Page 6 of Sworn to the Enemy

Serafina

I push open the heavy oak door to my father’s meeting chamber, my heels clicking sharp against the marble floor.

Carlo had informed me my father wanted to see me.

I’d wondered as I walked here if he’d found a fix for this Rossi-Mancini mess.

Riccardo, expectedly, hasn't been able to come up with anything, even though he's the one that started this whole mess in the first place.

The room unfolds before me, vast and cold, its walls draped in deep green velvet, gold sconces flickering with weak light.

A massive table dominates the center. It's carved with vines, its surface gleaming under a crystal chandelier that throws prisms across the stone floor. The air’s thick with the scent of old leather and wax, like a tomb for secrets.

I hadn't been here in a long time. I prefer to have my meetings in some other part of the villa.

This one's reserved for my meetings with Papa.

Papa sits at the table’s head, his posture rigid, all traces of his sickness gone. He’s a general waging war, his navy suit crisp, grey eyes sharp. Two days ago, he'd obviously been wallowing.

What is going on?

My gaze slides to the man at the table’s far end, and my breath catches.

I only see his side profile. He’s gorgeous, all hard lines and raw power, lounging in his chair like he owns the place.

Black hair falls over his forehead, framing a face carved from stone—sharp jaw, full lips.

His black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing ink curling up his neck.

He’s not one of Papa’s men, I'm sure. I’ve memorized every associate since I came back from Yale three years ago, and this guy’s different. He radiates authority, charisma dripping from him like blood from a blade. None of Papa's associates measure up to him.

As if keying into my inner monologue, he does a full turn to glance at me. I stop dead in my tracks, my heart slamming against my ribs. My pulse quickens and my mouth drops open. Those eyes—black, piercing, unyielding. I know them.

Fuck. I know them.

Four years ago. That bar. A night of rain and reckless heat. His lips on mine, his hands tearing my clothes, his cock fucking me until I screamed. Fuck my brains out, I'd said, and he had. Twice after that first time. Until I woke up in the morning to see he'd disappeared.

My skin burns, memories flooding—his wholesome possession, my moans, the way I'd acted so wantonly with him.

God.

How bad can it get? The stranger who fucked me senseless is here now, right in front of me, in my father’s house.

His gaze holds mine, and I see the flicker of recognition in those dark as sin eyes.

His mouth is set in a grim line, as though he’s remembering too, and the memory is unpleasant for him.

He looks away, eyes snapping back to Papa, like I’m nothing.

My stomach lurches, heat and rage twisting together, and I lock it down, forcing my face blank. In an instant, I regain my composure as if I didn't just lose it. I keep my chin high, striding to the table. “Papa,” I say, voice steady, “you called for me?”

He nods, a faint smile softening his face. “Yes, Fina. Come, sit. I want you to meet someone.” He gestures to the stranger. “This is Enzo Mancini.”

The name hits like a gunshot, its bullet hitting me square in the chest. Mancini. That name. That goddamn name. The man who’d destroy my family. My sworn enemy, the man who would tear my family apart if given the chance. And the man who'd fucked me mercilessly, left me trembling, then vanished.

My chest tightens, but I don’t flinch, don’t blink.

I can’t let him see the turmoil of me envisioning his hands on my skin, my body arching under him.

The shame of wanting him suffuses my skin.

I sit, spine straight, nails biting my palms, staring at him.

His eyes meet mine, cold, assessing, but I catch that glint, the memory of that night. It fuels my rage.

I clench my fists under the table, nails biting my palms, as I stare at him.

His eyes meet mine now. His gaze is piercing, like he's sizing me up.

Rage bubbles in my chest. I want to scream, to claw that smug look off his face.

Instead I sit, spine straight, contorting my face into a mask of indifference.

My expression is an epitome of calm. He can't capitalize on my reaction if there isn't one. Papa, too.

Papa turns to Enzo. “Enzo, my daughter, Serafina.” I barely hear it, my ears ringing. Enzo’s here, in our villa, and I’m drowning in hate, in the ghost of his touch. Papa speaks again, his voice calm but heavy. “Fina, I’ve offered you to Enzo as his bride. A peace offering to end this feud.”

The words crash over me, a tidal wave, knocking the breath from my lungs. My vision narrows, the rage I'd tried hard to subdue exploding, mixed with the sick heat of that night—his cock inside me, my screams, the way I shamelessly gave myself to him.

What the fuck? He’s giving me away? To Mancini?

I whirl on Papa, my voice carrying well aimed venom “You what ?” I stand, chair scraping loudly.

“You’re giving me away? What the hell does that mean, Papa?

Am I a commodity to be given away, sold to the highest bidder?

” I can't see through the fury clouding my sight.

It clogs my nostrils, making it hard to breathe.

My whole life, I’ve obeyed him. Yale had been his idea, not mine. I wanted to stay to learn the family trade, but he'd insisted and off I went. And now this?

“You had no right,” I hiss, hands trembling as I struggle to rein it in. “You made this deal without me?”

Papa’s eyes harden, unyielding. “It’s done, Fina. I have the authority. You don’t refuse.”

