Page 32 of Sworn to the Enemy

Enzo

Fina’s been gone two weeks, and I’m a man unmoored.

My chest is raw with a hunger that gnaws my insides.

I miss her. Not just her body, not the way it melts into me.

I miss the sharp edge of her wit that cuts clean through me, the fire in her green eyes when she dares me to cross her, the way her skin feels under my palms, warm and unyielding, like she’s daring me to break her.

I fear I might go absolutely mad by her absence.

The mansion’s a hollow shell without her, every room echoing the absence of her laugh, her scent.

I catch whiffs of jasmine in the air, a cruel permanence that haunts my sleepless nights, leaving me hard and restless.

One time I'd gone to her room, and my reaction to being there had been visceral, almost bringing me to my knees.

I'd caught myself, baffled by such a strong reaction to being in her room.

My texts to her are cold, clipped, pride a noose around my throat.

But, if I'm being truthful to myself, it’s a lie.

I’m burning for her badly, deeply. My blood is a roar I can’t quiet.

Day in, day out, I pace my study, the cigar in my hand tasteless, ash dusting my desk like snow.

I’m Enzo Mancini, forged in blood, unshakeable, but she’s undone me…

completely, implicitly. I need her back, her fight, her heat, her everything.

Today, I'm battling with my sanity, wondering if I'm not all the better, going for her. Matteo has gone to a meeting on my behalf. He'd looked at me as if I've gone completely bonkers before he left. And, I don't blame him. My wife's absence is doing a great number on me.

I crush the cigar in the ashtray resolutely, the decision settling like a stone. I’m done waiting. I'm going for her and that's final. I grab my keys, my Beretta heavy at my hip, its cool metal a reminder of who I am and head out.

The drive to the Rossi villa is a blur, the road a gray ribbon under a sky bruised with clouds, my pulse a steady drum urging me forward.

I’m not just her husband—I’m the man who claimed her, enemy or not, and this marriage, this fragile peace between our families, means she’s mine.

The thought of her defiance, her refusal to bend, only fuels me.

I want her fire in my hands, even if it burns.

The iron gates of the Rossi villa groan open, and I step out, gravel crunching sharply under my boots. The last time I was here was to forge an alliance with my enemy, an alliance that had me carting away with a wife, and a momentary promise to hold the peace.

The guards at the gate—two of them—eye me warily as I approach them.

They know who I am, no doubt. One of them whips out a phone to put a call across to whoever the fuck is the Lord of the villa now that Domenico is ill.

I realize I should've called my wife to notify her of my coming, but in my maddening haste, I hadn't remembered to put a call across. Well, let this be a surprise to her.

“Mr. Rossi will be here shortly,” the other says.

I return their wary stare with steely ones. I understand their hostility and carefulness, but goddammit, I'm no longer a rival, I'm Serafina Rossi's fucking husband.

Just as I'm about to say something to that effect, I see a figure emerge, walking stealthily. I recognize who it is. Riccardo Rossi. A spineless bastard. Where the fuck is my wife? I expect her to be informed of my appearance. She should be the one here to welcome me.

He comes toward and stops just short of where I'm standing. I watch as he leans against a stone pillar, his face twisted with venom. He doesn't faze me. If he's indeed a replacement for Domenico, then the Rossis are truly fucked.

He must have thought better of his pose, because he moves away from the stone pillar and steps right into my path, his stance threatening. “Mancini,” he snarls, his lips curling in distaste.

I watch him, his exact expression mirrored on my face. His hand twitches toward the gun at his belt as if he's going to unholster it any moment from now. “You’ve got some fucking balls showing up here after what you did to one of our associates.”

I step toward him and stand right in front of him, towering over him.

He plants his feet firmly on the ground, determined not to falter.

My eyes narrow, a cold smile curling my lips.

“Your dog-shit faced associate deserved it. He messed with me first. Now, my wife’s inside, Rossi. You either move, or I’ll make you.”

His jaw clenches, hate blazing in his eyes, but I see the flicker of doubt. He's not as smart as he thinks he is. I wonder how two people born of the same parents can be so different.

“She’ll laugh in your face,” he spits, but his voice wavers slightly. He's caving.

I step closer, my voice low and lethal. “Try me.”

