Page 19 of Sworn to the Enemy

I continue, ignoring his shrieks. His face is red from the pain of me twisting his wrist. There's also shock in his eyes at my strong grip. “Stealing from the Rossis is a death sentence, Milano. If you don't know it, then you're as stupid as you look.

He mumbles something and before I can catch it, his goons lunge at me. It all happens in a flash. Vito and Marco dive in, tackling one of them each as fists fly in the air. Grunts and curses cut through the music, and already, it has some of the crowd's attention.

Before I can make a move, Milano yanks his arm free and swings at me, but my sharp reflexes kick in and I duck and step to the side.

Before he can recover, I slam my fist into his gut.

It gets him good. He staggers and doubles over, gasping.

If he weren't a much bigger man, the punch to the gut would have him writhing on the floor.

I move towards him to grab his neck in a chokehold, but in that instant, he grabs a bottle from the bar and swings it at my head.

I quickly dodge it and the glass shatters against the counter.

“Cazzo,” I swear as I pull my right leg back forcefully.

I kick his knee hard, and this time, he loses his balance.

The kick sends him stumbling and falling. He hits the ground hard.

The crowd’s pulling back, some cheering and whistling, some bolting, but I don't take note of it.

I'm locked in, my rage blinding me to everything else but the scene before me. Milano’s men are holding their own against Vito and Marco, but if their weak attacks are anything to go by, they'll soon tire.

I approach Milano who's gripping his affected knee and yelling expletives in Italian. He shifts back when he sees me approaching, his eyes reflecting the fear he must feel. They all underestimate me until my fist is doing the work, then it's fear.

Papa had done one thing right. Given the kind of family I'm from, and given that I'm a Don's daughter, I'll forever be vulnerable to threats and attacks.

So, he'd made sure I learned martial arts.

All those years I spent travelling between Europe and North America, I'd accumulated certificates at the different martial arts.

I never show my hand, until it's completely necessary, and this is one of those times.

I loom over Milano—how the mighty has fallen.

I'm about to launch another kick to his sternum to completely destabilize him.

Whoever said you don't kick a man when he's down obviously hasn’t faced situations like this.

But before I can make my move, a shadow moves behind me.

I whip around, my fists raised, ready to pounce on whoever it is.

My fists are caught in a vise-like grip and my body zings as it recognizes the newcomer.

Enzo. My eyes widen in surprise, and my mouth drops open.

Obviously, this whole scenario had caught his attention. I didn't think it would.

His jaw is clenched as if he's trying, but failing to control his anger. There's no hint of a smile on his face, or even seduction. I snap my gaze from him to look around. I see complete strangers standing, gaping at the chaos we've wreaked.

Just then, Enzo releases his grip on me and before I can blink my surprise, he grabs Milano’s arm, twists it back so hard he's yelping.

He'd risen to his feet with Enzo's intervention.

Not breaking a sweat, Enzo slams him face-first into the bar and the sound of bones crunching fills the air accompanied by gasps from the crowd.

“Stay down,” Enzo growls, his voice dangerous. Milano goes completely limp and falls to the ground, groaning. His blood is on the bar and his entire face is streaked in red.

Paulo and Vito move in to grab him off the floor. I look past them to see Milano’s goons beaten to a pulp on the floor.

I whirl on Enzo, my chest heaving. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?” I speak through clenched teeth.

He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his fingers with it.

He takes his sweet time on each finger before he raises his head to look at me, and holy fuck, he's smiling.

Not any of those self-satisfying smirks.

A real, genuine smile. The nerve of him.

He gestures with his hand. “Helping you.”

What the hell is wrong with him? Does he think this is a game? “I had it,” I snarl, my eyes blazing in fury. “I don’t need you playing savior, Enzo.”

His eyes dance and his lips twitch. Is he seriously laughing at me? I plant my feet apart and I stand akimbo, my glare ferocious.

“Noted,” he says, the laughter evident in his voice. “Some nice moves you got there, though.”

“You're crazy.”

“You're welcome.”

Suddenly, the laughter leaves his eyes and his gaze drops to my lips.

