Page 32

32

ENZO

B lood seeps through my fingers as I press against the wound. Hot, sticky, metallic—I'm losing too much, but there's no time to dwell on that. The warehouse behind us crackles with flames, casting Kendra's face in flickering orange light. She looks like fury personified—wild-eyed, determined, and so fucking beautiful it hurts more than the bullet.

"Lean on me," she commands, sliding her body under my arm.

My vision swims as we stumble toward my car. Every step sends white-hot pain shooting through my abdomen. The bullet is still inside—I can feel it grinding against something it shouldn't.

"I've got you," Kendra says, her voice steady even as her hands tremble against my side.

I focus on her—the anchor keeping me present. Her hair smells like smoke and that coconut shampoo she uses. Blood smears across her jacket where I'm gripping her shoulder. My blood. Zenon's parting gift.

The car appears before us, black and sleek against the night. Kendra fumbles with the door, struggling under my weight.

"You need to—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"Shut up and help me get you in."

The world tilts as she maneuvers me into the passenger seat. Pain explodes through my core, and I bite back a growl. Not in front of her. The leather seat accepts me like an old friend, and I sink into it, head spinning.

Kendra's already pulling out her phone. Her fingers leave bloody smudges on the screen.

"No hospitals," I manage, catching her wrist. Hospitals mean questions. Hospitals mean cops. Hospitals mean Zenon finding us.

She whips her head toward me, eyes flashing. "You were shot, Enzo!"

I meet her gaze steadily, even as my vision blurs at the edges. "I've had worse."

The lie tastes like copper in my mouth. I haven't had worse. Not like this.

Her jaw clenches, and for a moment, I think she might slap me. Instead, she slams my door shut and storms around to the driver's side. Behind us, the warehouse roof collapses, sending embers spiraling into the night sky.

"Keys," she demands, palm outstretched.

I dig them from my pocket, leaving crimson fingerprints on the silver fob. She snatches them, jams them into the ignition. The engine roars to life.

"You better not die in my car," she mutters, throwing the car into reverse.

"It's my car," I remind her, letting my head fall back against the headrest. I have enough of a presence of mind to send a short text to Luca. He'll get someone dispatched to my place.

She peels away from the burning building, tires screaming against asphalt. Her driving is aggressive, efficient—a woman who knows exactly how much pressure to apply. Typical Kendra, all control even in chaos.

"They lied to me," she says suddenly, knuckles white against the steering wheel. "Zenon. He said—he said you were with them, managed to get me away from everyone and cornered on my way to work. I never would have just gone with them."

I force my eyes to stay open, watching her profile in the passing streetlights. "I know."

"I fought them, Enzo. I wouldn't—I didn't betray you."

"I know," I repeat, softer this time.

Her voice cracks as she continues, "When I saw you on the ground, I thought—" She swallows hard. "I thought you were gone."

Something in my chest twists that has nothing to do with the bullet. "You were scared for me."

She scowls, eyes fixed on the road. "You're an idiot."

My lips twitch, but I don't push. The city blurs past us, and I focus on staying conscious. One breath. Then another. My shirt is soaked through now, warm and wet against my skin. Not good.

By the time we reach my building, I'm barely hanging on. The garage door closes behind us, sealing us in concrete darkness. Kendra kills the engine.

"We're here," she says, unnecessarily.

Getting me out of the car is worse than getting in. My legs don't want to cooperate, and darkness threatens to overtake me with each movement. Kendra's arm is rigid around my waist, her shoulder wedged under my arm.

"Stay with me," she orders, her voice close to my ear.

The elevator ride is a haze of pain and the scent of her hair. My blood leaves a trail across the marble floor of my hallway.

When the door to my penthouse opens, I hear the scramble of paws against hardwood. Penny's anxious whine cuts through the fog in my head.

"It's okay, girls," I mutter as Kendra guides me to the couch.

I collapse onto the leather, unable to hold myself upright any longer. Penny hovers nearby, her intelligent eyes tracking every movement. Paige, the eternal optimist, wags her tail despite the obvious tension.

"Where's your first aid kit?" Kendra demands, already moving toward the bathroom.

"Cabinet above the sink. There's more in my office. Second drawer."

She disappears, returning with arms full of supplies. My eyes find her face—there's blood smeared across her cheek, ash in her hair. She's never looked so fierce.

"Take off your shirt," she commands.

I try to smirk. "Usually I get dinner first."

"Not funny." Her hands are gentle despite her tone as she helps me remove the ruined fabric.

The wound looks worse than it feels, which isn't saying much. Kendra inhales sharply at the sight. Without hesitation, she begins cleaning it, her movements precise despite her obvious lack of medical training.

