Page 9

9

KENDRA

I slam my phone down with more force than necessary, staring at Enzo's text message like it might spontaneously combust.

Dinner tonight. 8 PM. Wear something nice. I'll send a car.

It's the fourth summons this week. No please. No explanation. Just another imperial command expecting immediate obedience. I consider throwing the phone across my living room but reconsider—I've already replaced two this year, and Apple doesn't need more of my money.

The rational part of my brain reminds me I agreed to this arrangement. I made a deal with the devil himself to save Griffin's worthless ass, only to discover he'd already skipped town. Now I'm left holding the bag—or more accurately, holding whatever Enzo Rossi decides to hand me.

When I agreed to be "at his call," I'd braced myself for something sinister. Sexual favors. Illegal activities. Using my marketing connections for something that would get me fired or worse. Instead, I've gotten... dinner dates. Club appearances. Silent companionship while he conducts mysterious business meetings that seem to consist mostly of men in expensive suits nodding reverently in his direction. I don't even get why I'm there most of the time.

I pull open my closet door with enough force to rattle the hinges. What does "something nice" even mean to a man whose watch probably costs more than my car? I finger through dresses, each one seemingly inadequate for whatever game he's playing.

The car arrives precisely at 7:30. Of course it does. The driver doesn't speak beyond confirming my identity, and I don't offer conversation. Twenty minutes later, we pull up to Antica, the kind of Italian restaurant where the menu doesn't list prices and the wine list requires its own leather-bound volume.

Enzo is already seated when I arrive, his broad frame dominating a corner table that gives him full view of the restaurant. He doesn't stand when I approach—why would he? That would suggest manners, consideration, something human underneath all that calculated control. Instead, his steel-gray eyes track my approach, taking in the midnight blue dress I'd finally settled on, neither approving nor disapproving.

"You're punctual," he says, as if bestowing some great compliment.

"You didn't give me much choice." I slide into my seat, refusing the help of the hovering waiter. "Your text was typically informative."

A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth might be amusement. "I find brevity effective."

"Is that what you call it?"

I watch as he swirls amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. His tattooed forearms peek out beneath rolled sleeves, intricate designs disappearing under expensive fabric, telling stories I'm not allowed to read. He's freshly shaved, the sharp line of his jaw softened only by the shadow that's already threatening to return.

"You seem tense tonight, Kendra." He takes a measured sip of his drink. "Problem at work?"

"My problem is sitting across from me." I reach for the wine already poured at my place setting. "Is this what I signed up for? Being your dinner companion?"

Enzo leans forward slightly, and the subtle shift commands my attention. He doesn't need to raise his voice or slam his hand; the slight tilt of his head is enough.

"Are you complaining?" He arches one perfect eyebrow, challenge evident in every line of his face.

I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. "I'm questioning the allocation of resources. If all you wanted was someone to watch you eat pasta, you could've hired an actual escort. Probably would've been cheaper than forgiving Griffin's debt."

Something dangerous flashes behind those steel-gray eyes. I've poked the bear, and part of me—the reckless, self-destructive part—relishes it.

His hand moves across the table, not quite touching mine but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Maybe I enjoy your particular brand of company."

The tension crackles between us, electric and unbearable. I should pull away, put distance between us. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly forward, drawn into his orbit despite every warning bell clanging in my head.

"Lucky me," I whisper, hating how my voice betrays me, dropping to a register that's more invitation than rebuke.

His fingers brush against mine as he reaches for his glass again, the contact brief but deliberate. My skin burns where he touched it.

I'm slipping. God help me, I'm slipping.

The rest of dinner is...complicated. Enzo orders for both of us—something I'd normally fight anyone else over—but his selections are impeccable. Conversations flow more naturally after our initial clash, though each word feels like we are stepping through a minefield, both searching for weak points in the other's armor.

Now, confined in the plush leather backseat of his car since he insisted on taking me home, I'm acutely aware of his presence. He sits with casual dominance, one arm stretched along the seat back, not quite touching me but close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him. His cologne—something expensive and subtle—fills the enclosed space, mingling with the lingering scent of the grappa he'd insisted I try.

"That wasn't so terrible, was it?" His voice breaks the silence, low and smooth.

I glance sideways, catching the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "The food was excellent. The company remains under evaluation."

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Always ready with that sharp tongue."

"Would you prefer I simper and fawn like everyone else in your orbit?" I turn my head fully to face him. "Sorry to disappoint, but that's not part of our arrangement."

"No," his eyes darken as they trace the contours of my face, "it's not."

The car pulls to a stop outside my building, but before I can reach for the door, Enzo is out and circling around, opening it for me.

"I can manage," I say, but he extends his hand anyway.

"Humor me."

I hesitate before placing my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and sure, and he helps me from the car with surprising gentleness. When I expect him to release me, he doesn't, instead placing his other hand at the small of my back.

"I'll walk you up."

It's not a question. With anyone else, I'd resist on principle, but something about the quiet certainty in his voice makes argument seem childish.

The elevator ride is excruciating. Five floors of standing too close, his broad frame making the spacious elevator feel suddenly claustrophobic. I focus on the numbers lighting up, one after another, rather than acknowledge how my body betrays me—pulse racing, skin heating wherever he stands closest.

When we reach my door, I fumble with my keys, suddenly clumsy under his watchful gaze. The hallway light flickers, casting dramatic shadows across the sharp planes of his face. I'm hyper-aware of how alone we are, how the silence between us feels charged with unspoken intentions.

"Thank you for dinner," I say, finally managing to unlock my door. I turn to face him, expecting a quick goodnight.

Instead, he steps closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. My back presses against the door frame as he looms over me, not threatening but overwhelming in his presence.

Enzo reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my jaw, and his voice is a low murmur. "You want this."

The touch sends electricity cascading down my spine, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing how he affects me. Maybe this was the end game. He wants to see me want him, so he can use me and discard me, too.

That's not going to happen.

I tilt my chin up, meeting his steel-gray eyes with defiance. "Not even a little."

Time suspends as we stand frozen in this moment. His thumb traces the outline of my bottom lip, so lightly I could almost believe I imagined it. His eyes drop to my mouth, and I catch myself holding my breath, my body betraying my words as I unconsciously lean toward him.

Then, just when the tension becomes unbearable, when I'm certain he's going to close that final distance between us—he smirks and steps away, the sudden absence of his heat leaving me cold.

"Liar." The word is soft, almost tender in its accusation.

And then he's gone, retreating down the hallway with that confident, measured stride, not looking back once. I remain frozen, watching until he disappears into the elevator.

I slam my door shut, leaning against it, heart hammering in my chest. My skin feels too tight, too hot, my breathing uneven. I press my fingers to my lips where the ghost of his touch lingers.

Damn him. Damn him for walking away. Damn him for knowing exactly what I want before I'm willing to admit it to myself. And damn me for this wildfire burning through my veins, for the frustration building in my core.

He's playing a game, and somehow he's always one move ahead. I hate it. I hate him. I hate that he can read me so easily while remaining an impenetrable mystery himself.