Page 7 of Sworn to the Enemy

Enzo

Why the hell did I kiss her?

It's the same question I've been mulling on since I left the Rossis’ villa two days ago.

Why the hell had I kissed her? At first, I'd done it to shut her up.

It wasn't because her lips had invited it.

And then, I'd been reeled in, and I couldn't, for the life of me, stop.

Easily, I'd say that kiss had been about control, but I know it's complete bullshit.

That kiss wasn’t about control. It was her —those green eyes blazing, her mouth fighting mine, the way she melted for one stupid second before slapping me.

And fuck, I felt it, the same fire from that night four years ago, when she was just a stranger in a bar, begging me to fuck her senseless.

I’d known her the second I saw her in that room, her face a ghost from a night I'd buried under lock and key. She definitely remembers too. I saw it in her eyes—the shock, the shame, the heat. Now she’s my enemy, my bride, and I’m losing my grip.

My reaction to it had simply caught me off guard. I should question it, but I don't.

Something else that had caught me off guard was her looks. I hadn't allowed myself to imagine that Domenico Rossi, as ugly as he is in deeds, would birth a stunning daughter. And Serafina sure is stunning.

But I can't allow a lapse in control anymore.

She's my enemy and will be treated as such. What happened was a moment that can never be allowed to happen again. But even at that, I can admit that night will be forever burned into my memory, and there's no forgetting it.

Now though, the manor is abuzz with servants hustling through the courtyard, setting up for this cursed wedding. Domenico had proposed to have the wedding in his villa, while the reception will be held here. I'd agreed because everything has to go according to plan.

White-clothed tables crowd the gravel, piled with roses and lilies, their sweet stench thick in the air. I stand in the study, whiskey glass in hand, staring out the arched window at the frenzy. My suit’s unbuttoned, tie loose, and I’m craving a fight, not a fucking bride.

My door creaks open and I don't bother to check who it is. I hear the sound as the person settles on the couch. “Ready to be the groomsman?” I say, expecting a biting retort from Matteo.

Instead, a female voice slices through. It's sharp and grating. I turn, eyeing her. Alanna . She’s sprawled on the leather couch, red dress clinging to her curves, legs crossed, lips pursed. “You’re really marrying her, Enzo?” she says, her words dripping coldness. “Some Rossi slut?”

“What the fuck are you doing in my study?” I demand.

She shrugs a shoulder sensuously, drawing fleeting attention to it. I return my gaze to her.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, coming in here unannounced? You must want to die.”

“You say that now, but it's another matter entirely when you want to fuck.”

I ignore her, returning my gaze to the window. She's not worth my time.

“So, it's true you're marrying her?”

I say nothing. She’s been in my bed plenty, always willing, but she’s nothing to me. Never was. “It’s business,” I say, voice flat, taking a sip of whiskey.

“Don’t make it more.” Her eyes narrow, and she stands, slinking over, hips swaying like she’s putting on a show. “Business?” she purrs, pressing close, hands sliding up my chest. “What about us?”

Alanna had always been sensible. It's a shame she let my sex-based attention for her get into her head. Now, she's just plain stupid. I grab her wrists, rough, and shove her back. “There’s no us ,” I snap, my voice cold. “You were a fuck, Alanna. That’s it.”

Her face twists viciously, but she doesn’t quit. She leans in, her lips brushing my jaw. Her perfume is cloying. It's sharp and cheap. “You don’t mean that,” she whispers, fingers tugging at my shirt, trying to pull me in.

Goddammit.

Scenarios like this is why I make sure to explain in details through the contracts they sign that the only thing I want from them for is a good fuck, some few good times, nothing more. Feelings and attachment had always been out of it.

I’m about to push her off when the door bangs open, and Serafina strides in.

Fucking hell.

She’s a vision, and it hits me hard in the groin. She's wearing a black dress that hugs her frame, hair dark curls swept back, striking green eyes blazing. I'd tasted that fire in the kiss we shared. My pants are suddenly too tight.

