Chapter 19 – Enya
The streets of SoHo are alive with a kind of laid-back and expensive calm that only New York can pull off. It's the middle of the day and already some influencer types are crowding outside a new café, the kind that looks like it sells overpriced coffee with a splash of oat milk.
I’m walking beside Sienna, our arms loosely linked, matcha lattes in hand and hearts not quite settled. She’s in a cropped trench coat and gold hoops big enough to signal traffic, and I swear, she turns heads like she’s on a billboard no one asked for but everyone needed.
“You look like you just rolled out of a mafia spa,” she says, eyeing my all-black outfit, vintage sunglasses, and the long boots I found buried in a secondhand shop last fall.
“Criminally good taste,” I say, sipping my drink. “Must be all the exposure to actual criminals.”
She cackles. “Elite mob nanny vibes. Ten out of ten.”
We pass a shop window with an art deco display of tiny designer purses, none of which look like they could even hold a pair of keys, and I feel a strange bubble of laughter swell in my throat. But it fades fast. Like everything lately.
I swallow and say it. “I ended things with Kai.”
Sienna doesn’t stop walking, but her steps slow. “You tell him why?”
I shake my head. “No. I just…couldn’t.”
She glances over. “Because you still care?”
“No,” I say, and mean it. “Because I don’t know how much of what we had was ever real. And because part of me didn’t want to see his face if he already knew the truth.”
We reach the café—newly opened, of course, the name stenciled in minimalist gold. /LYRIC/ These places multiply like rabbits in this city. It’s impossible to keep up.
Inside, it smells like roasted cinnamon and ambition. Smooth jazz plays from some hidden speaker. The barista has a nose ring and intricate tattoos that intrigue me. We pick a table in the back, half-hidden by a column, near the window.
When we sit, Sienna reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re not crazy, En. You’re just in the middle of a storm. And you’re still standing.”
I smile. And for the first time all day, it feels real.
She pauses, stirring her drink like it’s tea leaves that might predict disaster. “Have you talked to your mom lately?”
A surprised laugh bursts from me. “Wow, random.”
“Humor me.”
“No,” I admit. “She’s busy playing ride-or-die for husband number three. Still thinks I work for a fancy hotel downtown.”
Sienna lifts a brow. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.”
“Not when I want to be.”
“And yet Cyril figured you out in, like, two days.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s useless. The blush creeps up before I can smother it.
“Don’t start,” I warn, but the smile tugging at my lips gives me away.
Sienna leans in, eyes glinting like a cat who’s found something shiny to bat around. “Oh, my God. What happened? Wait…don’t tell me. Did something happen?”
My face heats. “Define something.”
“Define…En!” she practically yelps, drawing a glance from a nearby couple. “Don’t play coy with me. I know that look. That’s the post-sin glow.”
I sink lower in my chair and sip my matcha like it can shield me from further questioning. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, it’s exactly like that. Spill.”
I shake my head, grinning like an idiot despite myself. “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always with mafia men?”
“What do you know about mafia men?” I ask her with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, please. I’ve read enough books.”
I laugh, and this one feels full-bodied. Real. God, I missed this. Missed her. The banter, the way she knows how to pull me out of myself. It’s been so long since I sat across from her like this, free from all the fear and the constant feeling of being one wrong step away from shattering.
Just hours ago, getting out of that house felt like a covert op.
I stood at the foot of the stairs, coat draped over my arm, purse slung across my body. Cyril leaned against the doorway to the study, arms crossed, mannerism already set to Don’t piss me off.
“You’re going where again?”
“It’s just a coffee,” I said, adjusting the strap of my purse. “With Sienna. In daylight. With civilians present.”
“Civilians,” he muttered, like the word tasted foreign. “And you couldn’t just bring her here?”
“Because some people like to leave their fortress of murder and secrets once in a while.”
He raised a brow. “Watch it.”
I shrugged. “Just saying. The outside world has cafes. Windows. People who don’t carry semi-automatics under their jackets.”