In that instant, I’m too aware of how close we've stepped to each other.

I feel the heat of his body acutely on mine.

It makes my belly curl with want. Even now, after he's butt in where he doesn't belong, with the adrenaline of the fight still spiking through me, I want him.

I want him with such a ferocity, it scares me.

I want to claim him in front of everyone present.

But, my jealousy from earlier surges and it mixes with my rage, muddling with my desire. I’m a fucking mess, complete with my heart pounding and my blood singing with a need I shouldn't entertain.

“Fuck you,” I spit, but my voice trembles, and I hate it.

I hate that he has this much power over me.

He doesn't miss it. His lips twitch, like he knows he’s got me rattled.

The club, the crowd, and the chaos has faded to the distance.

It’s just us now, in this sizzling, electric world we've created, and dammit, I’m slipping.

As though in a trance, I stand on the tip of my boots to fit my mouth desperately against his.

As if he'd been expecting it, he grips my waist, grabbing me to him in a tight embrace, anchoring me to him.

Our lips collide, our tongues warring in a fight for dominance.

I pull his tongue into my mouth. It's not sweet, it's not soft.

It's a claim. It's me branding him as mine.

He's no one else's. He's mine, as long as our marriage stands.

His hands tangle in my hair, undoing it from its tight clasp. He pulls at my curls, bending me over to deepen the kiss. I dig my nails into his neck and pull him closer. He presses himself against me, and I feel his arousal, thick and hard as it presses into my hip. It sends heat pooling low in me.

I nip his lip, my teeth grazing his lower lip, just enough to make him growl.

His tongue does a sweep in my mouth, twisting with mine.

He suckles my lower lip into his mouth and I moan.

It’s wrong, it’s reckless, but it’s us. I’m drowning in it, in him, my anger and jealousy and want all knotted up.

As if from a distance, voices reach me, whistles and claps like we're on a performance. Suddenly, it dawns on me where we are. We're in a fucking bar, in the middle of a fucking fight, and yet again, I've lost control. I tear away, panting hard, my eyes wide saucers in my face.

His expression mirrors mine. His eyes are wild and his chest is heaving. He's looking at me intently, like he can see every crack in my armor. I hate it. I hate how I've given him this much power over me.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say, my voice gaining some semblance of steadiness, but I’m already backing away.

I can't afford to be near him, lest I fall into him again and make a complete spectacle of myself.

I put a healthy distance between us, and my body screams to stay.

“You didn’t need to save me. I don't need you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t wait to listen. I turn on unsteady legs to Vito and Paulo who still have Milano pinned. I nod to them, my voice taking on an icy edge. Take him to Papa. Let him deal with it.”

They drag Milano out, and I follow, not looking back, not daring to see if Enzo’s watching. I shove through the crowd as their eyes trail me.

Outside, the air’s cool. I don't stop until I walk up to my car and safely encase myself in it. Only then, do I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes. I open my mouth and gulp in air greedily to allay the panic that has seized my chest.

What the hell am I doing?

I'd gone into that bar, sure of myself, my eyes on the mission.

But he'd muddled with my brain and I'd walked out, suddenly unsure of myself.

Quite similarly, I'd walked into this marriage with a clear head, knowing where my priorities lay.

But I'd allowed him fuck with my mind the same way he fucked me ruthlessly, and now, I don't know where the line between this whole deal and reality is severed.

I should be mad. He had butt into my affairs. He'd had women all over him, but I'd only felt the need to possess him. This can't be right. It can't be healthy. I'm usually a logical woman. This newly developed recklessness is unbecoming of who I am. It goes against everything I stand for.

He hates me. I despise him. He’s not mine, and I don’t want him to be. I'm not his. I certainly don't want to be. This marriage is a hoax, it's an attempt at peace. The reason for why this sudden obsession with him will do nothing but harm to me is unending. The list goes on and on.

I should feel fulfilled. I've done what I'd set out to do. Milano’s done, that's for sure. But Enzo—that man is slowly unraveling me and he doesn't even have to do much. He just has to look my way and I'm a complete puddle.

God. This is hell.