Page 15 of Taken By the Enforcer

The men grunt, already devouring. My smile fades before I turn. My back aches from the long shift, but the five months double the ache growing inside me. The uniform does little to hide the swell of my belly now. Some customers give me the soft looks reserved for mothers. Others give me the sharper looks meant for scandal.

I learned not to care.

The baby shifts. A flutter against my ribs, gentle and insistent. My hand presses low to calm us both.

Donatello’s baby.

Heat creeps into my cheeks at the thought of him, uninvited, but always there. It should be shame. But it’s not. It’s the way my body still remembers his weight, his mouth, his voice saying my name like a vow.

I don’t let myself linger. My survival depends on moving forward, not drowning in what already claimed me.

Still, sometimes my mind betrays me. It slips back to that day in the hotel lobby—only hours after I’d run from his bed.

My heart still thundered from leaving the veil, the note, and the man.

The hotel lobby’s marble glistened. I remember freezing at the sight of him near the elevators, jaw shadowed, shirt fresh, eyes scanning the crowd. He was there. Hunting. For me.

“Paolina, come.”

Instinct took over. I bolted.

I ducked behind a German tour group, slipped out the side entrance, cut through alleys I knew from childhood like veins. I never looked back. Not until the bus roared toward Palermo, and I dared to glance through the dirty window, heart hammering, waiting for his obsidian eyes to find me.

They didn’t.

I bought a new passport and a new name from a man who didn’t blink at cash thick enough to choke a horse. Money gets you anything, especially in Sicily if you know which shadows to knock on.

From Palermo, a flight to Paris. From Paris to five months later, I’mMaria Rossi, waitress, American transplant with a questionable accent and swollen belly.

I think of Mamma, and how she’d fuss over me and the baby. The thought twists something sharp in my chest.

The night I left Sicily, I bought a burner phone with cash from Donatello’s duffel. Just one message. Just enough.

I’m safe. I love you. But I’m not coming back. I can’t marry Aldo. I won’t face Papà’s anger. Don’t look for me.

I deleted it after I hit send, tossed the phone out the window as the bus pulled away.

I imagine her reading it in the kitchen, maybe clutching the counter for balance, maybe weeping in silence so Papà doesn’t hear. The guilt claws at me. But the alternative—going back to Aldo or facing Papà’s fury—would have been worse.

Better a daughter gone than a daughter broken.

I wipe down the counter, forcing myself back into the present.

The shift ends after dark. The manager barely nods as I hang my apron on the hook, trading the smell of grease for the stale cold air of the street. My sneakers slap against pavement wet with melted snow. Neon signs buzz, taxis honk, and I clutch my worn coat tighter around my middle as I climb three flights of stairs to my studio.

It isn’t much. A single room that smells faintly of mildew no matter how many lavender-scented candles I burn. A rickety bed. Used hot plate. A cracked window. But it’s mine. Mine and my baby’s.

The door clicks shut behind me. I lock both deadbolts out of habit, drop my bag, and rub my swollen feet.

Then the light snaps on.

A scream rips out of me. My heart slams against my ribs.

He sits in the chair by the window, legs spread, handsclasped loosely, like a king on a throne he didn’t even need to build. His presence swallows the room whole.

“W—What are you doing here?” My voice breaks into staccato. “How did you find me?”

Donatello scoffs, rising to his full, terrifying height. “La bestia alla tua bellezza.The beast to your beauty.”