Her gaze lands on Alanna and then me. I see her lips curl, rage flashing across her face. “Keep your whores out of my sight,” she says, her voice cutting like a whip. “I know you're scum of the earth, but I won’t be humiliated.”

Alanna gasps at being called a whore, as if that's not what she is. I don’t correct Serafina.

Let her think what she wants—it’s more fun that way.

Her anger’s alive. I take in the way her cheeks are flushed, and fuck, it stirs that heat in me, the same pull that made me kiss her, the same pull that had drawn her to me that night.

I smirk, indolently leaning against the desk, glass in hand.

“Noted,” I say, voice smooth, watching her eyes flare hotter. “Out,” I say to Alanna, never taking my eyes off Serafina.

Alanna huffs, clearly annoyed at being told off in such a manner, but I don't give a damn. She storms out, her heels clicking loud. Serafina doesn’t budge as she holds my stare, her eyes burning through my skin.

But I see the flicker in her eyes, even though she tries to mask it.

Her body remembers mine, just like mine does.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” I ask, motioning for her to take a seat. She ignores it.

“I’m here to set terms for this wedding,” she says, crossing her arms. Her tone is businesslike. “And our marriage.” There’s a slight shake in her tone, like she’s fighting to stay composed.

I sip my whiskey, the burn grounding me.

She’s close now, close enough I catch her scent—jasmine.

It's crisp and heady. My blood hums, that attraction roaring back, tugging me toward her like a tide. I keep my face blank. “Terms?” I say, raising a brow, setting the glass down. “Sure. Let’s hear them.”

She steps closer, heels snapping on the hardwood, and pulls a folded paper from her purse. “First, the ceremony’s small. Family only. No press, no circus.”

I grunt, shaking my head. That's one term I can't agree with.

She eyes me warily. “What?”

“The wedding ceremony will be how you want it. But, the reception will be how I want it. I'm assuming you saw the preparations getting underway when you came in. That's the reception. I want all the fanfare attached to weddings.”

She makes a small sound in her throat, as if to oppose. I hold out my hand and she glares at me for trying to shut her up. I'm not fazed. Maybe I should kiss her again.

“I shouldn't be explaining this to you, Fina, but airing the event as far and wide as we can boosts morale. It shows that our families have put aside our differences and decided to come together as one.”

I grit my teeth as the words leave my mouth.

There's no putting aside our differences…

yet. For all I know, I could bow out of this whole hoax and it's back to prepping for war.

And we sure as hell aren't coming together as one.

I continue, “anyway, all I'm saying is we're going to have to come to a compromise because I won't agree to that term.”

Her nose flares, angry at being alluded to as a fool. She doesn't miss it. I'd more or less called her that, just not in clearer terms. She shifts on her feet. Her mouth works, but it produces no sound. I can bet she has a lot to say, but she's biting her tongue to hold the words in.

“Fine, but that's all I'm agreeing to.”

I nod. “Fair enough.”

She continues as if my input was only a minor inconvenience.

I almost smile. Raising her hackles could be a habit to get used to.

“Second, we play nice in public. No fights, no scandals. Third, you don’t touch me unless I allow it.

” Her eyes flick to my lips, and I know she’s replaying that kiss because for a moment, her eyes glaze over.

She's not just remembering that kiss. My cock twitches as the image of her screaming in ecstasy as I fuck her to a trembling mess over and over again assails me.

I mentally shake my head. I have to keep my head.

I stand, stepping into her space, our faces inches apart, meeting her gaze. “No need for rules,” I say, voice low. “I’m not playing husband, Fina. This is a deal, not a marriage.”

Her eyes flash. “Perfect,” she snaps. “Because I’d rather choke than be your wife.”

Oh, but there are other ways in which I can claim her.

Obviously, she'd hoped for a reaction because there's a small, indignant smile playing on her lips.

It doesn't sway me. I just watch her, the way her chest rises fast as if she's nervous and angry at the same time. That heat’s back, pulling at me, and I fight the urge to grab her, to taste that fire again.

She continues to hold my stare, unflinching. “The wedding’s in a week,” she says. “I want control over everything—venue, menu, vows. I’m not your prop.”

