Page 29

29

ENZO

I lean against the glossy main counter of Skye's boutique, letting my gaze drift over the carefully curated displays of designer clothes. The place screams exclusivity—all clean lines and strategic lighting that makes even the most mundane items look worth their exorbitant price tags. It's the kind of calculated elegance I usually appreciate.

But today, I'm not really seeing any of it.

My eyes flick down to my phone as a notification lights up the screen. It's Kendra, responding to my earlier message about a schedule conflict.

Maybe your meetings would run smoother if you weren't texting me during them, tough guy.

My lips twitch before I can catch them—a momentary slip in control. I begin typing back, thumbs moving with more haste than I care to admit.

And yet you're responding just as quickly.

I'm supposed to be here checking in on Maria, making sure everything's running smoothly in this part of our territory. It's what I told Luca, anyway. The truth is more complicated, and I'm not willing to examine it too closely.

"That face doesn't look like business," Maria's voice cuts through my thoughts.

I glance up to find her watching me, arms folded across her chest, brown curls cascading over her shoulders as she leans against a rack of dresses worth more than most people make in a month. Next to her, Skye's lips curve into a knowing smile that immediately sets my teeth on edge.

"What face?" I slide my phone into the inner pocket of my tailored jacket, expression smoothing into practiced neutrality.

"The one where you almost smiled," Maria pushes off from the rack, moving closer. "Since when does Enzo Rossi smile at his phone?"

I straighten to my full height, steel gaze sweeping over both women. "I was confirming details for a shipment."

Skye snorts delicately, amber eyes gleaming with amusement. "A shipment named Kendra, perhaps?"

The muscles in my jaw tighten, but I keep my expression blank. Years of practice make it second nature to hide reactions—whether I'm facing down a rival or nosy friends who think they know too much.

"No one important." The lie falls flat even to my own ears.

Maria hums, clearly unconvinced. She circles the counter until she's standing directly across from me, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the polished surface.

"Right. So, are you and Kendra still in that stupid contract?" she asks, voice casual but eyes sharp.

I give her a look that would make most men take an involuntary step back. Maria merely raises an eyebrow, waiting. The tattoos on my forearms seem to burn beneath my shirt sleeves—reminders of all I've survived, all I've had to become. This conversation shouldn't make me feel cornered.

"That's between me and her," I say, voice dropping to that quiet register that usually ends discussions.

Maria leans on the counter, watching me carefully. "You're texting her like this is real, Enzo."

Skye moves to stand beside her, head tilting thoughtfully. "Maybe it is."

The simple statement hangs in the air between us. I should have a sharp response ready, should cut this conversation off at the knees. But for once, no words come. I stand there, a man who's built his reputation on calculating every move, suddenly unable to formulate a response.

Because a part of me knows they're right.

I've been treating this like more than just a deal. The texts. The dinners. The way I find myself thinking about her when she's not around. The earth shattering sex and the way I’m letting her in. None of that was in our agreement.

Maria crosses her arms, expression turning serious. "You need to cut her loose. Give her a chance to choose you."

I exhale slowly, running a hand down my face, feeling the faint roughness of stubble against my palm. The thought of ending our arrangement sits like lead in my stomach. Not because I fear losing leverage—I have plenty of that elsewhere.

No, the possibility of her choosing to walk away is the only thing more dangerous than keeping her tied to me.

But Maria's words are still haunting me hours later as I place two wine glasses on the kitchen table, feeling an unsettling rhythm in my chest that I'm not accustomed to. My dogs have already warmed to Kendra—Paige sprawled across her feet within minutes of her arrival, while Penny, ever cautious, watches from a respectful distance with those nervous shepherd eyes.

This feels too domestic. Too normal.

"Your kitchen is cleaner than mine will ever be," Kendra says, running her fingertips along the edge of my marble countertop.

She's dressed in something casual tonight—dark jeans that hug every curve and a simple top that somehow makes her look more striking than if she'd arrived in designer wear. Her thick curls are gathered loosely at her neck, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Even now, even here in my space where I control everything, she looks untouchable.

"I like order," I respond, pouring a rich cabernet into her glass.

"So I've noticed." Her full lips curve into that knowing smile that gets under my skin, the one that suggests she sees more than I want her to.

We move to the table with an ease that should concern me. There's a familiarity in our movements now—how she knows which drawer holds the silverware, how I automatically pull out her chair before taking my own. We've developed rituals that weren't part of our arrangement.

The tension between us remains electric, but it's shifted into something I can't quite name. Less like a game of power and more like something waiting to ignite.

She takes a sip of wine, her dark eyes meeting mine over the rim of her glass. "You're quiet tonight."

I lean back, watching her. The tattoos along my arms seem to pulse beneath my rolled-up sleeves. "Got a lot on my mind."

We eat, we talk. She tells me about a client who's driving her marketing team insane with constant revisions. I share a heavily edited version of trouble with a supplier. It all feels so goddamn normal that I almost forget who we are, what brought us together.

Almost.

Halfway through our second glass of wine, I make my decision. The words have been sitting on my tongue all evening, heavy like lead.

"The deal's done," I say, watching her carefully, my expression revealing nothing while my heart hammers against my ribs.

Kendra stills, her glass suspended halfway to those lips that have haunted my thoughts for weeks. "What?"

I lean back in my chair, swirling the dark liquid in my glass with deliberate casualness that masks the storm beneath. "You're free. No more calling on you, no more favors. It's over. You paid your debt."

I expect relief, perhaps gratitude. What I don't expect is the way she freezes, those sharp eyes suddenly unreadable. She doesn't answer right away, and the silence stretches between us like a live wire.

She could walk out my door, could throw my mercy back in my face with some cutting remark—she has options. Instead, she tilts her head, studying me with an intensity that makes me feel stripped bare despite the clothes between us.

"Why?" The single word contains multitudes.

I smirk, masking vulnerability with confidence, a skill I perfected long before I ever met her. "Thought I'd give you the chance to run."

The words hang in the air, charged with everything unsaid between us. Something flickers in her expression—understanding, perhaps. Or recognition.

Kendra sets down her glass, standing slowly. For a moment, tension coils in my gut, the certainty that she'll walk away washing over me like ice water. Instead, she steps around the table with deliberate movements, her gaze never leaving mine.

When she moves onto my lap, straddling me with practiced ease, my hands instinctively find her hips—not controlling, just steadying. Her weight grounds me, the heat of her body against mine a tangible reminder that this is real.

Her hands slide up my chest, nails grazing skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, leaving fire in their wake. I force myself to remain still, to not reveal how her simplest touch affects me.

"And if I don't want to run?" Her voice is low, challenging.

I exhale sharply, fingers tightening on her hips, feeling the curve of her beneath my palms. My control slips, just for a moment, revealing the hunger I've been fighting.

"Then you stay," I murmur, voice rough with everything I won't say.

When she kisses me, it's different from all the times before. No games, no power plays, no debt between us—just Kendra choosing this. Choosing me. And as we lose ourselves in each other, my hands mapping the familiar terrain of her body while her fingers thread through my hair, I know this has become something neither of us planned for.

Because now, there's nothing holding her here except her own choice.