Page 28

28

KENDRA

I stare at the spreadsheet on my monitor, numbers and data points that should command my focus, but I might as well be looking at hieroglyphics. My brain refuses to concentrate, wandering repeatedly to last night like a tongue prodding a sore tooth.

Enzo's voice in the darkness. Our long talk the day before. The way his defenses slipped, just for a moment, showing me something raw. Something real.

I click randomly between cells, pretending to work while my mind replays every second with him over the last week—his hand at the small of my back, the heat of him, the way my body responded before my brain could intervene. I've had sex before. Good sex, even. But with Enzo...

"Fuck," I mutter, dragging my hands down my face, smudging my carefully applied eyeliner. This is exactly what I swore wouldn't happen. I don't catch feelings—especially not for dangerous men with tattoos and power and eyes that see too much.

It meant nothing to him. A transaction. A debt.

So why did he let me see beneath that perfect control? Why show me anything genuine at all?

My phone buzzes against the desk, screen lighting up with a name that sends an involuntary flush of warmth through my chest. I stare at it for three long seconds, hating myself for the little jump my heart makes, the anticipation tingling in my fingertips.

Enzo.

I swipe to answer, leaning back in my chair and keeping my voice deliberately neutral. "You need me for something?"

The sound of his breathing fills the line for a heartbeat before he speaks.

"Come over for dinner," he says. His voice carries that smooth, commanding tone I've come to expect, but underneath it lurks something different. Something almost... gentle.

I raise an eyebrow reflexively, though he can't see it. The air conditioning hums in the background as I cross my legs, trying to ignore the warmth curling through my stomach.

"Is this another part of the deal?" I ask, my words carrying a defensive edge I hadn't quite intended. A challenge, because challenging him feels safer than admitting I want to see him again.

He exhales, a soft sound that somehow feels more intimate than it should.

"Just come over, Kendra."

My name in his mouth—it shouldn't affect me like this. Two syllables that feel like fingers trailing down my spine. I press my lips together, fighting the smile that threatens to form, grateful he can't see me now. The smart move would be to decline, to establish boundaries before I'm in too deep.

But when it comes to Enzo Rossi, I stopped making smart moves the moment I took his deal.

"What time?" I hear myself ask.

"Seven. I'll cook," he adds, like it's normal. Like dangerous men in his position regularly transform into domestic gods.

"I'll be there."

A pause on his end. "I'll see you then."

The line goes dead before I can respond, a new heat lingering in my cheeks. The rest of my workday crawls by in excruciating slow motion. Every email feels like a distraction, every meeting a waste of time pulling me away from thoughts of tonight. I plow through my tasks with mechanical efficiency, wanting everything cleared so I can leave on time.

"It's just dinner," I mutter to myself, reorganizing the same stack of papers for the third time. "Just another obligation. Another box to check."

But as the clock inches toward five, I find myself refreshing my makeup in the bathroom mirror, reapplying the eyeliner I'd smudged earlier, adding a touch more mascara. Running a hand through my curls, fluffing them just so. Checking the outfit I'd worn to work—navy blue dress, fitted but professional, heels that make my legs look endless.

It's nice, but is it nice enough?

"This is ridiculous," I tell my reflection. "It's not a date."

My reflection doesn't look convinced.

By five-thirty, I've packed up my desk, leaving fifteen minutes earlier than I usually do. My coworkers barely notice—I've spent enough late nights to earn an occasional early departure. My purse feels heavy on my shoulder as I walk to the elevator, scrolling through emails one last time before tucking my phone away.

The trip from my office to his penthouse takes exactly twenty-three minutes with good traffic. I know because I timed it on my GPS, leaving enough cushion to arrive exactly on time. Not early—I'm not eager. Not late—I respect his time. Just... precisely on time. In control.

It's only when I catch myself smiling at nothing while waiting at a red light that I realize I'm lying to myself. This isn't just another night. It isn't just fulfilling my end of our bargain. I want to be there. I want to see him.

The steering wheel feels suddenly slippery beneath my fingers, my heart rate picking up as I pull into the parking garage of his building. Security nods at me—they know me now, another unsettling realization—and I stride across the marble lobby to the private elevator.

The doors slide open onto his floor, and I hesitate before knocking. I can already smell something rich and savory wafting from inside—actual cooking, not takeout. The thought of Enzo in an apron, handling knives for something other than intimidation, almost makes me laugh.

Then I'm knocking, and there's no turning back.

The door swings open, and before I can properly register Enzo standing there, a blur of yellow fur launches itself at me. Paige barrels into my legs with the force of pure canine joy, nearly toppling me sideways.

"Jesus—Paige, down," I laugh, steadying myself against the doorframe as the Labrador dances excitedly around me, tail whipping back and forth like a metronome set to maximum speed. One of these days I’ll start to anticipate her coming at me and be ready.

From behind Enzo's legs, Penny emerges with significantly more dignity, approaching with cautious optimism. She sniffs at my hand, then presses her muzzle against my palm before curling up right at my feet, as if we've known each other forever. It does something to my heart every time she comes to me.

I glance up to find Enzo watching the scene, his broad frame leaning against the kitchen counter. The sleeves of his dark shirt are rolled to the elbows, revealing the intricate tattoos mapping his forearms. His steel-gray eyes track every movement between me and the dogs, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

"They like you," he murmurs, his voice low and smooth in the open space of his penthouse.

I straighten, recovering my composure while scratching Penny behind the ears. A smirk curves my lips as I meet his gaze. "They have good taste."

But the truth hits me as I step fully into his space—I like them too. These chaotic, sweet animals that somehow belong to a man who makes people disappear. And I like coming here, to this place that no longer feels unfamiliar. The sleek furniture, the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering Chicago skyline, the unexpected warmth that contradicts everything Enzo is supposed to be.

I like it all far too much.