He sighed, then gave me that look, the one he uses when he’s deciding whether to strangle me or kiss me.
“I’m sending Gael to tail you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course you are.”
“And don’t wander. No alleyway detours. No subway. You Uber, or I drive you myself.”
“Cyril—”
He pushed off the doorframe, walked right up to me, and murmured, “Don’t test me. Not today.”
His voice was gravel and promise, and I hate how my knees almost buckled at the sound.
“Fine,” I muttered, turning toward the door.
But just before I crossed the threshold, he stepped in again, catching me off guard.
His lips brushed my cheek.
Quick. Barely there. But enough to stop time.
My breath caught.
He didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked back inside like he hadn’t just scrambled every functioning nerve in my body.
“So, let me get this straight,” Sienna says, breaking me out of the memory. “He’s brooding, possessive, kisses you in secret, and employs a sniper-grade babysitter to tail you across SoHo.”
“Basically.”
She makes a long, dramatic exhale. “You’re living in a romance novel, En.”
“More like a crime thriller with occasional make-out breaks.”
She grins. “You into him?”
I pause, then nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”
She watches me for a long beat, and then her face turns almost melancholic. “You know you deserve real love, right? Not just intense…protective. But the real deal.”
“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
She squeezes my hand again. “Then start with what feels real. And build from there.”
I nod, eyes stinging for no good reason.
We talk for another hour. About everything and nothing. She tells me about her coworker who keeps mixing up Monet and Manet. I tell her about Ren’s new obsession with dinosaurs in suits—don’t ask—and how he made me promise to bring him back a dinosaur cupcake.
“I swear to God, En,” she says between bites of her croissant. “You’re like…a full-time nanny, part-time hostage, and part-time boss’s girlfriend. You need a raise.”
I laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
When we finally leave the café, the city feels a little softer. The sky’s gone pale gray, and I tug my coat tighter.
“You okay going back?” Sienna asks as we linger outside the subway entrance.
I nod. “Yeah. I think I’m ready.”
“Call me if you need a rescue. I’ll show up with snacks and sarcasm.”
“Perfect combo.”
She hugs me tight, then disappears into the crowd like she was never even there.
By the time I return to the Carfano estate, the clouds have finally broken, letting sunlight spill through.
The black car Cyril insisted on sending for me slows to a stop at the edge of the circular drive. The gates creak open, and the familiar stone facade of the house looms ahead, all elegant menace and empty walls. I never thought I’d get used to seeing this place and not flinching, but today, it feels…quieter.
Maybe it’s me that’s changed.
Inside, the house is still. Sunlight spills through the tall windows across the marble floors, catching the edges of gold fixtures and casting soft reflections. I close the front door behind me gently.
And then I hear him.
Tiny footsteps.
“Eny!”
Ren.
I barely have time to brace myself before he barrels into me, arms flinging around my waist like he’s anchoring me to the earth.
“You came back!” he says, face pressed into my coat. “I waited.”
I laugh, heart cracking open a little wider. “It’s my day off, remember?”
“I know,” he says seriously. “But I waited anyway.”
From the base of the stairs, a deeper voice cuts through the warmth.
“You don’t owe us hours you didn’t agree to.”
I glance up.
Cyril’s leaning against the railing, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, and eyes piercing through my soul. He looks like he’s been standing there a while. Watching.
Waiting.
His hair’s tousled like he’s been running his hand through it all afternoon, and there’s worry on his face.
Like he wasn’t sure I’d come back.
I smooth Ren’s curls and meet Cyril’s gaze.
“I’m not here for hours,” I say gently. “I’m here for him.”
Ren tugs my hand with that boundless energy only four-year-olds seem to have.
“Will you read with me?” he asks, eyes wide. “Just for nap time?”
I glance back at Cyril. He doesn’t say anything. Only watches.
I soften. Without realizing it, I nod.
“Okay,” I say to Ren. “Just one story.”
The nursery smells like warm linen and vanilla-scented soap. The afternoon light filters through gauzy curtains, casting the room in soft gold.
