Page 12 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

T he memory of those wide eyes follows me as I drag on a pair of black sweatpants. My skin still damp, I grab a t-shirt but pause before pulling it on. My tattoos—she'd stared at them. The elaborate ink mapping my life story across my skin. I wonder which ones caught her attention.

"Focus, cazzo," I mutter, yanking the shirt over my head.

I need to call Damiano, check if Sterling's made any moves. Two hours away, and I'm already restless for updates. I grab my phone from the nightstand and dial my brother's number.

On the third ring, a voice answers—but not Damiano's.

"The person you're trying to reach is unavailable due to actually sleeping at this ungodly hour," Zoe's voice comes through, sleep-roughened but unmistakably amused. "May I take a message, or is this just an Enzo social call?"

I check the time—2:14 AM. Shit.

"Zoe," I say, lowering my voice. "Sorry to wake you."

"Are you though?" She laughs softly. "Since when does Enzo Feretti apologize for anything? Should I be worried?"

Despite everything, my lips twitch. I like my brother's wife. She calls us all on our bullshit.

"Just checking in," I say, moving to the window to look out at the dark line of trees surrounding the cabin. "Any word from Sterling?"

"At two in the morning?" She yawns. "Well, he hasn't knocked on our door with a bouquet and apology card, if that's what you're asking."

"Be serious."

"I am being serious. No news since Alessio's report earlier. He's been asking questions, but quietly. Paying people for information." She pauses. "Damiano thinks he doesn't want to draw attention to his daughter being missing. Bad for business."

My jaw tightens. Business. The same fucking business that left Sienna bleeding behind my fountain.

"How is she?" Zoe's voice softens.

I think of Sienna's eyes on me, her rigid posture in the kitchen, the way she almost—almost—smiled at my stupid shower joke.

"Scared. Not talking. But..."

"But?"

"But there's something there. Under all that fear. Something stronger."

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching my breath create small clouds of fog on the pane.

"Get some sleep, Zoe. And tell my brother to call me when he wakes up."

"Will do."

I end the call without responding.

The cabin feels too quiet. Even with Sienna just down the hall, the silence presses in. I pace the room once, twice, then pull up Alessio's number. He answers on the first ring.

"Little late for a check-in, isn't it?" Alessio's voice has that alertness that tells me he wasn't sleeping.

"What happened at the casino after we left?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

He sighs. "Chaos. Two drunk assholes got into it over a poker game. Regular high-rollers—the Harrison brothers. You know them?"

"Vaguely." I remember seeing them around, always flashy, always loud.

"Well, they had too much to drink, then started accusing each other of cheating. Words turned to fists turned to..." He pauses. "One of them pulled a fucking gun, Enzo. Right in the middle of the high-stakes room."

"Fuck." My hand tightens around the phone. "Anyone hurt?"

"One shot fired. Caught the older brother in the shoulder. Not fatal, but messy. Blood all over that new carpet Damiano imported from Italy."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "The cops?"

"Here's where it gets complicated. Damiano's handled it, but he's having to grease a lot of palms. The shooting happened right as the news about Sterling's daughter started circulating. Bad timing."

I glance toward the door, thinking of Sienna just down the hall. Every complication makes keeping her safe more difficult.

"Any sign Sterling knows she's with us?"

"Not yet," Alessio says. "But word travels fast in our circles. It's only a matter of time."

I run a hand through my still-damp hair. "Keep me updated. Anything happens—anything—I need to know immediately."

"Will do." There's a pause, and I can practically feel Alessio choosing his next words carefully. "Enzo... why are you so invested in this girl?"

The question hangs between us. I think about Lucrezia, about my failure to protect her. About the broken look in Sienna's eyes that speaks of suffering. About the small spark I saw when she almost smiled.

"Just keep me informed," I say instead of answering.

"You got it." He lets it go, but I know the question remains. "Stay safe out there."

I end the call and toss the phone onto the bed. Outside, the wind has picked up, rustling through the pines that surround the cabin. Something about the sound reminds me of whispers—of secrets and warnings.

I need to get Sienna to talk. To trust me. Whatever Sterling has done to her, whatever Cortez plans to do—I can't protect her from what I don't understand.

I can't sleep.

The cabin stands silent except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hooting of an owl. Moonlight filters through the blinds, casting silver bars across the unfamiliar bed where I lie wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

My body aches from the bruises, but it's not physical pain keeping me from sleep.

It's the swirling storm inside my head. The image of Enzo standing there in nothing but a towel, water droplets trailing down the intricate tattoos covering his chest, keeps replaying in my mind.

I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids, trying to erase the memory.

What is wrong with me? Men have always meant one thing in my life: danger. My father. His associates. They take and take and take, leaving bruises both visible and invisible.

Yet here I am, lying in the dark, thinking about the way Enzo's eyes soften when he looks at me. How he doesn't touch me unless absolutely necessary. The way he warned me about the woods instead of threatening to hunt me down if I ran.

I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me.

I've never had a friend. Not a real one.

My father made sure of that, keeping me isolated, "homeschooled" by rotating tutors who never stayed long enough to form attachments.

No sleepovers. No prom. No whispered secrets or shared dreams. Even the house staff were warned against getting friendly with me.

A boyfriend? The thought almost makes me laugh out loud. The closest thing I've had to romance was being paraded in front of men three times my age, wearing dresses not of my choosing, smiling when I wanted to scream.

