Page 3 of Sworn to the Enemy

Enzo

I slam my fist into the snitch’s face, and his lip rips open, blood splashing my knuckles like a fucking flood. He’s tied to a chair, some punk who thought he could talk, and I’m breaking him down.

Matteo’s right there, grinning like a sick bastard, slicing his knife across the guy’s throat, blood gushing out hot and thick. The fucker chokes, gurgling, and I smash my boot into his chest, ribs cracking loud. My blood’s roaring, every hit feeding that fire inside me.

He’s thrashing, spit and blood spraying, but I don’t give a shit.

I grab his hair, yank hard, and punch his jaw.

His teeth bust loose, clattering on the floor.

Matteo stabs his gut, twisting deep, and his guts spill out to the pristine white floor, wet and stinking, slopping at my feet.

I’m grinning, high on the blood , the violence.

I slam my fist into his nose and Gus cartilage pops like a twig.

He screams and begs, but I laugh, loving every second.

I step back, my chest heaving as the adrenaline rushes through me, energizing me. Matteo takes over, slashing the guy’s arm, blood arcing wild across the room.

“Sing now, prick,” Matteo growls, kicking him hard as his chair crashes down with a thud. I grab a bat off the table and swing it down, smashing his knee. His bone shatters and I hear the crunching sound. He’s howling now, voice raw, and I’m buzzing, every hit a fucking rush.

Matteo’s cackling, carving the guy’s hand, fingers dropping like garbage, blood pooling thick. It’s everywhere—my hands, my shirt, the air heavy with death. I swing the bat again, cracking his skull, and he’s slurring, eyes rolling back, fading.

“You’re done,” I snarl, smashing his face, flesh caving in. He’s twitching, barely alive, a bloody mess and I’m wired, pulse hammering.

I swing one last time, cracking his jaw, teeth flying wild, and he’s out.

His head lolls to the side, blood dripping slow.

I drop the bat as my chest heaves, my hands slick with red.

Matteo wipes his knife, chuckling low, and steps back.

The snitch is dead, fucked beyond recognition, body slumped in a pool of his own mess.

The room’s quiet except for my heavy breathing.

I flex my fists, knuckles raw and throbbing.

That kill’s still burning me up, that high I can’t shake and it makes me restless as hell.

I turn to Matteo, his grin fading as he lights a smoke. “I need to shake this shit off,” I say, voice rough, feeling that edge clawing at me.

He hands the cigar he's lit over to me. “What do you need me to do?”

I step over the snitch’s dead body, careful not to step my foot in the pool of blood, but it still manages to smear it. “Fucking asshole is still a problem even in death.”

Matteo chuckles, lighting his own smoke. “Want me to go fuck him up once more?”

I drag long and hard on the cigarette and release a long exhale of smoke in a swirl. “No. Get Alanna arranged and ready for me. I need to fuck to take the edge off.”

Matteo grins like he's just won a jackpot. He holds his fist out in an attempt to fist bump me, and I glare at him. He drops his fist.

“Okay. No fist bumping.”

I shake my head at his attempt to lighten me up. I take a long drag on the cigar again, smoke curling thick in my lungs. “Just get her ready,” I mutter.

Matteo nods, already pulling out his phone to do the needful as we head for the car.

I slide into the driver’s seat, black SUV growling awake as I fire it up.

I peel out, leaving the warehouse and the gore behind.

My knuckles grip the wheel tightly, tension and the high of the kill still burning me up. Nothing a good fuck can't cure.

Matteo is on the phone, his voice low. “Alanna, be ready. The boss is coming.” He hangs up, glancing over at me. “She’s all set.” I don't say anything, just nod, my eyes trained on the road ahead of me. Matteo attunes himself to my mood and falls silent as I drive on.

Dusk has fallen and the streets are a long stretch of darkness.

I weave through seamlessly without a word, but my mind travels back to minutes ago with the snitch.

It felt so good punching him and having his face cave under my fist. That's his punishment for crossing me.

No one who crosses me lives to tell the story.

I pull into the driveway leading up to the mansion that looms ahead.

My mansion. It's all stone walls and iron gates.

Black marble columns guard the entrance, windows glinting like the sharp edge of a blade.

It's a fortress built for blood and on blood.

Effective to keep the enemy out. We've never been conquered within the gates of the mansion. We've never been conquered at all.

My father had made sure to fortify the land with the blood of our enemies. It's the reason we're greatly feared. Tales told of death whispering within the confines of the mansion filters back to me. It's an overreach, but it's not worth denying.

The gates slide open as we near them. We pull up, gravel crunching under the tires. I kill the engine and turn to Matteo.

“No interruptions,” I growl, meaning it. He nods and waves his hand as if to say ‘get it over with’. He's the only one who can get away with such disregard.

I climb out, slamming the door. The night air is cool, the sky dotted with the glow of the stars, but I’m burning.

I bound up the sprawling staircase that leads to the interior of the mansion.

Inside, the foyer is all dark, polished wood and crystal, chandeliers sparkling overhead, throwing shadows like knives.

They add to the gloomy atmosphere I rather prefer.

