Page 30 of Sworn to the Enemy

Enzo

I lean back in my study’s leather chair, the cigar smoke curling thickly in the air, as bitter as my mood. It’s been a week and a half since Serafina left for her father’s villa, and here I am, a fucking mess. I'm no better than I was on the day she left. In fact, I'm worse off.

I miss her. Not just her body—though, God, the thought of her curves under my hands keeps me up at night—but her sharp tongue, the way her green eyes cut through my bullshit.

She's a fucking knife, edges sharp, slicing me open, and I hate how much I crave it.

It almost feels like I'm counting down to the day she'll get back, which I'm not privy to.

Before now, if anyone had told me I'd miss the presence of a woman, much less yearn for it, I'd have labeled them mad.

Weeks before, I wouldn't have believed that a day would come so soon where I'd have a permanent fixture, I'd come to call my wife.

I knew it'd happen sooner or later. I'd eventually need to tie myself down in marriage with a suitable woman, someone of caliber, who'd give me children—little princesses, heirs.

But never in my wildest dreams would I ever imagine myself being tied down with my enemy, even if it's just a smokescreen marriage.

I'd gone into this without carefully thinking of how long the whole thing would last for.

I'd gone into this with the aim to control the Rossis from within, but these days, I can no longer dredge up the resentment I started out with.

I'd even let Luis go, for Christ's sake. I don't know why the hell I did that. It'd been on a whim. I wonder what she thinks about me releasing him. God. I want to see her so badly.

It's hard enough to admit to myself that I miss her. I miss my wife. I’ve texted her, sure.

A few curt messages about her father’s health.

Some brief messages about how she is, never when she's coming back because pride chokes me. I can’t let her know I’m unraveling, that her absence is a fist in my gut, and I'm a ticking time bomb waiting to explode at the slightest nudge.

My cock stirs at the thought of burying myself in her.

I want to claim her in more ways than one.

I want to own her until she's trembling in my arms, pliant and soft. The images my mind conjures up are torturous. I drag on the cigar, trying to burn away the ache, but it’s no use.

She’s in my blood, like a leech sucking away at my essence.

Only she's sucking away at my soul, my sanity.

The door creaks open, and I don’t look up. Probably Matteo with some smartass quip. I've not been giving him the time of day lately. Not when I spend my days in a sour mood, occupying my mind with the thoughts of my absent wife. He's been busy, too, running different operations in my stead.

I open my mouth on a dry rebuke at him interrupting my quiet time, but then a scent hits me—cheap, cloying perfume. Alanna. For a while there, I forgot she existed. What the hell is she doing here? I almost groan out my frustration.

I glance over, and she’s barely dressed, a scrap of black lace clinging to her hips, her tits out, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.

She lets the lace slip to the floor, standing naked before me.

She's bold as fuck, I give her that. My eyes narrow. Before Serafina, I’d have had her bent over this desk, tweaking her nipples, fucking her hard to sate the fire in me.

Now? Nothing.

My cock doesn’t even twitch.

“Enzo,” she purrs, slinking closer, pressing her chest against my arm. Her breasts rub against me, deliberate, her lips grazing my jaw. “You’ve been lonely without her, haven’t you?” Her voice is all honey, but it grates like sandpaper.

I shove her back roughly, my hand gripping her wrist as the anger I feel boils over. “Get the fuck off me,” I growl, my voice lethal, aiming for damage. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

She falters slightly.

I continue coldly. “I’m married now. I’ve got one woman, and it’s not you. Don’t pull this shit again, Alanna. You’re a whore, nothing more.”

Her face twists, pain flashing in her eyes, but I don’t care. She should’ve known better than to try me. I’m not the Enzo that used to fuck her to chase a high. I'm a different man now who only has eyes for one woman, and that woman is none other than my wife.

She steps closer, her eyes brimming with defiance. Before now, I hadn't noticed she had brown eyes. Her voice is shaky as she says, “you’ll come back to me when this blows over. You always do.”

“Alanna…” I begin, ready to tell her off once and for all.

“No. Enzo. Don't patronize me. I know what you have with her is only temporary, and I know you'll come back. It's just a matter of days. I'm a patient woman. I'm willing to wait.”

I almost laugh, but the sound stops cold in my throat. I hadn't meant to patronize her, I'd meant to be ruthless with her, but I pause, eyeing her. It’s the first time I’ve seen her show spine, a flicker of something beyond the bland plaything she’s been. It surprises me.

All my women were short-term—fucked, paid, gone.

Alanna lasted because she scratched an itch, her bank account fat enough she’ll never have to work again if she doesn't want to.

But now? I feel something sharp, like sympathy, and it fucks with my head.

Me, feeling pity? What the fuck is happening to me?

I soften my tone, but it’s still firm and cutting, straight to the point.

“You’ll find someone, Alanna. Someone who wants more than a quick fuck.

You’re an attractive woman, but I’ve got a wife now.

She’s the only one who gets me.” The words slip out, and I freeze.

Do I mean them? Is this affection, this clawing need for Serafina?

My chest tightens, and I hate it. Alanna’s eyes widen, shocked I’m even trying to pacify her.

It shocks me too. I’m not this guy—soft words, fucking feelings.

“Out,” I snap, sharper now, covering the lapse. I'm not that man. I'm Enzo Mancini. I'm cold. I'm calculated. Those are the qualities that make my enemies shake in their boots. The same quality that has built me an infallible track record in the mafia world.

I see her briefly hesitate before she grabs her lace scrap, and heads for the door.

I watch her progress to the door. She pauses, and this time, I'm almost losing my shit.

One more word from her, and I won't be so kind at dispelling her.