He hesitates, then steps aside, muttering curses, his shoulder brushing mine as I shove past. The contact sparks a flare of rage I swallow down. Anyone else does that, I'd be battering their head in.

The villa’s a fortress, cold and grand, but I'm not here to admire the beauty of it. I'm here to claim my wife. The big oak doors at the entrance opens and a man I recognize as Carlo from the last time I was here comes out. He walks toward me, his mouth set in a firm line.

“Mr. Mancini,” he says nodding slightly, then turns to lead me to where Fina is.

I stride through the hall, following him, wondering where the hell in the whole of this fortress my wife is. I'm about to mutter a curse, impatient eating away at me when I see her. Fina.

Her black dress hugs her curves, hair spilling dark over her shoulders, green eyes flashing like a storm breaking. My chest tightens, want and fury twisting into a knot. She sees me, and her stance shifts, chin high, ready for a fight.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Enzo? And why the fuck did you let Luis go without informing me first?” she snaps, her voice hard, but there’s a tremor, a shadow in her gaze that hooks me.

“What? No greeting? No thank you?”

Those green eyes turned on me has my chest tightening. God, how I've missed her.

“Cut the shit. What are you doing here?”

I clench my jaw. “You’re my wife,” I say, voice hard, mirroring hers. I close the distance between us until her scent, jasmine and heat, floods me. “You belong with me.”

Her laugh is sharp and bitter, slicing through the air. “Belong? You don’t own me, Mancini. Go back to your whores.”

The words sting, but it’s her eyes—bright, too bright—that stop me. Something is wrong. It's not sadness at her father's plight that I see, it's something else. I'm so attuned to her that I immediately know if something's wrong.

“Don’t play games, Fina,” I growl, my hand grazing her arm. Her warmth is a spark that jolts me. “Something’s wrong. I see it. What is it?”

She yanks free, stepping into my space, her voice rising fiercely.

“You see nothing! You think you can storm in, demand I follow? Fuck you, Enzo. Who the hell do you think you are?” Her defiance is a fire; those overly bright eyes, like she's trying to hold back tears, makes my gut churns with unease.

“Your husband,” I counter.

“Go away, Enzo.”

“You’re coming home,” I say, my voice a low snarl, my hand gripping her wrist, firm but careful. She twists free, her eyes blazing, her breath hot.

“Home? To what? Your cold bed, your cold heart? This marriage is a deal, nothing more!”

Her words cut, but I’m not backing down. “A deal that makes you mine,” I snap, my voice rough, stepping closer, our bodies inches apart. I'm done being patient. “Stop fighting me, Fina.”

She laughs, a wild, angry sound, her hands fisting at her sides. “Fighting’s all we know! You want me to bend, to be your little wife? I’m a Rossi, you bastard!”

Her fire’s a drug, but the slight crack in her voice stops me cold. That earlier unease resurfaces. “What’s got you like this?” I demand, my voice softer, more urgent. “Tell me, damn it.”

Before she can answer, a maid’s voice cuts through, soft but clear. “Mr. Rossi wants to see you, Mr. Mancini.” Ah. So, my presence is known by all and sundry.

Fina’s jaw tightens, her eyes a dare, as if she's daring me to go if I can. What's the harm in going to see my father-in-law? I nod, following the maid, but not before I see Fina’s trembling hands. Something is definitely wrong, and I'll be damned if I let her hide it from me.

Domenico’s study is a dark vault, the same room where I first saw Fina, my wife. This random shuffle with her title between ‘my wife' and ‘Fina’ has me confused.

He’s at his desk, sitting with his shoulders held high.

But I don't fail to notice how frail he looks or how his shoulders are slightly slumped. His thinning gray hair stands out in a face etched with sickness. Pity stirs, a sharp pang I don’t show.

He’s Domenico Rossi, a titan, even now, and I respect his strength, his cunning, though we’re enemies bound by this uneasy peace.

“Enzo,” he says, voice like gravel, his gray eyes sharp, distrustful. “You’re bold, coming here.”

I keep my face blank, my voice even. “Came for my wife, Domenico.” On second thought, I add, “I wish you a quick recovery, though.” His lips twist in a faint sneer. “Fina’s no prize to be claimed, Mancini. She’s my daughter. She's a Rossi.”

