Page 13 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

" Y ou look surprised," Enzo says, glancing up at me while grating cheese.

"I didn't expect... this." I gesture vaguely at the cooking scene before me.

He smirks. "What, you thought I lived on whiskey and violence alone?"

"Something like that," I admit.

"You cook?" he asks, though it sounds more like a statement than a question.

I shake my head. "Never learned."

There are many things I was never taught. Cooking, driving, how to make friends.

Enzo nods while mixing eggs with cheese and black pepper.

"My mother would smack my hand with a wooden spoon if I stirred the eggs too much," he says, his voice taking on a softer quality I haven't heard before.

"She always said, 'Enzo, carbonara is simple but unforgiving. Respect the ingredients.'"

The mention of his mother again, makes something twist inside my chest. Unbidden, an image of my own mother floats to the surface—standing in our old kitchen before everything changed, flour dusting her cheeks as she taught me to roll cookie dough.

I blink rapidly, looking away. I can't go there. Those memories belong to another girl, one who died long ago. If I let myself remember her kindness, her smile, the way she protected me until she couldn't anymore...

"Sienna?" Enzo's voice pulls me back.

I realize I've been staring at nothing, my vision blurred.

"Fine. I'm fine," I mutter, but my voice betrays me with a slight tremor.

He doesn't push, just returns his attention to the pasta, giving me space to compose myself. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of boiling water and the scrape of his spoon against the pan.

While we wait for the pasta to finish cooking, I finally ask the question that's been burning inside me.

"What do you plan to do with me?"

His dark eyes meet mine. "Keep you safe."

"But why?" I press. "You don't know me. I'm nothing to you."

Enzo sets down his cooking spoon, his expression turning serious. "I told you before—I don't allow violence against women on my territory."

"It's more than that," I insist. "I can see it in your eyes. This is personal somehow. "

He's quiet for a long moment, considering me. Then he exhales slowly.

"Lucrezia." Pain flashes across his face. "Something happened to her about three months ago. She was... hurt."

Understanding dawns. "And you couldn't stop it."

"I failed her," he says, voice dropping to something raw and broken. "I'm her brother. I should have been there, stopped it before..." He shakes his head. "When I found you outside the casino, beaten and terrified, I saw her. I couldn't fail again."

The confession hangs between us, heavy with unspoken guilt and rage.

"So I'm your redemption?" I ask, not unkindly.

"You're someone who needs protection," he corrects. "And I can give it."

I watch as Enzo drains the pasta, then tosses it into the pan with his egg mixture. He works quickly, stirring everything together. The aroma that fills the kitchen is mouthwatering.

"Here we go," he says, sliding a steaming plate in front of me. "Carbonara at three in the morning. My nonna would be scandalized."

I pick up the fork he offers and take a tentative bite. The flavor explodes across my tongue—creamy, salty, with the perfect bite from the black pepper. Before I can stop myself, a low moan escapes my lips.

My eyes flash open in horror.

Enzo's lips curl into a smirk, eyes dancing with amusement. "That good, huh?"

Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I—I didn't mean to..."

"No need to be embarrassed," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I take it as a compliment. "

I duck my head, focusing intently on my plate. "It's just... I haven't had good food in a long time."

His playfulness fades, replaced by something darker. Before he can press me about my father again, I change the subject.

"I didn't realize Lucrezia was struggling with something," I say quietly. "She seemed so... put together when we talked. So ready to make me feel comfortable."

Enzo's expression shifts, pain flickering across his features before he masks it.

"My sister is strong," he says, picking at his own food. "She puts on a brave face for everyone else while she's breaking inside. Doesn't want anyone to worry."

"I wouldn't have noticed," I admit. "She was kind to me when she had every reason not to be."

Enzo sets down his fork, jaw tightening. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too intimate. I've struck a nerve.

"That's who she is," he says finally. "Who she's always been. Before..." He trails off, then abruptly pushes his chair back.

"So," he says, his tone deliberately lighter. "You said you take photographs?"

I blink at the sudden shift. "When I can."

"What do you like to capture?"

I hesitate, not used to talking about myself. "Empty spaces, mostly. Abandoned buildings. Places where people used to be but aren't anymore."

