Page 20 of Taken By the Enforcer
Afterward, I lean my forehead against the cool tile and breathe until my heart remembers a calmer beat. It isn’t enough. It never is when the wanting is a man and not a moment.
Clothes, then movement. A walk might unknot what the water didn’t.
I choose a soft dress that forgives the swell, sandals that won’t argue with stairs, a straw hat to shade what the sun has started to love too hard. The guard at the gatehouse nods without intruding as I slip down the stone steps that spill toward the sea. The path is fragrant with rosemary and thyme, the scent that makes recipes whisper in the back of my brain even though the chef sends up meals before I can think to ask. Gulls wheel. The horizon pulls and pulls until I give in and stop.
The sea is an animal breathing. It throws light like jewels in rough hands. Waves cuff the rocks and foam in lace that never repeats itself. Far below, the private dock rocks gently under the tethered kiss of a black Riva with chrome teeth.
Seven months. Two more until the world tilts on its axis and never tips back. My palm rides the rise and fall of my belly. “What do we do,piccola?” I ask the wind because it’s the only thing here that answers without words. “Do we marry your father because it’s easier and safer and something in me has started to want the thing I swore I wouldn’t? Or do we run again because freedom is a religion I don’t know how to stop worshipping?”
A lemon drops somewhere up the slope with a soft thud, as if the island itself throws its hands up. I laugh once—small, surprised, not unhappy.
One life sits behind me in a villa made of stone and power and a man who holds me like home and likepossession. Another life waits beyond the line where sky kisses water and boats vanish into possibility.
The past curls its fingers, the future cocks its head, and the present balances on my rib cage with the weight of a sleeping child.
For now, I stand between them and let the view take me. The choice can wait until the baby arrives, until my body is mine again or his again or something holy and complicated that belongs to all three of us. For now, the sun warms my shoulders, the sea answers in blue, and the island breathes with me as if we share lungs.
“Andiamo, amore,” I whisper to the tiny life inside. “Let’s walk.”
CHAPTER 7
Paolina
The villa is soquiet this time of morning I can hear the cicadas from the olive groves. I smooth the skirt of my maxi dress, tie a silk scarf around my hair, and make my way toward the pavilion where Nora scheduled today’s Pilates session.
The path to the pavilion winds through the colonnade, sun spilling in golden shafts between arches of pale stone. The island is impossibly beautiful—bougainvillea trailing in fuchsia curtains, lemon trees heavy with fruit, the sea glittering far below like shards of sapphire. It’s tranquil in a way I never imagined life could be.
I slow when I see Alberto, the gardener, crouchedamong the roses. His hands stained with soil, his straw hat tilted to keep off the sun. He glances up, face creased with a smile and offers me a small basket. Inside, peaches glow, warm from the vine.
“For you, signorina,” he says softly.
“Thank you.” I press a hand to my belly. “She thanks you, too.”
He chuckles, tapping his heart. “Always the best for you.” He gestures toward the bouquet waiting on the low stone wall—gardenias and lilies, tied neatly with twine. “For your rooms.”
I take the flowers, inhaling their sweetness. His careful arrangements, fresh blossoms always brighten my suite in every vase. It almost feels like home. Almost.
“I’ll put everything inside for you, signorina.”
“Thank you, Alberto.” I smile kindly and wave.
Walking on, I can’t deny the truth. If not for the kidnapping and being held in gilded captivity, this island would be paradise. A place to breathe. A place to raise a child in beauty and safety.
But the knowledge that he stole me here hovers like an ominous cloud. No matter how soft the sheets or how sweet the fruit, I can’t forget.
Halfway down the colonnade, I pause.
Donatello.
He doesn’t see me, and I don’t dare call his name. He’s on the patio, shirtless, wearing nothing but black gym shorts that hang low on his hips. Muscles ripple downhis chest and arms as he lifts heavy free weights in the raw Sicilian sun. Sweat runs in rivulets, tracing over olive skin pulled tight over every hard line of him.
Most men with his money prefer air-conditioned gyms, sleek chrome machines, personal trainers who coddle them. Not Donatello Romano. He takes the punishment head-on. Iron. Stone. Sweat. He is all man, forged in the heat of this land, every rep another reminder he’s a La Cosa Nostra enforcer built for violence.
And yet—when his hands touch me, when his voice drops low in the dark—he is gentle.
My thighs press together before I can stop them. Pregnancy hormones, I scold myself, heat climbing through my chest. Everything is sharper now—every glance, every brush of his body against mine at night when he holds me. Desire blooms quicker, harder.Madonna, it’s embarrassing.
Confusion tangles with the want. How can I ache for the same man who kidnapped me? Who tore me from my life, from my mother, from every choice I thought I had?