Ren is already curled into my side with his lion toy under one arm and his thumb not quite in his mouth, pretending like he’s too old for that now.
I pick up his worn copy of Matilda, flipping past the pages with crayon marks and smudged fingerprints until I find where we left off.
He nestles closer, his little body warm and heavy, a grounding comfort in a world that’s been anything but.
By the end of the chapter, he’s breathing slow and deep, completely asleep.
I close the book quietly and look up.
Cyril is standing in the doorway.
His arms are still crossed, but his stance has changed. He’s not looming or guarded. He’s just…there. Watching. Taking it in like this is a rare and sacred occurrence.
“You’re good with him,” he says slowly.
“He’s easy to love,” I whisper back.
An undeniable energy shifts between us as we both gaze at Ren.
“Do you want a drink?” Cyril asks suddenly. “I could use one.”
I hesitate, glancing down at Ren’s sleeping face. But the truth is…I don’t want to go back to my room. Being alone with my thoughts is the last thing I want.
So, I nod.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I could, too.”
We sit on the terrace behind the estate, just as the sky starts to dim. A chilled bottle of white wine rests between us, beads of condensation sliding down the glass.
The stone beneath my chair is still warm from the sun, but it’s cooler now. I pull my cardigan tighter around my shoulders. I shouldn’t be wearing a dress in this weather, even with a shirt underneath.
Cyril pours the wine and hands me a glass, our fingers brushing in a fleeting touch that’s gone too soon.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I tease, sipping.
“I’m not,” he says simply, leaning back in his chair. “I just…didn’t want to be alone right now.”
I glance at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice.
“Everything okay?”
“It will be,” he replies.
We drink in the tranquility for a few minutes, the kind that feels more like a conversation than a pause. The breeze stirs the edges of my dress. A pigeon comes and sits on the balcony railing, oblivious to this world’s cruelty.
“You can go, you know,” I say finally. “If you have things to handle.”
“I don’t want to go.”
I blink.
His tone is even and unapologetic. Not laced with charm, just honesty.
I look at him, my eyes gaze resting on his face and I feel the sudden heat rising in my cheeks, going down to my stomach.
He sets his glass down, not taking his eyes off me, and I follow without thinking, fingers slipping from the cool stem.
He doesn’t move. He just looks at me.
His eyes aren’t distant tonight. They’re asking.
Slowly, he leans forward. No rush or pressure. But I can sense that he’s giving me space to move away. Like always.
And like always, I don’t.
Our lips meet softly, hesitant at first. Like we’re afraid we’ll break it.
But then he kisses me again. Deeper and hungrier like he’s been starved for years. And I kiss him back like I’ve wanted to since the other night in the kitchen.
My hand finds his chin, fingers tracing the edge of his stubble. His hand slides under my cardigan, over the curve of my waist, slowly caressing my breasts from over the bra. Even though I’m wearing a bra, my nipples perk up at his touch.
I gasp against his mouth, glancing instinctively toward the house.
“We’re outside,” I whisper. “Anyone can see.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes hooded and eager.
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmurs as he slides his hand under my bra, pinching my nipple until it aches.
I don’t.
I can’t.
“Do you want this, Enya?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Are you sure you can handle this? Handle me?”
Like his hands touching me weren’t enough, he grabs my hips and pulls me closer so I can feel his hardened cock from under his trousers. I let out a small gasp, overtaken by desire.
“Yes,” I say with finality.
The night air bites against my skin, but it’s not the crisp wind that makes me tremble—it’s him. He takes off my cardigan in a swift motion.
“Take off your dress,” he commands, backing away to give me enough space to obey him.
I don’t break our eye contact and slowly start stripping myself in front of him. I slide down both straps of my maxi dress, and it comes down.
My dress lies in a crumpled heap under my feet. I step out of it, and I’m left wearing my white t-shirt and underwear. I take off my t-shirt and bite my lips. Now, I’m left in nothing but a black lace bra, a thong, and the boots I was wearing. The city sparkles beneath us, oblivious to the depravity about to unfold just stories above.