I nod, my amusement growing. “Fine. Pick your flowers, princess. Doesn’t change a thing.”

Her jaw clenches, and she shoves the paper at me. “Read it. Follow it. Or I’ll make your life hell.” Our fingers brush as I take it, and a spark shoots through me. It's raw and electric, pulling me back into that night.

Her eyes widen and her breath catches, like she felt it too. Without another word, she turns, heading for the door, her walk all steel and grace.

I watch her go, my mind stuck on her, on those eyes, that mouth, the way we're not halfway in yet, and she's already fighting me tooth and nail. This marriage is a trap, but damn, she makes it tempting. I down the rest of my whiskey, the burn doing nothing to cool the heat she’s left behind.

The study’s quiet now, just the tick of the clock on the wall, but my blood’s still humming.

I unfold her paper, scanning her neat handwriting, and chuckle.

Rules. Like she can control this. Control me.

She’s got no idea who she’s dealing with.

Or maybe she does. Only she doesn't know I'm a completely different man from the night four years ago, and this is a completely different situation.

Outside, the courtyard’s still a mess, servants shouting, crates of wine stacking up.

I step to the window, watching them, but my mind’s on her, on that kiss and the way she stood her ground.

I’ve never met a woman like her, all fire and ice, ready to raze me to the ground.

She's the woman I'd fucked all right. And even now knowing what she represents, I should put a leash on this thing I feel for her, but I can't seem to do it.

I can't even completely forget that night. It’s a problem, this pull she has on me.

I’m not here to want her or to feel anything. This is about power, about crushing the Rossis from the inside. I curl my fingers into a fist, as if in doing so, I’ll fight my overwhelming attraction to her.

I turn from the window, tossing the paper on the desk. Matteo’s probably out there, barking orders, making sure this wedding doesn’t fall apart. He’s the one who pushed this, him and Adriano, saying it’s a power move. I don't fault them. It's a genius move if I do say so myself.

The door creaks, and I tense, half-expecting Alanna to slink back, and gearing to tell her to get the fuck out, but it’s just a servant coming to drop off more papers—guest lists, menus, shit I don’t care about.

I wave him off, sinking into the chair behind the desk.

My gun’s there, holstered on the side, its weight a comfort.

I run a hand over my face, feeling the scar on my brow, a reminder of a knife fight years ago.

Serafina’s eyes had lingered on it, I’d bet, when I got close.

She’s sharp. She notices things. She can read me and that spells trouble.

It's dangerous.

I pour another whiskey, the bottle nearly empty, and lean back, staring at the ceiling. The study’s walls are lined with books, old leather tomes my father collected, their spines cracked from years of use. This room was his, where he planned wars, made deals.

Now it’s mine, and I’m stuck planning a wedding to a woman who’d rather kill me than kiss me or have anything to do with me again.

The thought makes me laugh. She’s a Rossi, but she’s not like them.

Not like Riccardo, that hot-headed fuck but still spineless, or Domenico, all cold calculation.

She’s something else, maybe a combination of both, but never spineless, and it’s throwing me off.

My phone buzzes. It's a text from Matteo: Everything’s on track. Don’t fuck this up.

I snort, tossing the phone down. He knows me too well, knows I’m itching to blow this whole thing apart, to hit the Rossis hard instead of playing groom. But he’s right. This is smarter, cleaner. I just didn’t expect her to be part of the equation, stirring shit I don’t want to feel.

I close my eyes, and there she is. I firmly put the image of her away. I'm doing this to get revenge. I shouldn't lose sight of my goal. Serafina is nothing but a steppingstone to my goal, and my sworn enemy.

She is my sworn enemy.

The clock ticks louder, marking time I don’t have. In a week, she’ll be my wife, and I’ll have to figure out how to keep this deal without losing my edge. Her rules are bullshit—she can’t cage me, and I won’t let her try.

But as I sit here, whiskey burning my throat, I know one thing: Serafina Rossi’s trouble, the kind that could burn me down if I’m not careful.

And fuck, part of me wants to let it. Just for the high.