Page 31 of Taken By the Enforcer

Paolina

The waves are still rockingin my body when I wake the next morning. My dreams carry the scent of salt and citrus, the taste of grilled fish, the feel of Donatello’s palm heavy and protective against my thigh as we lay side by side on the yacht.

Now back in the villa, the memory is too sweet. Too dangerous.

Am I sure this is what I want? Or were my hormones talking for me?

I rise slowly, hand bracing against the small of my back. My belly has become its own horizon, a perfect curve stretching taut beneaththe silk of my nightgown. Eight and a half months. The baby is restless, twisting and rolling as if she can’t wait to make her debut.

I pad to the balcony and push open the doors. The sea sprawls below, endless, blue as glass. Morning sunlight warms my face. For a moment, I let myself breathe in the beauty, pretend it’s mine by choice.

“Too early to be standing so long.”

His voice startles me. Donatello leans in the doorway, already dressed in black joggers and a fitted long-sleeve tee. Damp hair clings to his temples from his shower. He looks freshly carved, freshly dangerous.

“I’m fine,” I murmur, though my back aches, my ankles swollen from yesterday’s indulgence on the yacht.

He crosses the room, his shadow falling over me, then his hand—broad, warm—spreads across my belly. The baby kicks beneath his palm. His expression shifts, softening into something I almost can’t look at.

“She’s strong,” he says quietly. “Like her mother.”

Heat pricks my eyes. I look away, pretending to study the sea. “Don’t flatter me. I’ve done nothing but lie around like a spoiled queen.”

“You’re carrying my child,” he counters, tone sharp but reverent. “There is no greater strength.”

The words hit me harder than they should. Aldo would have called me lazy. My father would have scolded me for weakness. Donatello praises me. It disarms me in ways bullets never could.

Later that morning, the nurse fusses over me with her blood pressure cuff, the doctor notes the baby’s heartbeat,and the chef sends up papaya with honey and toast cut in perfect triangles. My life here runs on a rhythm orchestrated by Donatello—structured, controlled, safe.

After the appointments, I wander the courtyard, maxi dress brushing my ankles. Alberto’s assistant waters the bougainvillea, the air fragrant with blossoms. A guard trails discreetly behind, far enough to give the illusion of freedom.

My thoughts try to sway me.If not for the kidnapping… if not for the violence that brought me here… this could be paradise.

I press a hand to my belly, whispering to my daughter, “What will we do,piccola? Will we stay in this golden cage? Or will we run when the chance comes?”

By noon, Donatello finds me in the library curled in a velvet chair. He fills the doorway like a shadow, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Come,” he says. “Eat with me.”

I follow him down to the terrace, where lunch waits—grilled chicken, fresh salad, fruit chilled on ice.

He pulls out my chair, an old-world courtesy that unsettles me as much as it charms me.

We eat together, silence threaded with the clink of silverware. His gaze flicks to my plate, checking that I eat enough. I bristle, but the attention warms part of me.

When I push my fork aside, full, he asks, “Tired?”

“A little.”

His jaw softens. “Rest after. The heat is stronger now. I don’t want you fainting.”

I snort softly. “You sound like the doctor.”

“I sound like a man who won’t see his woman collapse in front of him.” His eyes pin mine, dark and steady. “Do not mistake care for control,bella mia. They are different.”

I look away, because if I don’t, I’ll fall deeper into something I no longer want to escape.

The afternoon drifts in quiet—reading, napping, the baby kicking strong against my ribs. When I wake near dusk, Donatello is sitting at the desk, gun parts spread neatly before him, hands moving with precise care. For a moment, I just watch. The way he balances brutality with gentleness when he turns to check if I’m awake.