Page 19

19

KENDRA

I slide into the plush booth at The Vault, my third home after my apartment and office. The familiar bass thrums through my body, but not even the top-shelf whiskey in my hand can ease the tension lodged between my shoulder blades. The sleek black tables, the purple mood lighting, the exclusive clientele—normally this atmosphere energizes me. Tonight, it feels like I'm performing.

Jazz paces alongside our booth, her curls bouncing with each emphatic gesture. "These assholes trashed the VIP section last night. Champagne on the walls, cigarette burns in the new velvet couches—do you know how much those cost?" She stops, hand on hip, eyes flashing. "And Nerio expects me to smooth it all over by tomorrow night for some bigshot client."

I take a long sip, letting the whiskey burn a path down my throat. "Send them the bill. Double it."

"Triple it," Jazz corrects, finally sliding in next to me, her silk blouse catching the light. "Already done. But that doesn't fix my immediate problem."

Across from us, Mikayla hunches over a cocktail napkin, her pencil moving in swift, delicate strokes. Her soft features are creased in concentration, completely absorbed in whatever she's creating. The sweetness of her focus is a stark contrast to the rest of us—hardened in ways she isn't yet.

Then there's Skye, looking like she just stepped off a runway in her tailored jumpsuit, amber eyes fixed on me with that look I know too well. The "I can read your mind" look. The "you can't bullshit a bullshitter" look.

I narrow my eyes, downing more whiskey. I'm not ready for this conversation.

If only Maria was here tonight to distract her. But she’s been more and more absent lately, and I don’t even know why.

"So," Jazz continues, signaling the server for another round. "The cleaners are working overtime, and I've called in reinforcements from that disaster restoration company that owes me a favor."

"Smart," I nod, grateful for the distraction. "Did you?—"

"Alright, out with it." Skye cuts through Jazz's rant with surgical precision, manicured finger pointing directly at me.

I arch an eyebrow, aiming for nonchalance. "Out with what?"

Skye makes a sweeping gesture toward me, her diamond bracelets catching the light. "The reason you look like you've been overthinking yourself into an early grave. This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain 'Hades' I keep hearing about, would it?"

I groan, dropping my head against the table with a thud that rattles our glasses. The cool surface does nothing to soothe the heat crawling up my neck.

Jazz snickers, the ice in her drink tinkling as she swirls it. "I like the nickname. Fitting, really. Making deals, lurking in the shadows, terrifying but sexy."

I don't need to look up to know she's wearing that smug smile, the one that says she's enjoying my misery far too much.

Mikayla finally glances up from her sketch—something that looks eerily like Enzo's Dobermans. "I still think it's a bad idea," she says, her voice carrying a gentle concern that cuts deeper than Skye's directness.

I sigh, lifting my head. "It's not a bad idea because there's nothing happening." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Jazz squints at me, leaning forward. "But you wish something was happening."

I huff out a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. "I wish he'd leave me alone."

The look Skye and Jazz exchange is quick but loaded—a silent conversation about my obvious bullshit. My stomach tightens. I've built my career on reading people, on control, on never showing weakness. Yet here I am, transparent as glass to the women who know me best.

But then Mikayla speaks up, her voice softer than the others. "Are you sure?"

I blink, caught off guard. Sweet, naive Mikayla isn't usually the one pushing. But her gaze is steady, full of something close to concern that pins me in place.

"Because from the outside, it looks like he's already gotten under your skin."

I open my mouth to argue—but nothing comes out. The words are there, ready to deny, deflect, dismiss. They're my standard weapons, my professional armor.

But the truth is, they're right. With one phone call, one arrangement, one goddamn deal, Enzo has managed to invade every corner of my mind. And that realization sits heavy in my chest, even as Jazz launches into another story and Skye signals for more drinks.

I'm staring into my closet when my phone vibrates on the nightstand. It's been exactly twenty-four hours since my girls' night, and I still haven't figured out what to do about the Enzo situation. My heart sinks when I see his name lighting up my screen.

I answer with my professional voice, the one I use for difficult clients. "Hello?"

"Be ready in twenty minutes."