This is reckless. It’s obscene. It’s so unlike me.
And I’ve never felt more alive.
Cyril is all shadows and sharpness as he leans against the railing, watching me with a gaze so heated it scalds. His suit jacket is gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the hunger in his eyes threatens to devour me whole.
I lick my lips, heart pounding, nipples pebbling against the lace from a mix of cool breeze and blistering want.
“Bra,” he growls, voice low and commanding, “off.”
The straps slide down my arms, and the lace flutters to the ground.
His eyes rake over me, sinful and possessive, like he’s already fucking me with his stare. My thighs clench involuntarily.
I reach for my thong, but his voice cracks like a whip. “No. That stays on.” He prowls forward, like a panther scenting blood. “Keep the boots. I want to see how filthy you look in just those when you come all over me.”
God.
My mouth goes dry. My pussy, soaked.
He stops inches from me, fingertips trailing down my arms, over my ribs. He cups one bare breast and groans.
“Look at you.” His thumb flicks my nipple until I gasp. “Trembling for me. On a fucking balcony. Where anyone could see.”
“Cyril—”
“You love this,” he cuts in, voice gravel and steel. “Playing the innocent little nanny while you let the boss bend you over in the open. You’re dripping through your thong, Enya.”
His hand dips between my thighs, presses against the lace. My hips jerk forward on instinct.
“Such a dirty girl,” he murmurs, rubbing lazy, torturous circles over my clit. “Soaked for me, and we’ve barely started.”
I whimper, clinging to his shoulders.
“What do you want?” he demands, voice rough.
I hesitate.
“What do you want, Enya?” he repeats.
“You.”
“What part of me, Enya?” he asks, squeezing my breast.
“Your mouth. Your cock. Anything.”
“Anything?” His grin is wicked. “Then turn around and bend over the railing.”
A thrill shoots through me—fear, lust, anticipation.
I obey.
My palms brace against freezing iron, my bare chest pressed to it, nipples tight from contact. The cool metal contrasts with the heat between my legs.
He kneels behind me, finally tugging my thong aside.
Then—his tongue.
I cry out, biting my lip to muffle the moan as he licks me slowly, then fast. My knees buckle. My skin is on fire.
“You taste like sin,” he mutters, voice hoarse, “and I’m going to fucking ruin you.”
He eats me like a man starved, tongue lashing, teeth grazing, until I’m shaking, my orgasm a livewire threatening to detonate.
And then, he stops.
I whine in protest, but the sound dies as I hear the low rustle of his zipper. A moment later, his cock presses against me, hard and thick and unforgiving.
“You want this?” he asks, nudging at my entrance.
“Yes. God, yes.”
He flips me over so I’m looking directly at him as he unravels me.
With a guttural sound, he drives into me, deep, brutal, merciless. The force of it sends me forward, my back slamming against the wrought-iron railing with a gasp I can't hold back.
The world narrows to the shocking stretch of him filling me completely, the sudden fullness so sharp it blurs the line between pain and pleasure. My mouth falls open in a broken cry. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t coax. Doesn’t soothe. Just claims, with the ruthless rhythm of a man who doesn’t ask for permission.
Every stroke knocks the breath from my lungs.
Every drag of his cock leaves me more undone.
One of his hands grips my hip so tightly I know I’ll wear the bruises tomorrow. The other buries in my hair, twisting the strands around his fingers like reins. He pulls me down, so my hips are on the railing and I’m holding on for dear life. My hands grip the railing, and my legs anchor me. Cyril drives into me again, earning a filthy moan.
“You feel that?” His voice is raw, rasping in my ear like smoke and gravel. “This cock’s the only thing that’s ever going to fill you like this. Say it. Say that you’re fucking mine.”
“Y-yours,” I sob, the words catching in my throat as my body jolts with every savage stroke. “I’m yours.”
