Page 28 of Taken By the Enforcer

He takes my hand and strides towards the stairs.

In the suite, he strips off his suit without hesitation. The jacket slides from his broad shoulders and lands neatly over a chair. He works at the buttons of his shirt, revealing olive skin stretched over thick muscle, his chest a wall of strength carved by years of discipline, not vanity. The play of lamplight catches the hard ridges of his abs, the tattoos on his arms shifting with every movement.

Heat coils low in me as he steps out of his pants, leaving him in a pair of fitted briefs for a moment before pulling on black joggers and a long-sleeve tee. Even dressed down, he looks lethal, impossibly male. He isn’t the man you see in glossy magazines, pampered and coiffed. He is power forged in the streets, in blood, in sweat—and God help me, my body responds to every inch.

He glances over his shoulder as he pushes up the sleeves to reveal his muscular forearms, voice calm. “Tell me about your day.”

The question startles me. Not a command, not a demand. Just him… wanting to know.

“I had yoga,” I manage, forcing my eyes up from the way his shirt stretches across his back. “Swam a little. Read outside.”

“Not too much?” His tone sharpens slightly, protective. “The doctor said your blood pressure was climbing. You’re not to overdo it.”

I swallow, warmth flickering in my chest at his attention. Aldo never noticed me. My father never listened. But Donatello—he sees everything.

“It wasn’t too much.” I respond. “I promise.”

“Bene.” He pulls the joggers low on his hips, then strides closer, eyes locked on me. “I want you rested. Fed. Strong. You and our daughter both.”

I swallow against the lump in my throat. No one has ever spoken about me like that—like my wellbeing matters. Like I matter.

“Donatello…” My voice wavers. “Thank you. For caring.”

Something shifts in his eyes, softer, deeper. He brushes a knuckle over my cheekbone, slow, tender. “Of course I care,bella mia.You’re mine.”

God help me. This man is going to break down my defenses.

“Now, how shall we spend our day?”

A chunk crumbles.

“A cruise,” Donatello says, answering himself when I can’t find words. “The yacht is ready. Come.”

The gleaming vessel waits at the private dock, allwhite lines and chrome against the sapphire-blue sea. A staff of three bows as we board, quiet and efficient. I should remember that I’m not free, that this is gilded captivity—but the salty air and sunlight stroking my skin make it hard to think of anything except how alive I feel.

We set out, engines humming, the coastline shrinking behind us until there’s nothing but water in every direction. Donatello gives me a tour and then stops in the main cabin.

“Swim?” he suggests. “Bikinis are in your closet here.”

I follow him, not sure I want to wear a bikini. Even without my big belly, I would never dare wear a skimpy swimsuit. Donatello lifts a handful of barely there pieces from a drawer. I linger in the doorway.

He cocks his head at my hesitation.

“Bella mia, your body is a lush playground. Never feel any way but sexy around me. I adore every one of your curves.” His gaze skims my body, pausing at my full breasts. His throat works. “My favorite—your tempting tits.”

I gasp. He chuckles.

“Change and we swim.”

On deck, the Sicilian sun paints every one of his muscles in a golden sheen. My mouth goes dry. He glances at me, a smirk tugging at his lips, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

I nod, trying to keep my face composed even as heat slides low in my belly. He helps me down the sternladder and then dives cleanly, cutting through the water like a predator. His head pops up, and he raises his arms for me.

The Med is cool, shocking against my overheated skin. I laugh—really laugh—as I float on my back with the sun warming my face. Donatello surfaces near me, slick hair pushed back, eyes dark with hunger and something softer.

“Careful,” he says. “Don’t drift too far.”

“I can swim,” I protest, kicking away just to tease.