Page 6

6

KENDRA

I pull up to Enzo's house, surprised by the quiet, upscale neighborhood. Somehow, I'd imagined him living in some gothic mansion on the edge of town, or perhaps a penthouse overlooking the city—not this sleek modern structure nestled between mature oak trees on a peaceful street. It's unsettling how normal it looks from the outside. Like a wolf wearing sheep's clothing.

I sit in my car, drumming my perfectly manicured nails against the steering wheel, giving myself one last pep talk. "This is your choice," I whisper to my reflection in the rearview mirror. "You're making this decision. You're in control."

The words sound hollow even to my own ears, but I cling to them anyway. Pride is sometimes all we have, and I refuse to walk into this arrangement feeling like a victim.

Skye's knowing look when she gave me the address still haunts me. The careful neutrality in her voice when she said, "You know what you're doing, right?" As if she could already see exactly how this would play out even though I wouldn't really explain why I wanted it.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I'd told her with more confidence than I felt. "Just give me the damn address."

Now here I am, parked outside the devil's doorstep, about to sell my soul on my behalf of a friend so close he's practically my brother. Griffin has no idea what I'm doing for him. He never will—at least the full truth.

The path to Enzo's front door is lined with neat landscaping—minimalist but expensive-looking, just like the man himself. Each step I take in my stilettos feels like a deliberate choice. My heartbeat quickens, but I keep my chin high, shoulders back. My burgundy wrap dress hugs every curve, a subtle armor of confidence.

I press the doorbell before I can second-guess myself.

The door swings open, and there he stands—Enzo Rossi in dark jeans and a charcoal henley that clings to his broad shoulders and chest in a way that should be illegal. His steel-gray eyes take me in, and I feel exposed despite being fully clothed. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his fingers through it.

"You came," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through me. Not a question. A statement. Like he never doubted I would. He doesn’t even seem surprised that I’ve shown up at his house unannounced, though I imagine Skye would have warned him.

"I did." I meet his gaze directly, refusing to show weakness.

He steps aside to let me in, and I move past him, catching the scent of sandalwood and something darker, more primal. His home surprises me immediately—open concept, clean lines, but unexpectedly warm. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, while a perfectly arranged bookshelf spans one wall, filled with actual books that look read, not just displayed. The kitchen gleams with high-end appliances, and a cabinet full of expensive liquors.

Before I can comment, chaos erupts. A yellow blur comes barreling around the corner, paws skidding on the hardwood floors, followed by a second, more cautious shadow.

"What the—" I barely have time to brace myself before seventy pounds of enthusiastic dog crashes into my legs, nearly knocking me off my heels. Wet nose, wagging tail, excited whines—the yellow lab looks up at me with pure joy, as if I'm the most exciting thing to happen all day.

Behind her, a black and brown Australian shepherd hangs back, watching me with intelligent, wary eyes, pressed against Enzo's leg as if for protection.

My mouth opens, then shuts, all my carefully rehearsed lines forgotten. "You have dogs?"

Enzo leans casually against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching my reaction with what almost looks like amusement. "Problem?"

I'm too stunned to answer immediately. My brain short-circuits trying to reconcile the cold, calculating capo who cornered me on the street with this man who apparently has not one but two dogs that shed all over his expensive furniture.

Hades isn't supposed to have dogs. He's supposed to sit on a throne in the dark, not collect strays. He's supposed to be harsh and unforgiving, not have a home that feels lived-in, with dog toys scattered across an otherwise immaculate living room.

The lab—completely oblivious to my internal crisis—decides my momentary silence means we're best friends now and proceeds to enthusiastically sniff my shoes and up my legs.

"Down, Paige," Enzo commands, though his tone lacks any real authority. He's clearly soft on her, not that I can blame him.

The lab—Paige, apparently—ignores him completely, instead opting to circle me with her entire body wiggling in excitement. Her tail whips back and forth with such force I worry she might hurt herself. It's endearing in a chaotic sort of way, and I find myself fighting the urge to reach down and pet her.

But then Enzo straightens, stepping toward me, the playful moment dissolving. His features sharpen, his relaxed posture transforming into something predatory. The warm domesticity of the scene evaporates like morning dew in summer heat.

"I assume you're not here for them. So say it." His voice drops into something silky and dangerous, each word carefully measured, designed to slip under my skin.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let him rattle me. This is exactly what I expected—the mask dropping, the wolf showing its teeth. This version of him, I understand. This version fits the narrative.

"Fine. You win. I'll take the deal."

The words taste bitter on my tongue, but I keep my voice steady, my chin high. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me hesitate.

Enzo's smirk is slow, victorious, but he doesn't gloat. Instead, he just tilts his head, studying me like I'm a chess piece he's finally maneuvered into the perfect position.

"Of course you will."

The casual confidence in those three words makes my blood simmer. He knew all along I'd cave, knew exactly how much this meant to me, knew I would never let Griffin suffer if I could prevent it.

Instead of acknowledging me further, he turns away as if I'm not worth another thought and grabs a crystal tumbler from a cabinet. He pours himself a finger of amber liquid—whiskey, from the looks of it—his movements unhurried and deliberate.

Paige bumps into his leg, her entire body still wiggling with uncontained joy, completely at odds with the tension crackling between us. The Australian shepherd hasn't moved from her spot, her intelligent eyes still fixed on me with obvious suspicion. She shifts closer to Enzo, pressing herself against his calf as if trying to protect him from me.

I clench my fists, the reality of the situation crystallizing with brutal clarity. This isn't the moment I take control. It's the moment I lose it.

Enzo reaches down with one hand—the one not holding his whiskey—and absently scratches behind the Australian shepherd's ears. The gesture is automatic, intimate, a glimpse of genuine affection that feels almost invasive to witness.

"This Penny," he says suddenly, glancing between his dogs. "And that's— Paige, knock it off. You'll tear her dress."

Paige, ignoring him completely, has decided that my stillness means I need more enthusiasm and places her paws on my thighs, nearly dislodging my carefully arranged wrap. I instinctively catch her, unable to stop myself.

"She's just excited." I pet her, no longer able to hold back. "You can tell I need a friend, hmm?"

My voice is quiet, but when I look up, Enzo is watching me. I swallow hard, the tension blooming between us. Then he clears his throat, looking away. "Don't get too comfortable. This is just a deal after all."

My stomach drops at the reminder and Paige nuzzles against me like she can tell. But nothing can wipe away the ice cold feeling pouring through me as I face what I have done.

I've signed my soul over to my own personal Hades.