So why does my heart race when Enzo is near? This strange, unfamiliar feeling can't be attraction. It must be fear. It has to be.

Yet fear has never made me notice the exact shade of someone's eyes. Fear has never made me want to step closer instead of backing away.

I sit up, pressing my back against the headboard.

Outside, the forest stretches endless and dark, much like my future.

Twenty-one years old and I've never made a single real choice about my life.

Running from the Feretti mansion was the first decision that was truly mine—and even that was driven by terror, not desire.

What would it be like to choose something because I wanted it, not because I was escaping something worse?

The sound of glass clinking pulls me from my thoughts. I freeze, listening intently. There it is again—the faint noise of movement from somewhere downstairs.

My heart rate speeds up. Is it Enzo? Or has my father's men found me already?

I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent against the cool wooden floor. The oversized t-shirt I'm wearing falls to mid-thigh, and I tug it down self-consciously. I should find pants, but curiosity and restlessness drive me forward.

The hallway is dark except for a sliver of light escaping from downstairs. I follow it like a moth to flame, each step measured and careful on the creaking stairs. My right hand trails along the wall, steadying me as I descend.

At the bottom of the staircase, I pause, listening. The sounds are coming from the kitchen—the soft clink of glass, the faint rush of liquid being poured, a barely audible sigh.

I peek around the corner and find Enzo sitting at the kitchen island, fully dressed in black jeans and a dark gray t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.

The tattoos I glimpsed earlier are mostly hidden now, except for the ones creeping up his neck and covering his hands as they wrap around a glass of amber liquid.

He's staring out the window into the darkness, his profile sharp in the dim light from the single pendant lamp hanging above the island. He looks... tired. Not physically, but bone-deep weary in a way I recognize from my own reflection.

I must make some small noise because his head snaps toward me, his entire body tensing before recognition softens his features.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the quiet kitchen.

I linger in the doorway, suddenly aware of my bare legs and messy hair. "I heard noises."

His lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." I take a tentative step into the kitchen. "I wasn't sleeping anyway."

Enzo studies me, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts. Then he reaches for another glass from the cabinet beside him. "Drink?"

I hesitate. "What is it?"

"Whiskey." He holds the bottle up. "Blanton's Gold. Too good to drink alone."

"Just a little," I say, surprising myself as I move to the island.

He pours a small measure into the glass and slides it toward me, watching as I perch on the stool across from him, keeping the island between us like a shield.

I take a tiny sip and try not to grimace at the burn. "Do you always drink at three in the morning?"

"Only on the good days." His mouth curves into something too grim to be called a smile.

I wrap my fingers around the glass, feeling its smooth coolness against my skin.

"Why are you awake?" I finally ask.

Enzo takes a long drink before answering. "Same reason as you, I'd guess." When I tilt my head in question, he elaborates. "Too many thoughts. Too loud to sleep through."

I take another sip of the whiskey, the burn less shocking this time. The alcohol spreads a gentle warmth through my chest, loosening something tight that's been wound inside me for days.

"Are you hungry?" Enzo asks suddenly, setting his glass down. "I just realized we never had dinner."

I glance at the clock on the microwave. 3:17 a.m. "It's the middle of the night."

"So? Hunger doesn't check the time." He stands up, stretching his arms overhead. The motion pulls his shirt up slightly, revealing a strip of tattooed skin above his waistband. I quickly avert my eyes.

"I can make us something," he offers, moving toward the refrigerator.

A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound is rusty, unfamiliar in my throat.

Enzo turns, one eyebrow raised. "What's funny?"

"Sorry, it's just..." I shake my head, still smiling despite myself. "The thought of you cooking. It's hard to imagine."

"Why's that? "

"I don't know." I gesture vaguely at him. "You don't exactly look like the cooking type."

His expression shifts to mock offense. "I'll have you know, I'm Italian. Cooking is in my blood." He places a hand over his heart dramatically. "My nonna would roll in her grave if I couldn't make a decent meal."

The playfulness in his tone catches me off guard. This version of him seems almost normal.

"What kind of food do you like?" he asks.

I hesitate, not used to being asked about my preferences. "I like Italian food, actually," I admit. "When I could choose."

Something flickers across his face at my last words, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he nods decisively. "Then I'll make you my favorite. It's simple, but good."

He turns back to the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients with purpose—eggs, cheese, a package of what looks like pancetta. His movements are efficient as he gathers olive oil, pasta from a cabinet, and black pepper from a wooden spice rack.

"What are you making?" I ask, curious despite myself.

"Carbonara. Real carbonara, not the cream-soaked abomination they serve in American restaurants." He sets a pot of water on to boil. "My mother taught me how to make it when I was twelve. Said every Italian man should know how to cook at least one perfect dish."

The mention of his mother makes me wonder about his family beyond Lucrezia and Damiano. I want to ask but bite my tongue. Questions feel dangerous, an exchange I can't afford. If I ask about his past, he'll expect answers about mine in return.

Instead, I watch as he moves around the kitchen with surprising grace for someone his size.

His hands, which I've only imagined causing violence, handle the ingredients with care and precision.

He cracks eggs into a bowl, grates cheese with quick, practiced movements, and dices the pancetta with the skill of someone who's done this many times before.

There's something mesmerizing about watching him cook, this unexpected glimpse of domesticity from a man who exudes danger.

"You really do know what you're doing," I say softly.

Enzo glances at me over his shoulder, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Told you. It's in my blood."