"This is going to hurt," she warns, holding up antiseptic.

"Do it," I grunt.

The antiseptic burns like hellfire when it touches raw flesh. I grit my teeth, refusing to flinch as Kendra works over me with steady hands. Every touch sends lightning through my nervous system, but I keep my face neutral. I've learned long ago that pain is just information. Useful, but ultimately manageable.

"You need stitches," she mutters, dabbing at the wound with gauze that comes away crimson. "I don't know how to?—"

"Just clean it, pack it, wrap it," I instruct, my voice rougher than intended. "I've got someone coming."

Her eyes flash to mine, skeptical but not surprised. Of course I have someone—I'm not stupid enough to bleed out on my expensive couch. But watching her hands move over my skin, determined despite her obvious exhaustion, stirs something uncomfortable in my chest.

Penny whines softly from beside the couch, her mismatched eyes never leaving my face. She's always been the sensitive one, attuned to pain and danger. Paige, meanwhile, shoves her nose repeatedly against Kendra's elbow, seeking attention even in crisis. Typical.

"Stop moving," Kendra orders, pressing a fresh bandage against my abdomen.

I obey, watching the concentration on her face. The way her bottom lip disappears between her teeth. The furrow between her brows. Blood and ash streak her cheeks, her clothes. She's a goddamn war goddess kneeling beside me.

When she's done, she secures the bandage with medical tape and sits back on her heels, suddenly looking every bit as drained as she should. Without ceremony, she drops from her knees to sit on the floor beside the couch, her back against the cushions where my hand rests. Paige immediately curls against her side, head in her lap, while Penny presses her warm weight against my uninjured side.

Kendra exhales, running a hand through her tangled curls. The sound is shaky, betraying the emotions she's been suppressing.

"Don't ever do that again," she says, voice soft but edged with steel.

I feel my lips twitch despite the pain. "Can't make promises."

Her head tilts back, just enough that I can see her profile—the proud line of her jaw, the soft curve of her lips. She doesn't respond, but her fingers find mine where they rest on the couch, twining together as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Days crawl by in a haze of pain, medication, and Kendra's steady presence. Luca's doctor—a man who asks no questions and takes payment in cash—removes the bullet, stitches me up, and provides enough painkillers to sedate a horse. I take half of what he prescribes. I need my mind clear.

By the third day, I'm moving around the penthouse, ignoring Kendra's disapproving glares. By the fifth, I'm making calls—including one that has Rome dropped off in Cappalletti territory where they will dispatch the traitor for me. By the seventh, Luca arrives—right on schedule.

He enters my space like he belongs here, steel-blue eyes taking in every detail. He's dressed impeccably, as always—dark suit tailored to perfection, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Nothing about him suggests he's the most dangerous man in Chicago. Nothing except the emptiness in his eyes.

Kendra stiffens when he enters, though she'd known he was coming. She's sitting at my kitchen island, fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, watching him with the wariness of a woman who recognizes a predator.

"Skye sends her regards," Luca tells her, his voice neutral. Not cold, not warm—just factual, as if emotion is a foreign concept. "She's been worried."

Kendra nods once. "Tell her I'm fine."

His attention shifts to me, assessing. "You look like shit."

"Always the charmer," I respond, gesturing toward the living area. "Shall we?"

Luca follows me to the sitting area, taking a seat in the leather armchair across from me. He doesn't fidget, doesn't look uncomfortable. He simply waits, patient as death.

I don't waste time with pleasantries. "Zenon made his move. Him and Ercole."

Luca's expression doesn't change as I detail the ambush, the warehouse, Kendra's kidnapping. I explain how they used her as bait, claimed she was working with them, tried to drive a wedge between us before killing me. I tell him about the bullet, the fire, the escape.

Throughout it all, Luca's face remains impassive, but I know him well enough to see the subtle tightening around his eyes—the only indicator of the rage building beneath that controlled exterior.

When I finish, he exhales slowly, deliberately, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Chicago skyline. "Zenon broke the rules."

Four simple words, heavy with meaning. The truce between the families was sacred—even to someone like Luca, who respects very little. The silence stretches between us, but I don't fill it. I don't need to.

"Their Don has been informed," Luca continues, his gaze returning to mine. "This matter is... outside family concerns now."

Translation: I have permission to handle this my way. No blowback. No consequences. Zenon and Ercole have been marked—not by the Mantiones, not by the Cappallettis, but by me personally.

Luca rises, buttoning his jacket with graceful precision. "Take care of it," he says, and I nod once. No further instructions needed. We understand each other perfectly.

As he passes Kendra on his way out, he pauses. "You chose well," he tells her, cryptic as ever, before disappearing through the door.