The words are a jab, a reminder of our truce’s fragility. I nod, my throat tight. “I know who she is. She’s my wife.”

His gaze holds mine, heavy with warning. “Tread carefully. This peace is thin.”

I feel the weight of his words, the respect I can’t deny, even as I hate his control over her. “Understood,” I say, voice hard.

I start for the door, and before I can turn the knob, his voice stops me short. I look back to see his eyes baring into me. “For Luis, grazie.” He looks as if to say something else, but he turns and waves me out.

Domenico’s dismissal hangs heavy in the air, his warning about Fina still ringing in my ears as I step out of his study, the door closing with a soft thud behind me.

The villa’s shadows cling to the marble walls, the scent of wax and old leather thick, like the weight of the Rossi name itself.

I’m restless, my blood still simmering from the exchange with my wife's father.

The sounds of my boots are muted on the floor as I head back to the hall, my mind fixed on her.

Fina. My wife, my fire, the woman who’s been tearing me apart for weeks.

I need to see her, to drag her back to where she belongs, whether she fights me or not.

This marriage may be a deal to keep the peace, but she’s mine, and I’m done with the distance between us.

I find her where I left her, standing in the grand hall, the soft glow of a chandelier casting prisms across her black dress, which clings to her curves like a lover’s touch.

Her eyes though dampened by whatever’s eating her blazes with a fury that could burn this villa to ash, and me alongside it.

She’s a warrior, unyielding, her stance rigid as if she’s braced for battle.

The sight of her stirs something deep, a mix of want and rage that tightens my chest. She's mine.

Mine.

She sees me, and her lips curl into a sneer. She steps toward me, closing the gap between us. “You’re still here, Enzo? God, you don’t listen, do you? I told you to leave.” Her words are sharp, meant to inflict something—a wound, maybe, but there’s a tremor beneath them,

I move closer, my voice a low growl, my hand reaching for her arm, my grip firm but careful, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric. “We’re not done, Fina. You know that.”

Her eyes flash, and she yanks free with a snarl, stepping into my space, her breath hot against my face.

“Done? We’re done when I say we are, you bastard!

You think that ring on my finger makes me yours?

I’m not your fucking pet, Enzo!” Her voice rises, her hands fisting at her sides as if she’s holding herself back from striking me.

Her rage is a living thing, wild and fierce, but I see the pain in her eyes, a truth she’s guarding so fiercely.

It’s there, in the way her lips tremble, in the way she holds herself too tight, like she’s carrying a weight that could crush her.

My chest aches, but I keep my face hard, stoic, refusing to let her see how much she unravels me.

“What’s eating you, Fina?” I demand, my voice low, pressing closer, her heat searing through me, making my blood roar. “Don’t lie to me. I see it in your eyes. Spit it out.”

Her gaze locks on mine, fierce, unyielding, and for a moment, I think she’ll slap me, like that night in her father’s chamber when I kissed her and she burned me with her fire.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she hesitates, her chin lifting, her strength a wall I can’t breach. “Not here,” she says, her voice steady.

She grabs my wrist, her touch firm, and pulls me toward a side room, her steps quick, purposeful. The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us in a small, shadowed space where the air feels too thick, her scent wrapping around me, jasmine and defiance, making my pulse hammer in my throat.

I stand there, my back to the door, watching her pace the small room, her movements sharp, like a caged animal. The silence is heavy, pressing against my chest, and I wait, my unease growing, a knot in my gut that won’t loosen.

“What is it, Fina?” I ask, my voice rough, the words scraping my throat. I keep my face blank, my stance rigid, but inside, I’m a mess, torn between wanting to shake her and pulling her close.

She stops, facing me, her green eyes blazing with that fierce strength I’ve always known, the strength that makes her a Rossi, a warrior, my equal in every way. Her chin is high, her shoulders squared, and I see it—the weight she’s carrying, the truth she’s about to unleash.

She opens her mouth, as if she wants to say something important. I see it in her eyes, a fire that holds me still, burning with purpose. I wait with bated breath, my heart slamming against my ribs. Then, she says simply, “I’m pregnant.”

The words suck the air from my lungs, and my face freezes in shock as the truth of her words dawn on me.

Pregnant.