Page 14 of Sworn to the Enemy

To intimidate whom? Certainly not me. I walk taller, refusing to shrink.

I wonder what awaits me in the dining room.

Wonder if I'll have my first breakfast with my husband .

The word sounds ridiculous. It'll never sound right. My stomach twists at the thought of breakfast with him, his presence a live wire I can’t possibly dodge.

In the dining room, a long table waits, set for one. Relief surges through me like lightning. I hadn't realized how much I'd been counting on not seeing Enzo here.

The head maid, an older woman with grey streaks in her bun, greets me. “Signora, breakfast is served,” she says, her voice formal. “Signor Mancini regrets he cannot join you. He isn't back from the mission he went on last night.”

The relief overwhelms me, but I keep my face blank, nodding. “Thank you,” I say, sitting.

I’m glad he’s gone. His absence is a fucking gift, a chance to breathe without his heat, his scent, his fucking voice calling me Fina, unraveling me. I don't think I can stand him breathing near me. I'd turn to a mush and maybe beg him to fuck me on the table.

I can't let the maids see my profound relief, so I inject a bit of petulance in my expression. A sign that screams: Signora Rossi misses her new husband early.

I wonder fleetingly if he'd called the head maid himself to inform her.

He should have called to inform me instead.

Does he even have my fucking number? Yet again, do I want to be corresponding with him like a normal couple?

Is the sun bright and golden in paradise?

I wonder what the head maid and the rest of his staff must think about this marriage. Is it obvious it's a sham?

The maids hover, pouring coffee, setting plates before me—a classic Italian spread.

There’s cornetti, golden and flaky, dusted with powdered sugar, their centers soft with apricot jam, just how I like it.

Slices of pane tostato sit crisp, smeared with fresh ricotta and honey.

A bowl of figs, plump and purple, gleams beside a small cup of espresso, its aroma bitter and strong.

I eat slowly, savoring the flavors, the normalcy of it grounding me.

The maids move like shadows, refilling my coffee, clearing plates. I watch them, curious. It's normal to be curious about my new home. They won't think I'm crazy when I start asking questions, so I indulge.

“What’s it like, working for Enzo?” I ask the head maid, my tone casual but probing. She pauses, her hands still, like she's surprised I'll try to broach a conversation with her.

“He’s strict but fair,” she says, echoing Giulia. I almost roll my eyes. Fair my ass. “Keeps to himself mostly.”

Oh? I raise a brow. Does he now? “And his men? They trouble you?” A younger maid who's wiping the table giggles, then catches herself as the head maid glares at her.

“They’re loud,” she says, blushing. “But kind. Matteo tells stories, makes us laugh.”

I smile, liking her honesty. She's less reserved than Giulia. “Matteo’s trouble,” I say, and she nods, grinning. They’re warm, these women, and I feel a spark of ease with them, a contrast to the cold, hot, warm knot Enzo ties in me.

Satisfied with their answer, I ask no further questions. As I finish, I lean back, my mind drifting to yesterday. Matteo’s teasing had caught me off guard, his grin pulling a laugh from me I hadn’t expected. I like him. His easy charm is like a balm against Enzo’s intensity.

I’d refused to falter in that hall, meeting his men, their tests, without falling under his spell.

But how long can I keep it up? Enzo’s presence, even absent, lingers like pungent smoke.

I hate how he stirs me, how my body betrays me with him.

He’s my enemy. Why can't the thought take root in my mind?

What on earth am I doing letting him unravel me like that?

Breathe, Serafina.

With Enzo gone, I’ve got space to breathe, to learn this place. I know what I have to do next. I thank the maids as they clean up after me. I leave the dining room to wander the manor’s halls, my steps slow and deliberate.

The walls are thick, carved with intricate patterns, and chandeliers hang like iron crowns, casting jagged light.

The floors gleam, polished to a mirror’s edge, reflecting my silhouette.

Rooms open to libraries, their shelves stuffed with leather books, and parlors with velvet chairs, their cushions stiff, unused.

I wonder if Enzo reads. I'm not much of a reader myself.

Does Enzo ever sit still long enough to think, or is he always moving, always fighting, like last night, fucking me like a man possessed before vanishing on some mission?

Focus.

This place is a place of power, no doubt. Definitely not a place for comfort. Every corner I turn to is unyielding, just like the Lord of the manor. I feel like an intruder, but I keep moving, mapping it, claiming it in my own way. This is my battleground now, and I won’t be caught off guard.

Outside, the grounds stretch wide, gravel paths winding through olive trees, their leaves silver in the morning sun. The air’s crisp, scented with earth and citrus, and I walk, letting it clear my head. It's a fine day that needs to be lived.

I’m halfway down a path when a figure steps out from behind an olive tree. I go still, thinking it's going to happen. I'm going to die on a path in Enzo's garden without having to fully live my life, without having to know what'll eventually come of my marriage to him. I've been caught off guard.

But it's not a killer that faces me. It's Adriano Venturi, Enzo’s advisor. The man with his silver hair slick. The man with his smile too smooth. I’d hated him then. His eyes had been too sharp, too knowing.

Now, seeing him here, my gut twists harder. He’s in a dark suit, hands clasped, with that unnerving smile plastered on his face. His posture is almost friendly. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he's trying to be friendly when in reality, he's trying to threaten me.

“Serafina,” he says, voice almost a purr. “Settling in?”

I lift my chin high to meet his gaze. “What do you want? You sure as hell don’t want to know if I'm settling in, so cut the crap.” My voice is cold as I deliver my line.

His smile widens, but it’s all teeth. “Just a word,” he says, stepping closer into my space. I don't falter. “Beware, signorina. Things here aren’t what they seem.”

The words drip with menace. It’s a warning wrapped in silk. I don't fail to notice he'd addressed me as ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Mrs’. It's a deliberate jab. He's trying to remind me of my place.

My blood heats, defiance flaring. I never back down from a threat, and I won’t start now. “Is that a threat?” I snap, stepping up to him, my eyes burning. “Because I don’t scare easily, Adriano. Try me, and you’ll see.”

His smile falters and before he can recover, I hit him again. “And it's Signora to you.”

The smile is well off his face now. His mask has slipped, and I see the man he is beneath—hateful, dangerous. His jaw is clenched, but he says nothing.

He turns and walks away, leaving me alone on the path, my fists clenched and my heart racing.

Perhaps, he's the one person I hate more than Enzo. And what is Enzo doing, having him as an advisor? This man is nothing but a scheming bastard and I know he has something to hide. Enzo needs to be protected from him. I need to let him know what a snake Adriano is.

I catch myself in time and put a stop to that train of thought. What business of mine is it if Enzo dies or gets hurt? What do I care? Besides, he’s a snake too, birds of a feather, and I should do well to steer clear of him, no matter what happened last night.