Page 29 of Taken By the Enforcer

His hand shoots out, circling my wrist. “Bella mia, you’re carrying my world. You don’t leave my sight.”

My chest flutters in ways I don’t want to name.

When we climb back aboard, towels and chilled lemonade are waiting. I sink onto a sunbed, the plush cushion cradling me, while Donatello drops beside me with casual grace. The baby shifts under my palm, rolling, and I whisper nonsense to her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching, reverent, silent.

Lunch comes—fresh grilled fish, olives glistening with oil, tomatoes so sweet they taste like candy. We eat under the canopy. The sea spread endlessly around us.

“You’re quiet,” Donatello observes, spearing a piece of fruit with his fork.

“I’m… enjoying myself,” I admit, startled by the truth.

His mouth curves, slow and satisfied. “Good.”

Later, I stretch out on the sunbed again, silk cover-up brushing my skin. Donatello lies beside me, one arm folded under his head, the other reaching across thesmall distance to rest warm against my thigh. We speak little—just fragments. He asks about the book I was reading. I ask about his brothers carefully, curiously. He gives me pieces, not the whole.

It feels… normal. Too normal.

The sea rocks the yacht gently. The air smells of salt and citrus from the drinks the steward brings. My eyes grow heavy.

God help me,I think as I drift.I’m happy. I shouldn’t be, but I am.

When I wake, Donatello is still beside me, watching the horizon as if he could command it to bow. His hand hasn’t left my thigh. He turns his head slowly, catching my gaze.

“See? A good day.”

I nod, throat tight, unable to answer. Because he’s right. And every good day with him is another crack in my resolve.

Later, in bed, he pulls me against him as always. But tonight, I don’t fall straight to sleep. My body hums with restless wanting. His arm drapes heavy over my belly, anchoring me. And lower, I feel him—hard, insistent, restrained. He never moves beyond holding me. But the restraint tonight feels like its own kind of torment.

My thighs clench. My breath stutters. I whisper before I can stop myself: “Donatello…”

He goes still.

I turn in his arms, meeting obsidian eyes that catch the moonlight. The heat in them sears me.

“You want me,” he says gruffly. Not a question. A certainty.

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Please.”

He cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek. “I swore I’d wait until you were ready. Tell me you are.”

I nod. Tears sting, but they’re born of wanting, not fear. “I’m ready.”

The groan that leaves him is guttural, torn from a place deeper than control. His mouth claims mine, fierce and reverent all at once. Gone is the ruthless enforcer who took my virginity with fire and force.

Tonight, he kisses me like a man starved, like a man given bread at last.

His hands map me slowly, reverently, as if he’s memorizing each curve. The swell of my breasts heavy with milk, the roundness of my belly, the softness of thighs that ache for him. He whispersbellissima, mia regina, la mia vitabetween kisses, words that brand more deeply than his touch.

He sits up. Surprised, my eyes open to find him murmuring into his mobile. He ends the call and rises from the bed, hand extended towards me.

“Bella mia, come.”

I don’t hesitate.

Donatello takes my hand, not forcing, not commanding—just holding. We take our time as he leads me to the upper deck. The night air is warm, fragrant with sea air. Lanterns flicker along the railing, soft poolsof golden light swaying in the breeze. Beyond them, the sea murmurs, endless and steady, as if it knows the rhythm of us before we do. A crew member created a low bed made with silk pillows and draped in a canopy of gauze that stirs like ghostly veils in the salt-sweet wind.

I stop short, breath catching. It looks like something from a dream. Too beautiful for someone like me to belong in. Too tender for the man I thought could only ever take.