I don’t stop. Instead, I head straight for the chamber where I most definitely know Alanna's waiting. It's my spot for this shit. It's tucked away, no questions asked, although no one would dare.

I push the door open, and there’s Alanna, sprawled on the bed, waiting like she'd been told. The room is dimly lit, but I see her clearly. She’s barely dressed, a black lace thong clinging to her hips.

Her generous tits are out, one leg bent, posing like a fucking painting.

Her blonde hair spills over the silk sheets, and her smile is lustful. She knows what I want.

I don’t feel shit for her, never have. She's my plaything. She’s here for my cock. Her job is to sate my sexual appetite. In turn, I keep her fed, clothed, safe. Same deal with all my women. They know the score: I fuck, they obey—no strings.

I don't bother with a preamble—in this case, foreplay. Foreplay is for romantic assholes. I'm not romantic. Never have been. I like to be upfront with what I want, and with my women, what they see is what they get.

Facing Alanna and never taking my eyes off her, I rip off my shirt.

The blood from the dead snitch lying in the warehouse is still caked on my skin.

Matteo would arrange for how to get rid of the body.

I kick off my boots in one smooth move. My pants are next.

As it drops to expose my already hard cock, jutting out, thick and ready, I see her smack her lips.

Blood and fighting always do this to me—get me raging, needing release. Alanna's eyes roam my broad chest, inked with a mafia crest: skulls and roses tangled in barbed wire, wrapping my pecs, screaming who I am. I’m built like a fucking tank, every muscle carved from years of breaking bones.

“Come here,” I bark, and Alanna slides off the bed with no hesitation, her eyes locked on mine.

“Kneel,” I command. She drops to her knees, lips painted red inches from my cock.

She stares up at me, bold as fuck, her mouth gaping open.

“I'm going to fuck your mouth so hard. I hope you're ready for me.” She nods, her eyes never leaving mine.

I stroke myself, slow, watching her watch me.

I can already feel the excited tingle that precedes my ultimate release.

My cock is now rock-hard, the crisscrossed veins prominent.

“Open,” I say, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back hard.

She doesn’t flinch. I tug at her jaw and her lips part further. Good. She's ready.

I palm my cock, about to shove it in her mouth when a knock bangs on the door, loud and fucking rude.

“Cazzo!” I roar, swearing in Italian, my blood spiking. I'd told Matteo in explicit terms that I wanted no interruptions. What part of that didn't he understand? “Stronzo del cazzo!” I swear again.

I yank my pants up. My cock’s still hard and my once fitted pants now barely contain it.

I storm to the door. From my periphery, I see Alanna making a move to stand.

“Stay!” I snap at her, and she freezes. She instantly goes back kneeling, like a good girl.

That's not to say she wouldn't pay for that one disobedient act later. I stalk to the door and rip it open to behold Matteo standing there, a frown etched into his features. Matteo only looks like that when he’s got bad news.

“This better be fucking good,” I growl, leaning into the doorframe, my fists clenched. Matteo shifts, his unease apparent. “It’s urgent, Enzo.”

I glare, waiting. “Go on.” He swallows hard. “Our docks just got hit.” I clench my fists harder. This is bad enough news. I raise a brow, indicating for him to continue. “Rossis are behind it. I haven't found out all the details, but right now, it’s a fucking mess.”

Fucking Rossis.

My vision goes red and I feel the anger clamp on my heart like a vise.

The name Rossi is like a knife in my gut.

Those fucking bastards. They're my sworn enemies.

In sleep, I'd smell Rossi blood if it ever smeared itself on me.

They're the ones who bled my mom dry. My jaw locks as I rock on my feet, my eyes burning with rage. My body's humming, gearing for war

Matteo clocks it. He knows of my deep-seated hatred for the Rossis. All of my associates know. He steps into my line of vision and puts his hands to rest on my shoulders. “Let’s not act rashly, Enzo. We can handle this calmly. Talk it out.”

I shove his hands off my shoulders as all-consuming rage nearly blinds me. Talk it out? I laugh, and it's cold and sharp. I slam my fist into the wall and I feel the plaster crack beneath my fist. “Fuck calm,” I spit out in a deadly voice. “They want to play, I’ll bury them.”

My blood’s roaring in my veins, that kill-high mixing with this new hate almost choking me, making me itch for a fight. I turn to steely eyes to Matteo. “Get the crew. Now. We’re meeting.”

“Enzo…” His voice is a warning. A plea for me to think this through. Fuck that. The Rossis hadn't exercised that diplomacy when they murdered my mother in cold blood.

“Now!” I ground out and he knows better to obey my order this time around.

I spin back into the chamber, where Alanna’s still kneeling, waiting. For a while, I'd forgotten her existence. My arousal is well out of the way now, and with the anger simmering in my blood, I bark, “out.”

She scrambles up without a protest. She flounders as she grabs her shit. Within seconds, she's gone. They all listen—always do.

When she's gone, my chest heaves as I try to envision it through my mind’s eye—the Rossi faces I want to smash. If it’s war they’re vying for, I’ll give them one they’ll choke on.