, one hand in the pocket of tailored black slacks, the other holding his phone. His button-down is a deep navy, no tie, the top buttons undone just enough to make my eyes linger a second too long on his throat. His dark hair is styled in that perfectly imperfect way that probably took him all of two minutes to achieve.

"You're ready." His eyes sweep over me, taking in every detail without a single change in his expression. But I catch the way his jaw tightens just slightly. "Good."

"Don't sound so surprised," I grab my clutch from the entryway table. "Some of us make it a point to be punctual."

"I wasn't surprised," he says, stepping back to let me lock my door. "I expected nothing less."

There it is again—that certainty, like he's catalogued all my habits, all my little tells. Like he knows me.

"Where are we going?" I ask as he guides me toward his car with a hand hovering near the small of my back, not quite touching.

"Dinner with some associates." The vagueness is deliberate, I'm sure. "Nothing too formal."

"Associates," I repeat, sliding into the passenger seat of his sleek black Audi. "Interesting euphemism."

His mouth quirks as he closes my door, and I watch through the windshield as he rounds the hood. Every movement is fluid, contained power, like a predator that doesn't need to rush because the prey isn't going anywhere.

When he slides in beside me, the car suddenly feels too small, his cologne filling the space between us—something woody and expensive that clings to my senses.

"Would you prefer I call them business partners? Colleagues?" He starts the engine, the car purring to life. "Friends?"

I snort at that last one. "I wasn't aware men like you had friends."

"Men like me?" His eyes stay on the road, but I can hear the amusement in his voice. "And what kind of man am I, Kendra?"

I turn to look out the window, watching the city lights blur together. "The dangerous kind."

He doesn't respond, and I don't look at him, but I feel his eyes on me at the next stoplight, a weight that raises goosebumps along my bare arms.

The restaurant is upscale but not ostentatious—the kind of place with no prices on the menu and waitstaff that appear and disappear like ghosts. Enzo guides me through the main dining area to a private room in the back, his hand finally making contact with my lower back. Even through the fabric of my dress, his touch burns.

Inside, two couples are already seated at a round table. The men rise when we enter—one older with salt-and-pepper hair, the other around our age with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Their companions are polished, beautiful women who smile at me with varying degrees of warmth.

"Kendra, this is Vincent and his wife Elena, and Marco with his date, Sophia." Enzo's introduction is smooth, his thumb tracing small circles against my back as he speaks.

I smile, shake hands, play my part. Over the next two hours, I watch Enzo navigate the conversation with calculated charm, slipping between Italian and English when speaking to the men about things they clearly don't want me to understand. I catch enough to know it's business—shipments, territories, profits.

Throughout dinner, Enzo's attention never fully leaves me, even when he's deep in discussion with Vincent. His hand finds my knee under the table, fingers trailing along the hem of my dress. When he leans close to ask if I want more wine, his breath tickles my ear, winding me so tight with a need I desperately try to control.

By dessert, I'm wound so tight I can barely breathe normally. Every accidental brush of his arm against mine, every time his thigh presses against my leg when he shifts in his seat—it's a deliberate assault on my composure.

When we finally exit the restaurant, I'm relieved to escape the scrutiny of the others, but then it's just us again, walking down a dimly lit hallway toward the back exit where his car is parked.

Enzo stops suddenly, turning to face me in a recessed alcove, backing me against the wall without ever actually touching me. He's so close I can see the tiny flecks of silver in his gray eyes, smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath.

"You were quiet tonight," he murmurs, reaching up to brush a curl from my face, his knuckles grazing my cheek.

"I was observing." I tilt my chin up, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity. "Learning."

His lips curve into that maddening half-smile. "And what did you learn?"

"That you're exactly who I thought you were."

Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, challenge. He leans closer, one arm braced against the wall beside my head. His other hand catches my wrist, thumb pressing lightly against my pulse point.

"I think you're learning how much you want me," he says, voice low and smooth.

I huff a laugh, ignoring the racing of my heart beneath his fingertips. "That's just wishful thinking."

Enzo smirks, a slow, knowing thing that makes heat pool low in my belly. "If I kissed you, you'd never forgive yourself." His thumb drags against the inside of my wrist, pulse pounding beneath. "You'd like it too much."

The air between us crackles with tension. His eyes drop to my lips, and for a split second, I lean in—then catch myself, reality crashing back. What am I doing? This man has me in his debt. He owns a piece of my life now. This isn't attraction; it's a power play.

I hate that he's right. Hate that I want to close that final distance between us, to see if his mouth is as skilled as everything else about him suggests.

I pull away first, scoffing to cover the tremor in my voice. "In your dreams, Hades."

He lets me go, stepping back with that infuriating smirk still in place. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—tell me this isn't over as he takes my elbow lightly, guiding me toward the exit and back to his car.