Page 21 of Taken By the Enforcer

I wish I had a friend to talk to. Someone who could tell me if it’s normal to feel this—anger and longing tangled so tightly they choke me.

A snort escapes me. A friend. Cara used to be that. And look how that turned out—my so-called best friend spread beneath Aldo’s body in the confessional while I stood outside like a fool.

“Signorina?”

A polite cough startles me. I turn to find my Pilates instructor waiting by the studio doors, towel slung over her arm. Her smile is professional, but her eyes—oh, her eyes—slide past me, flare hot, then linger on Donatello’s glistening back.

Something ugly twists inside me. Jealousy. Possessiveness.

“He’s busy,” I say, voice sharp as glass. “Shall we? Or do you have other plans?”

Color rises in her cheeks as she stammers, “Of course… I mean no, signorina.”

I lift my chin, holding my head high like a queen, and sweep past her into the studio, pretending the jealousy didn’t rattle me to my core. Once in the changing room, I sag against the wall, covering my eyes with a hand.Get it together, Paolina.

I let the mixed emotions shed from my mind as I take off my dress and pull on leggings and a matching sports bra. With a nod to my reflection in the mirror, I head to the Cadillac.

The instructor is overly polite and attentive. Good. I do not regret my snarky response.

After the session, my muscles hum pleasantly. I shower in the spa, scrubbing away sweat and frustration, then slip into my dress. It stretches comfortably over my belly, soft against my skin.

I’m stepping into the corridor when a door opens across the way.

Donatello emerges from the men’s changing room, hair damp, droplets running down his temple. His handsome face flushed from exertion, olive skin warm with color. When his gaze finds me, it’s like the rest of the hall disappears.

“Would you like breakfast?” His voice is low, certain.

I blink, caught off guard. “Yes.”

He extends his hand. I hesitate only a second before placing mine in his. His palm is warm, and his grip steady. He raises his phone, calling the chef. “Whatever she wants,” he orders. Then, looking at me, he asks, “What will it be,bella mia?”

“Um…” I clear my throat. “Fruit. Eggs. Toast.”

He nods once. “You’ll have it.”

We walk together to the courtyard, sunlight dappling the stones. He asks, “How was your session?”

“Good,” I say, then flush. “Not as… intense as your workout.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize I’ve betrayed myself—I was watching him. His chuckle is low, rich.

He squeezes my hand. “I’m glad you noticed.”

My heart flutters.

The chef’s staff delivers plates, steam curling from eggs, fruit sliced into gleaming jewels. We eat slowly, talking in low voices about nothing and everything—how the sea looked this morning, how strong the baby’s kicks have become, how he prefers black coffee to espresso.

When we’re finished, I lean against the pillows in the shaded corner of the courtyard. The sun is warm, the fountain trickles, and for a moment it feels… normal. Breakfast with a man. Talking. Smiling.

Except I’m not free. I’ve been kidnapped. Forced to stay. The contradiction coils tight inside me, a knot I can’t untangle. And no one to talk to.

We slip into a comfortable silence. Bees buzz, flitting from one fragrant flower to the next. A koi splashes its tail in the fountain. Waves slap against the cliffs. Serenity.

Sleep pulls at me before I realize I’ve drifted sideways.

When I wake, it’s to the sensation of being lifted. Donatello’s arms cradle me against his chest. I blink up at him, groggy.

“Rest,” he murmurs.