Page 35

35

KENDRA

I feel the cold metal muzzle of a gun press deeper between my ribs as Ercole drags me forward. The zip ties around my wrists dig painfully into my skin, but the sensation barely registers against the fury boiling through my veins. I've spent the last hour being yanked around by this discount knockoff gangster, listening to his disgusting plans about "claiming" me once Enzo is dead. All because he managed to grab me after brunch.

Enzo is going to have to teach me a thing or two about not getting kidnapped I suppose.

Ercole kicks open the door to the warehouse, not even flinching at his father’s body lifeless on the ground. He manages to make out whatever Enzo is saying as he yanks his blade free, but I’m too busy cataloging his body, making sure he isn’t hurt.

There’s fresh blood on his side, and I’m shaking with rage at the sight.

"Touching.” Ercole’s sneer brings me back to the moment. “But you're not the only one settling scores tonight."

The warehouse air hangs thick with gunpowder and blood. My eyes lock on Enzo immediately—standing over Zenon's body, his shirt soaked through with his own blood. He looks like he's been through hell. But alive. Thank god, he's alive.

Enzo's head snaps up at Ercole's voice, and when his eyes land on me, something dangerous shifts in his expression. The steel-gray of his gaze hardens to gunmetal. His jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.

"I should have let you burn," Ercole sneers, jerking me closer. His breath reeks of cigarettes and desperation. "But this is better. You die, I take Kendra, and the world keeps turning."

Enzo doesn't respond. Not with words. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—move between my face and the gun at my ribs. I watch his breathing change, becoming deeper, more controlled. It's like watching a storm gathering. His broad shoulders straighten despite the pain that must be tearing through him. Blood seeps through his shirt, but he moves as if it's nothing more than an inconvenience.

The rage in his expression isn't the uncontrolled fury of a madman. No, this is something much worse—the cold, deliberate wrath of a man who's already decided how this ends.

Enzo takes a step forward, and I feel Ercole's grip tighten reflexively. Every movement of Enzo's body speaks of lethal intent, wound tight like a predator ready to strike.

"You think taking a woman makes you a man?" Enzo's voice comes out as a low growl, controlled but deadly. "You're a fool, Ercole."

I feel something shift in Ercole—a flicker of uncertainty beneath his bravado. His fingers dig deeper into my arm as if I'm the only thing keeping him alive. And in this moment, watching Enzo advance with that dark purpose in his eyes, I realize I probably am.

But I'm not some helpless prize to be fought over. Not some trophy to be claimed.

I catch Enzo's eye for just a fraction of a second. Something passes between us—understanding, trust. I don't need words to know what he's telling me. Take the chance.

In one fluid motion, I twist my body sharply to the side, driving my heel down onto Ercole's foot with all my strength. The momentary shock loosens his grip just enough. I throw my elbow back, connecting with his ribs. The satisfying crack and his howl of pain give me the opening I need.

I spin around, my bound hands grabbing for his gun. The weight of it is cold and heavy in my fingers, but I don't hesitate. One pull of the trigger and the bullet tears through Ercole's shoulder. He drops to his knees, his scream echoing through the warehouse.

I turn to Enzo, my chest heaving, adrenaline coursing hot through my veins. Our eyes lock across the space between us, and everything else falls away. The zip ties cut into my wrists. Blood—Ercole's, not mine—spatters my clothes. But none of it matters.

I saved him. I saved myself.

The realization hits us both at the same time, and I see something shift in Enzo's expression—pride, relief, and something deeper I'm not ready to name.

I stand frozen in place, gun still warm in my trembling hands, as Enzo's eyes shift from me to Ercole's kneeling form. The warehouse air feels electric, charged with something primal. Something final.

Enzo doesn't hesitate. There's no moment of moral consideration, no weighing of options. He steps toward Ercole with deliberate, unhurried movements, like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run. Each step echoes against the concrete, the sound amplifying the inevitable. His presence swallows the room, dark and commanding, making everything else fade to background noise.

"You think this is over?" Ercole spits through gritted teeth, one hand still clutching his bleeding shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers, staining his shirt a deep crimson. "You think you've won?"

Enzo doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. His silence speaks volumes as he continues his approach, gun hanging loosely at his side. The steel-gray of his eyes has gone flat, emotionless, like the surface of a frozen lake. His jaw is set, his movements fluid despite the blood still spreading across his own shirt.

For the first time, true fear flickers across Ercole's face. The bravado crumbles, replaced by a dawning realization of his own mortality. His eyes dart wildly, looking for an escape that doesn't exist.

"Enzo, listen," Ercole's voice cracks. "We're family?—"

"You never should have touched her," Enzo says calmly. The quietness of his voice somehow makes it more terrifying, like the silence before lightning strikes.

No rage. No shouting. Just cold certainty.

I watch as Enzo raises his gun, the movement smooth and practiced. Ercole's eyes widen, pupils dilating with fear. Time seems to stretch between them—uncle and nephew, blood turned against blood.

"Wait—" Ercole begins.

The gunshot cuts through his plea. A single clean shot to the head. The sound reverberates through the warehouse, bouncing off metal walls and concrete floors, somehow both deafening and final.

Ercole's body slumps forward, a marionette with its strings cut. His eyes remain open, but the light behind them is gone. Just empty windows now, staring at nothing.

I exhale, a shuddering breath that seems to come from somewhere deep inside me. My shoulders shake with the force of it, the adrenaline crash hitting me all at once. But I don't look away. Can't look away. This is my world now—I chose it the moment I made that deal with Enzo. The moment I chose him.

Enzo turns to me, his movements softer now. The hardness melts from his face as his eyes find mine, replaced by something that looks almost like concern. He crosses the distance between us, careful not to crowd me, and brushes his fingers against my bound wrists—just a touch, just enough to remind himself that I'm real, that I'm safe. The gentleness of it stands in stark contrast to the violence I just witnessed, and somehow that makes it all the more powerful.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is low, intimate in the vast space.

I shake my head, unable to find words yet. The zip ties dig into my skin, but it's distant, secondary to everything else happening in this moment.

Enzo pulls out his phone and dials, his eyes never leaving my face. When Luca answers, his words are simple, direct.

"It's done." No explanation needed, no details given.

Luca doesn't ask questions. There's a brief pause before his voice comes through, equally concise. "I'll handle the bodies."

And just like that, it's over. Two men dead on a warehouse floor, blood pooling beneath them, and a phone call that erases it all like it never happened.