I laugh, bitter, my throat tight. “Watch me,” I snap. “I’m not marrying him. You can't make me.”

He leans forward, his voice taking on a coldness he uses on his rivals. “Dare me, and see.”

The threat is clear. It's done. It's sealed. He expects compliance. Only this time, I won't be giving in to what he wants. What I want matters too. And what I want doesn't include marrying a Mancini scum.

I watch Papa as he stands, slow, leaning on his cane, my body dissociating from my soul. I will on the calm my therapist tells me comes with dissociating, but it doesn't come. Without another word, he walks out, leaving me alone with Enzo.

“Papa!” I yell as the heavily barred doors close in my face.

My chest heaves, and for the first time since my mother's death, tears burn my eyes.

I blink them back and hold my head high.

I refuse to break. The Mancini scum is still here, watching me.

I can feel his eyes burning holes into my back.

I turn to him, my voice clipped. “Coming here, agreeing to this absurd proposal, I don't know what you aim to achieve. Just know I won’t agree to this and it's final.”

He stands, tall and broad and I almost rear back, but I hold my ground.

He stalks toward me, his walk predatory.

I don’t back down, though my pulse races.

Up close, he’s even more striking—sharp jawline, dark eyes that burn, jagged scar slicing through one brow, hinting at old violence.

Had it been there that night? I hadn't noticed.

I wonder what fight marked him, then curse myself for caring.

He’s a Mancini, my enemy, and Papa’s lost his damn mind.

I stand my ground and look into his eyes.

Big mistake. His intense gaze bears into me like he's trying to see into my soul.

I suck in a breath, trying my best not to show any emotions, but my body betrays me.

Heat pools low in my stomach, memories of his mouth, his cock, flooding back.

I hate him, and hate myself for wanting him still.

He stops, close—too close. His breath is warm on my face. His voice is low and it rumbles through me as he says, “it’s your father’s proposal. It’s good for both families.” His tone’s clipped, like he’s explaining to a child, his expression faintly annoyed. The arrogance sets my blood on fire.

“Good?” I snap, stepping into his space. “You think you can waltz in here and act like you own me? You’re a fucking Mancini. I’d rather die than marry you. Or maybe I'll make you die first.” My voice is laced with uncontainable fury mixed with the shame of that night, and it makes my teeth rattle.

He doesn’t answer, just watches me, his eyes darkening. Then, without warning, he grabs my face, his hands rough and calloused as they clamp my jaw. Before I can protest, his mouth is on mine. Memories of that night slam into me, and I'm back there again, totally wanton in his arms.

He's kissing me. It’s not gentle, it’s a storm.

His lips on mine are hard, demanding, like he’s trying to shut me up for good.

Like he's trying to punish me for that night.

Like he's trying to chase off the memory of it.

His stubble burns my skin, scraping raw, and I taste the faint bite of smoke on his breath mixed with mint.

My heart pounds a wild drum in my chest, as his mouth moves. He shows no mercy.

His grip tightens, fingers digging into my skin, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. His tongue pushes past my lips, hot and bold, claiming every inch, tangling with mine in a way that sends heat exploding through me. I’m drowning, my body betraying me, leaning into him for one stupid moment.

My hands hit his chest, palms flat against the hard muscle under his shirt, and I feel his heartbeat, fast, matching mine. I think I should put an end to this, but then his lips press harder. His teeth grazes my bottom lip, a sharp sting that makes me gasp.

The room spins, my knees wobbling as a shiver tears down my spine. It's electric. It's unwanted. His hands slide, one cupping the back of my neck, pulling me closer, the other still on my jaw, controlling every angle.

It’s hungry, primal, his body heat searing through me, and I’m so caught, my skin tingling, my blood roaring.

His tongue strokes mine, slow now, deliberate, like he’s savoring the fight, and I hate how it pulls me in, how my fingers curl against his chest, traitorously wanting more.

I hate how my body literally turns to mush against him.

I allow myself to melt into the heat, into the raw edge of him.

Then I snap back, ripping free, and before I can control my reaction, my hand flies through space, hitting his face hard. The crack echoes through the room. My palm stings. I'd meant the slap to shake him, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. He just smirks, smug as hell.

“What the fuck?” I snarl, wiping my lips, though they tingle. I'm still gasping, but I manage to croak out, “don’t you dare touch me again.”

He cocks his head to the side as if weighing my words. “Funny,” he says, his voice dry, “you welcomed my hands all over you that night. Begged for them, even.”

So, he remembers in vivid detail. Heat flares on my cheeks and my stomach clenches, but I don't give him the satisfaction of letting him see how affected I am by his kiss, his words.

“I mean it.” My voice is ice. “The next time you come close to me with your filth, I won’t let it slide.”

An amused glint lights up his eyes as he leans closer, his hot breath caressing my ear. His voice is a rough whisper. “Can’t promise that, princess.”

I open my mouth, ready to tear into him, but he cuts me off. “See you at the wedding.” He turns, strolling out like he hadn't just pulled the craziest stunt on me, leaving me alone in the silent room.

I stand there, my rapid heartbeat the only thing that echoes through the silent room.

What the hell was that?