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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Enzo

Alexandra’s got one hand free as I pin her down. Her legs are flailing, trying to buck me off, but I refuse to let go.

A rush of strength helps me overpower her, but she’s too quick. In one smooth motion, she pulls the gun out from the back of my briefs and presses it to my forehead.

“I’ll shoot,” she warns. Her hand is shaking dangerously as her eyes dart from my face to the gun. “Let me go.”

“No,” I tell her calmly, moving the gun away from my face.

“Enzo,” she screams, waving the gun around. “I’m not joking, I’ll kill you right now. Then I’ll go find that bitch and her kid and kill them too.”

“No,” I repeat, refusing to give in to her sick little games. “No, you won’t.”

She cocks the gun, aiming it straight at my chest. Her pupils vibrate as her jaw hinges open and closed. Definitely consumed something stronger than just wine tonight.

“I’ll kill you,” she growls, attempting to throw me off one more time.

“How are you gonna do that?” I ask gamely, prying the gun out of her shaky hand. “With no bullets? Thanks for leaving just the right amount for me to get rid of your hired thugs.”

Her eyes widen, and her body goes slack beneath mine. I smile tightly, enjoying having the upper hand after feeling terrified of this tiny woman for hours.

“You’ve been ruining my life for weeks,” I hiss at her, getting in her face. “It’s time for that to stop. I need to move on, and you need to move on. It’s time.”

“I’ll never move on,” she hisses right back at me. I nod, expecting her answer, and unroll the length of rope I curled around my forearm before I came back down here. Her eyes widen again, and she tries to scamper away from me.

“Enzo, no, please,” she begs, twisting and pulling her limbs against mine. “Don’t kill me.”

“Relax, would you?” I brush her off, not understanding her concern.

My lack of care sets her off, lighting a fire of rage and fear under her. She sinks her teeth into my hand and manages to knee me away from her.

“What the hell, Alexandra?” I yell, trying to get my bearings. I grab the rope, and it makes sense. Shit, she thought I was going to kill her with this.

I lunge after her as she stumbles through the cabin, smashing into things and stepping on broken glass. She’s barely functional, moving at a snail’s pace, and I quickly catch up to her, hauling her down to the floor.

“I’m trying to help you, dammit,” I curse as she bites my arm again. “Work with me here.”

She screams obscenities at me, half in English, half in Russian, but it comes out sounding garbled and unnatural. I grab at her thrashing arms, trying to stabilize myself and calm her down at the same time.

Jesus Christ, when did I develop a conscience again? I could kill her in three seconds and not bother with any of this.

But I wouldn’t. And I always had a conscience. Even when I’m shooting men at point-blank range in my torture basement, I still have a conscience.

“You need help, Alexandra,” I repeat, trying to stop her from clawing at me. “Professional mental help.”

“Oh please,” she growls, flashing an angry glare at me. “You’re going to kill me, let’s not play these little games. Big, bad Enzo, head of the mafia now. I remember when you were just a kid who loved computers.”

“I’m still that kid,” I whisper, loosening my grip on her arms a bit. My fingers leave angry red marks across her skin, and I feel guilty for being so forceful. “But things change. People change. Everyone needs to grow up and move on.”

“Just like you did when you met her?”

“I moved on way before I met her,” I say, hoping it doesn’t unleash a new wave of anger. “You and I had fun, sure, but it wasn’t serious. You need to understand that.”

“It was to me,” she pouts as her eyes well up with tears. “It was to me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t feel the same,” I apologize, sadness and exhaustion seeping out of me. For weeks now, the only goal I had was to destroy The8. Now, all I want to do is help her get through this.

Rafael taught me to gather my rage and channel it at my target, but Alexandra isn’t the enemy. She’s just a lost, confused woman who needs some help, and I can’t possibly end her life because of it.

I stare down at her tear-streaked face, smeared with dripping makeup.

“I loved you so much,” she whispers, her glassy gaze dropping from my face to some point in the distance. Feeling like she’s gone to another world, I take my chances and use her temporary distraction to bind her wrists together.

“I’m sorry,” I say, helping her sit up against the wall. “But once you get the help you need, you’ll realize you probably didn’t love me. You’ll get healthy and go on to live a much more fulfilling life. Maybe find someone you truly love.”

“What about the love notes?” she asks again, seeming genuinely confused. “And the flowers? All these years, you’ve been sending them to me. I don’t understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I always knew they were from you.” She shakes her head, laughing sadly. “Even back then. You don’t remember coming to my room after class and seeing all the gifts? You’d ask who they were from, and I’d always tell you it was a secret admirer, but I knew it was you.”

“Right,” I say slowly, putting the pieces together. “Alexandra, they weren’t from me. I always thought you were seeing several people, you know… that we weren’t exclusive.”

“But you signed them, Ivan,” she laments. “Don’t you remember that discussion we had about Ivan the Fool one evening? You thought he’s smarter than anyone gave him credit for?”

I freeze, wondering what the hell she’s talking about. How could anyone remember a random two-minute conversation they had over half a decade ago?

Insanity, that’s how.

“I didn’t… I mean, I barely remember that conversation,” I stumble over my words, trying to find a way to explain that it wasn’t me. “I would never do that… write poetry and all that, that’s not me.”

“But you did,” she pushes, fully convinced. “You did for me!”

“You were getting love letters and flowers signed Ivan and thought it was me?” I ask again in disbelief. The connection comes so quickly that I almost laugh.

Ivan Ratchekovsky—he really was in love with her, but there’s no point in telling her now.

“I’m sorry you misunderstood,” I say with finality and leave her to sort out the mess in her head.

I head to the stairs, desperate to find my girls and make sure they’re safe. Behind me, Alexandra starts weeping, but I refuse to turn around.

Whatever she’s dealing with, it has nothing to do with me anymore. The only thing I’m going to do now is hand her over to a nice psychiatric facility.

“Enzo!” she calls, forcing me to stop. I’m halfway up the stairs, so close to the exit now, but I turn around. She’s slumped against the wall, eyeing me sadly.

“I’ll always love you,” she whispers. I can’t bring myself to break her heart again, so I just nod and turn my back on her.

As soon as I step out of the cabin, a sense of peace hits me. Having gone through that horrible ordeal really showed me what matters—my girls.

And that includes Alessia as well, whether or not Alexandra was telling the truth about her being mine.

The helm looks empty when I peek through the windows, but I know they’re in there. I can hear Valentina softly humming a song through the open door.

I quietly peek inside to find Matilda curled up in her arms as Lenny strokes her back. Alessia lies on the floor next to them, keeping her distance.

That poor girl. What have the first seven years of her life been like?

I shudder at the thought, resolving to find a way to help her through it.

Whatever it takes, my girls will be taken care of.