“Damn right you are,” he growls lowly, and his palm cracks against my ass in a vicious spank that sends my pussy clenching around him. “My sweet little nanny. On a balcony. Taking it like a good girl while anyone could be watching.”
A breeze skims over my flushed skin, my hips pressed to the cool metal, aching from friction. The contrast only heightens everything. I feel wild. Filthy. Free.
And so fucking close.
“You like this?” he hisses, slamming into me again. “Being used like this out in the open? Where anyone could look up and see how desperate you are for it?”
My fingers curl around the railing like a lifeline as my head tilts back. “Yes,” I gasp. “God, yes.”
He drags his tongue up my stomach, slow and hot, just before he leans over me and sinks his teeth into the curve of my shoulder.
“You gonna come, baby?” he pants, thrusting harder, faster, until the world turns to static in my ears. “Make a mess all over my cock while I fuck you like a whore?”
The filth in his voice makes me moan, my core fluttering with the need to fall apart again.
“Cyril—please—I—”
Before I can finish my sentence, it happens.
I shatter.
A scream tears from my throat, swallowed by the night sky as my climax hits—violent and unrelenting, wave after wave crashing through me, stealing the ground from under my feet. My thighs tremble, and if it weren’t for the iron railing and the bruising grip of his hands on my waist, I would’ve collapsed.
But he doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it, each thrust harder than the last, grunting with effort, his cock dragging over every raw, sensitive spot inside me. I can feel him throbbing. Close. Unraveling.
“You were made for this, Enya,” he growls against my ear. “Tight. Perfect. Mine.”
He snaps his hips forward with a final, bone-deep thrust and groans loud and unrestrained as he comes, spilling deep inside me, his body locked against mine, trembling with the force of it.
We stay like that for a beat, panting, bodies slick with sweat, hearts hammering in sync. His chest heaves against me, one arm wrapped tight around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll fall if he lets go. And I might.
“You okay?” he mutters hoarsely, brushing damp hair from my neck with a gentler hand.
I nod, unable to speak just yet. My lips press against his shoulder, and my thighs are still trembling from aftershocks. “I think I left my dignity somewhere between your first thrust and the third spanking.”
He chuckles against my hair, and the sound is deep and rough, but it tugs at my heartstrings.
“You’re perfect when you come for me,” he says, quieter this time, reverent almost. “So fucking perfect.”
I look up at him. There’s still darkness in him, still danger, but I can feel a fierce protectiveness in him as he holds me closer.
He smiles at me, his thumb gently caressing my lips.
Cyril brushes his fingers down my back, slow and tender, like a secret he’s letting himself say without words. My skin prickles.
Then, quietly, he says, “Have dinner with me tomorrow.”
I blink.
Not because I didn’t hear him.
But because I wasn’t expecting that.
I glance up, laughter slipping out before I can stop it. “You mean like…a date?”
He looks at me.
And it’s not a smirk. Not the half-ironic sarcasm I’ve come to know when he’s trying to deflect something too raw.
It’s just him.
Bare. Steady. A little vulnerable around the edges.
“Yeah,” he says. “A date.”
My fingers trace the edge of his collarbone, lazy and distracted.
“I just broke up with my boyfriend a few days ago.” I remind him, not out of hesitation, but honesty.
Like you weren’t just letting him fuck you like a little whore just now? a voice in my head says.
I expect him to say that as well. Instead, he exhales, his thumb brushing circles over my thigh. “Which is why you could probably use a distraction.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re the distraction?”
He leans in, forehead resting lightly against mine. “Among other things.”
I laugh again—softly this time. It feels strange to smile and not feel guilty for it.
“It’s not a promise,” he says. “Not a headline. Just dinner.”
I study his face, the quiet strength there. The way his eyes haven’t looked away from mine once. He could be a monster. He could be a savior. Maybe he’s both.
But right now?
He’s just a man asking a woman to dinner.
And I’m just a woman saying yes.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Just dinner.”
He smiles—small, rare, and so real it feels like sunlight breaking through clouds.
And somehow, despite everything, despite the chaos, I return it.