Page 22 of Taken By the Enforcer
His arms are solid around me, steady as stone, and I can’t stop the little sigh that slips out. For a moment I let myself melt into him, cheek against his chest, breathing in the clean scent of soap still clinging to his skin.
Aldo could never have carried me like this. Not my full, voluptuous body. He would’ve mocked me, set me down halfway across the room with some cutting remark about my curves. Donatello doesn’t even flinch. He carries me from the courtyard all the way through the villa as if I weigh nothing, as if holding me is the most natural thing in the world.
If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend this is normal.That I’m not a prisoner. That I’m just a woman being carried to bed by the man she loves.
And it feels… good. Too good.
Once inside the suite, Donatello sets me gently on my feet. His hands linger on my hips, large and firm, anchoring me in place. He stares down at me with an expression I can’t read—dark, intent, unreadable, as though a hundred thoughts war behind those obsidian eyes.
Then his fingers curl in the fabric of my dress, bunching it at my thighs, dragging it higher. My breath catches, heat flaring through me. He lifts it over my head in one smooth pull, leaving me bare in the lamplight's glow. My heart hammers. For one wild moment I think—no, Iknow—he’s about to fuck me, finally, and my body aches with the want of it.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he turns away, pulls the bedding back, and guides me down with unexpected gentleness. He helps me into the cool sheets, tucking the covers around me with the same care a man might use with glass. A hand smooths over my hair before he takes the chair in the corner, broad shoulders bent, eyes fixed on me. Watching. Guarding. Always protecting. Always there.
Disappointment burns low in my belly, shameful and sharp. I wanted him. God help me, I still want him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and chide myself. He kidnapped me. I shouldn’t crave his touch, his heat, hisweight pinning me down. Especially when I don’t know if I want to run from him—or to him.
But as the mattress cradles me and his shadow lingers at the bedside, I can’t stop the thought from whispering through me.
Maybe it would be easier if he had.
CHAPTER 8
Donatello
The sun hasn’t burnedoff the mist yet when I button my shirt and shrug on my jacket. The air still tastes of night, cool and damp with salt. Beyond the grove, the helicopter waits, blades slack for now.
She’s already awake when I step into our suite’s sitting room, bringing my watch to my wrist. Paolina sits near the balcony, hair loose over her shoulders, a silk nightgown covering her belly. Seven months pregnant, glowing with a softness that makes my chest ache. She doesn’t even know what she does to me.
“How long will you be gone?” she asks quietly.
“A few days.”
Her lips press together, eyes lowering to the swell of her belly. “I’ll manage.”
“You will,” I say as my thumb brushes her gorgeous face. “Nora will stay close. The doctor is on call. Security is the same. Swim only when the flags are green. Eat more in the morning. Rest after dinner. And text me when you want me. I’ll answer.”
“Bossing me from the sky now?”
“Yes. And because I want to kiss you before I go.”
She tastes of heaven and home. I hold back a hungry groan as she melts into me.
“Let me walk you,” she sighs as though the kiss means as much to her as it does to me.
I clasp her hand, never wanting to let it go.
As has become habit, we stop on the path to the helipad. I glance around, scanning for any threat, although none can reach her here. I turn to go, but her hand—small, warm—touches my arm. Light. Barely there. Enough to stop me cold.
“Be careful,” she whispers.
The words detonate inside me. Concern. For me. Not fear. Not anger. Concern.
It shouldn’t mean this much. I’ve been stabbed, shot, burned. I’ve had men pray for my death, beg for my mercy, curse my name. But never this—never a woman’s soft voice asking me to take care because she wants me to come back.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t have a name for.