I make a mental note to inform the security guards to deny her entry the next time she comes.

“Thank you,” she mutters, her voice slightly trembling, but I see something else in her eyes—a kind of gratefulness that's fleeting. The moment I catch it, she’s gone, and I know she'll never be back. It's something I'd seen in her eyes—gratitude mixed with resolution.

I slump in the chair, the cigar burned to a stub, ash dusting my desk.

Serafina’s got me so fucked up I can’t think straight.

Alanna’s gone, and I feel nothing—no pull, no heat.

Before, I’d have fucked her raw, chased the high, she wouldn't have dared to walk away from me, but now? It’s Fina.

Only Fina. Her sharp mouth, her body pressed against mine, that jasmine scent that haunts me.

My cock hardens just thinking of her, and I hate how she’s rewired me. No other woman does this. Not Alanna, not anyone. Just my wife, the Rossi I’m supposed to hate. It's all a fucking mess.

The door swings open, and for a moment, I wonder if it's Alanna again, but it's Matteo instead. He strolls in, smirking like he’s caught me jerking off.

“Saw Alanna on her way out,” he says, dropping into the couch, legs sprawled as he looks at me. “Looked like she got slapped. You only got eyes for your wife now, huh?” Trust Matteo to take joy in my plight.

His grin’s aggravating, and I want to punch it off his face.

I ignore him and fish for another cigar.

I need something to soothe me, and it's not Serafina, then it has to be something.

I reach for the lighter by the fireplace, but my hands fumble, and I knock over the empty whiskey bottle.

It clatters loudly as topples to the floor, the rug muting its fall.

Fucking hell. My mood blackens. I’m an absolute fucking mess, clumsy like some kid, and it’s her fault. Serafina’s got me tripping over myself, my poise shot to hell.

Matteo chuckles, leaning forward. “What’s this, Enzo? You’re a wreck. You actually like her, don’t you? You even let the Rossi captive go.”

I grunt, digging for my lighter, but I only manage to push it farther. My irritation spikes, a low growl in my throat. “Sod off,” I mutter, but he’s relentless, his eyes glinting.

He pulls his lighter from his pocket, flicks it, and lights my cigar, still laughing. “Look at you, fumbling like a lovesick prick. She’s got you bad, doesn't she?” I glare hard at him as I drag a hard lungful on the cigar, smoke stinging my lungs.

He’s right, and it pisses me off. These feelings—sympathy for Alanna, this ache for Fina—they’re alien, wrong. I'm not this man. I need to regain my composure fast before it careens completely out of control.

“Don't you have somewhere to be?” I grunt at him.

He grins. “No, I don't. Not now, anyway.” He pauses, and I look at him. I have the feeling he has more to say.

“Be careful with her,” Matteo says, his voice serious now, his grin fading. “Serafina’s no pushover. She's all claws and poison, that one. I saw it when we met—she’d gut you if you hurt her, and I can't help but think she's almost pure. Too pure for you.”

I scoff, but it’s hollow. I remember her laugh with him the day I'd introduced her to the men.

It had been easy, unguarded. As I think about it stabs me again.

She's never laughed like that with me. Sure, there's an all-consuming passion, there's anger, there's willful surrender, but I can't help the feeling that comes over me.

It comes as a stark realization. I want more from her.

I want to know her from the inside out. I know her body, I have her curves memorized.

My body knows her. But I want to know more.

I want to know what makes her tick. I want to know what makes her laugh, and I want to be the one who delivers the jokes that makes her laugh.

I've never had the craving to know another human, and it unsettles me.

I drag my mind back to the present, to Matteo who's looking at me, a considering look on his face, like he can't reconcile the man he knows to the one sitting across from him.

If Matteo thinks I'm a gone cause, then I truly have no hope.

I'm well and truly lost for Fina. It enrages me, the fact that I can't seem to latch on my control, and I focus on that rage as I return Matteo's hard stare.

Who the fuck does he think he is to warn me about my wife?

“She’s not pure, Matteo,” I snap, thinking of her at that club, doling out discipline to that hunk of a punk with some impressive karate moves.

My heart warms at the memory. “You don’t know her.

” It’s more to shut him down, but I mull on it for a bit.

I really do not know her. That cursed notion comes again, of me wanting to know her. I clamp it down.

Matteo shrugs, unfazed. “I like her. She’s good.” He pauses, his eyes taking on a mischievous glint. “If you fuck her over, I’ll step in.”

My blood boils, and I shoot him a look that could kill. He laughs, leaning back, like my rage is a fucking joke.

Before I can snap, a knock cuts through. Disgruntled, I say, “come in.”

Luca steps in, his face pulled tight. “Boss, we got a problem. One of our shipments—a high-grade product—got hit at the docks. Looks like a Gallo crew, but it’s messy, like they’re taunting us.”

“Or they're retaliating for the party,” Matteo offers, already on his feet, earlier traces of playfulness gone.

My jaw locks. He’s been too quiet. I should've known this was coming. If I hadn't been preoccupied with thoughts of my wife, I'd have smelt it from a mile away. This smells like his work. He's probing for weakness. Sloppy. I'm becoming sloppy.

I stand, crushing the cigar in the ashtray. “Gear up,” I tell Matteo, my voice all steel now. “We’re handling this tonight.”

Matteo nods, his face all business. I storm out, heading for the armory, boots echoing on the marble.

In the armory, I snatch a Beretta, its sleek metal cold against my palm. I check the clip, my pulse racing, the high of an impending kill already pumping excitement into my blood.

It's time to boss up. I'm not some lovesick puppy. I'm Enzo Mancini. I eat my enemies for dinner.