No preamble, no greeting. Just that voice—deep, controlled, authoritative—the same voice that turned husky as he kneeled between my legs the last time we were alone. My body reacts instantly, a flush of heat that has nothing to do with the temperature in my apartment.

I should argue. I should tell him I have plans. I should remind him that this arrangement doesn't include him ordering me around on a random Tuesday night.

Instead, I hear myself ask, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see." He hangs up without another word.

Nineteen minutes later, I'm standing in front of my building in a fitted black dress that hugs every curve, my hair swept up in a deliberately messy updo. I've chosen understated makeup—just enough to enhance my features without looking like I'm trying too hard.

When his car pulls up, sleek and dark like everything else about him, I draw in a steadying breath. The passenger door opens, and there he is—Enzo Rossi in all his controlled glory. He's wearing charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of tanned skin and the edge of one of his tattoos. Even in this simple outfit, he exudes danger and control.

His steel-gray eyes sweep over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle with awareness. "You look good."

I slide into the passenger seat, keeping my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. "So do you. Where are we going?"

His mouth curves into something close to a smile—not that cocky smirk I'm used to, but something quieter. "You'll find out."

We drive in silence, the city lights painting shadows across his sharp features. I watch his profile from the corner of my eye, studying the way he holds himself—back straight, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. There's a tension in him tonight, something coiled tight beneath the surface.

The restaurant he takes me to isn't what I expected. No flashy valet service, no crowd of Chicago's elite waiting to be seated. Instead, it's a small, elegant place tucked away on a quiet street, with warm wood paneling and soft lighting that creates pockets of intimacy around each table.

The host greets Enzo by name, leading us to a corner table partially hidden by a curved wall. It feels... private. Protected.

"I didn't take you for the quiet restaurant type," I say once we're seated, the candle between us casting a golden glow across his features, softening the hard lines of his face. "I figured you'd be more about making a statement."

He shrugs one broad shoulder, picking up his menu. "Sometimes the statement is in what you don't show."

The conversation flows easier than I expected as we order, as the wine arrives, as our appetizers disappear. He asks about my work, listens with actual interest when I tell him about a campaign I'm developing. I find myself laughing at his dry commentary on Chicago's business elite—people we both know, though from very different angles.

Not once does he mention the deal between us. Not once does he make me feel like I'm here because I owe him. If I didn't know better, I'd think this was just... a date.

"Why here?" I ask halfway through the main course, curiosity finally getting the better of me.

His eyes flick up to mine, assessing. "Do you always need to know the 'why'?"

"With you? Absolutely."

That pulls a real smile from him—small, but genuine. It transforms his face, and for a second I glimpse what he might have been in another life, one without the weight he carries.

"The chef is an old friend," he says simply. "And the food is good."

After dinner, instead of leading me back to the car, he gestures toward the sidewalk. "Walk with me."

The night air is cool against my skin as we move side by side down the quiet street. He walks with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed but that underlying tension still present in the set of his jaw.

"What's your favorite part of the city?" I ask, testing the waters of how much he'll share.

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "The lake at sunrise. Before the crowds come." A pause. "You?"

"The old buildings downtown. The ones with all the history and architectural details no one notices anymore."

We continue like this—small exchanges, little truths offered and received. His favorite season (fall), whether he prefers coffee or tea (espresso, always), the book he's reading (to my surprise, he's working through Dostoevsky).

I study him as we walk, the way the streetlights catch the planes of his face, the careful distance he maintains between us. He's beautiful in a dangerous way, like something wild temporarily at rest.

"You grew up here?" I ask when we pass a neighborhood park.

Something flickers across his expression—a shadow, there and gone. "No. South side." He doesn't elaborate, but there's weight in those two words, history I can sense but can't see. But he lets me keep asking questions until we go back to the car.

By the time we reach my building again, I'm unsettled in a way I hadn't anticipated. Tonight wasn't about power or control or our strange arrangement. It was about something far more dangerous—seeing glimpses of the actual man beneath the capo exterior.

I'm not just attracted to Enzo Rossi anymore. I'm curious about him. I want to know more. And that terrifies me more than any threat he could make, any power he could wield.

Because wanting to know Enzo Rossi means admitting he's more than just a monster in an expensive suit. It means acknowledging the complexity beneath the danger—and that's a complication I never saw coming.