"That's... specific," he says, studying me.

I shrug, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. "They're honest places. No pretending."

Enzo nods slowly. "I'd like to see them sometime. Your photographs. "

"They're nothing special," I mumble, taking another bite to avoid his gaze.

"I doubt that," he says simply.

The sincerity in his voice makes something flutter in my chest, and I'm grateful when he doesn't push further.

We eat in silence for a few minutes, the tension gradually dissolving into something almost comfortable. It's strange to sit here with him.

Strange, and yet for the first time in years, I feel almost normal.

I watch her eat, a small smile creasing her lips as she takes another bite of the carbonara. Something about seeing Sienna enjoy food I prepared makes my chest tighten in a way that's becoming dangerously familiar.

Fuck.

Caterina's face flashes through my mind without warning. Those wide innocent eyes that looked at me like I hung the moon. The way she'd thread her fingers through mine and whisper that I was different from the rumors. Better. Redeemable.

What a fucking joke that turned out to be .

"This is really good," Sienna says, drawing me back to the present. "Thank you."

I nod, but my mind is elsewhere, dragging up memories I've worked hard to bury.

Caterina. Daughter of a business associate. Smart, beautiful, seemingly genuine. I'd actually believed she saw the man beneath the reputation. Turns out she only saw an opportunity. The moment she got what she wanted she was gone.

Left me with nothing but a hard lesson about trust and a mess that took months to clean up.

The only woman I've ever trusted has made me regret it.

So why the fuck am I sitting here at three in the morning, sharing a meal and pieces of myself with Henry Sterling's daughter?

I study Sienna's profile as she takes another bite. She's dangerous—not because she could physically harm me, but because somehow, she's slipping past defenses I've spent years fortifying.

I watch Sienna take the last bite of her pasta, scraping the fork against the plate to catch every bit of sauce.

"Here, let me," I say, standing and reaching for her empty plate.

"I can do it," she protests, but I've already taken it.

She rises from her seat, grabbing her own glass and following me to the sink. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, her presence taking up space in ways that have nothing to do with her physical form.

As I rinse the plates, she sidles up next to me, reaching for a dish towel hanging on the oven handle. The movement causes her oversized t-shirt to ride up slightly, exposing more of her legs. My eyes trail downward against my better judgment .

Long, smooth legs that seem to go on forever.

I swallow hard and force my gaze back to the sink, but not before she notices. Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't move away or tug at the hem. It feels like some kind of test—for her or for me, I'm not sure.

"You missed a spot," she says quietly, reaching over to point at a bit of sauce still clinging to the plate.

Our hands brush under the running water. Cold liquid, warm skin. The contrast hits like electricity, and I feel her freeze beside me.

I turn my head to look at her, finding her already staring up at me. Her eyes are wide, uncertain.

The water continues running, forgotten.

I've killed men for looking at me wrong. I've commanded crews and territories with nothing but a glance. I've built walls around myself that no one has breached in years.

Yet here I am, coming completely undone by her eyes looking at me.

I lean in, just a fraction. Her breath catches. She doesn't back away. Another inch closer and I can feel her breath warm against my face. Her lips part slightly, and I'm lost in the moment, drawn to her like gravity.

What the fuck am I doing?

The thought crashes through me like ice water. I jerk back suddenly, turning away to shut off the faucet with more force than necessary. Water splashes across the countertop.

I step back, creating distance between us that feels both necessary and painful. The kitchen seems to shrink around us, air growing thick with tension. Sienna's eyes remain fixed on me, confusion dancing across her features.

"I'm sorry," I say, the words tasting unfamiliar on my tongue. Men in my position don't apologize—it's a sign of weakness. I wouldn't care less right now.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I've noticed she does when uncomfortable. "It's okay," she whispers. "You were gentle either way."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Gentle. When was the last time someone described me that way?

Sienna's looking at me like I'm something other than what I am—a killer, an enforcer, the sword of the Feretti family. Not gentle. Never gentle.

Except with her, apparently.

"I need to make some calls," I say abruptly, desperate to escape the sudden intimacy of the moment. The pile of dishes can wait. Everything can wait. I need air, space, distance from those blue eyes that see too much.