Chapter 25 – Enya
I wake slowly, like my body’s still unsure if it’s safe to open the door between sleep and consciousness.
Sunlight slants across the room in long, golden ribbons. The curtains sway with a gentle breeze that smells like wet earth and trees. Spring has finally cracked its way through the cruel New York winter. It’s beautiful. Soft. Quiet.
And I hate it.
Because I don’t feel any of that.
I feel broken.
The stitches in my side are healing. The pain is dull now, more like a bruise beneath the surface than a knife. But what still slices through me, what still guts me, is everything that came before the pain. The sound of the gunshot. The look on Kai’s face. The instant I saw the gun shift toward Ren, and I didn’t think; I just moved.
I keep seeing it. The way Kai looked at me right before the shot went off, confused, like the world betrayed him. The way Ren screamed. The way Cyril held me, blood on his hands and rage in his voice as he screamed for help.
The days since then have been a blur. A carousel of fevered sleep and half-remembered voices. Cyril, whispering low and desperate words while he held my hand. Doctors murmuring vitals. Aldo once, briefly, saying something about Fiore safehouses and burn orders. Gael delivering food I couldn’t eat. Alvise standing in the corner of my room like a statue, arms folded, eyes scanning everything. And Sienna, God, I think she was there. I barely remember it, but I can still hear her voice, fierce and furious, shouting at Cyril in the hallway: “If anything happens to my best friend, I swear to God….” I think she cried. I think I did, too. Or maybe that was just a dream.
And Ren.
Sweet, wide-eyed Ren, sitting at the edge of the bed with a coloring book, asking every few hours, “You’re still here, right?”
I glance across the room. My suitcase sits by the door, zipped shut. I packed it the night before everything exploded. Before the gala. Before the truth. Before the gun.
“I was supposed to be gone by now,” I whisper to no one.
I shift, wincing as a tug in my side reminds me that I’m not fully healed. I reach for the glass of water on the nightstand, cool and untouched, and take a sip, just as I hear a scream.
High. Sharp. Terrified.
“No! Don’t! Let me go!”
Ren.
The glass slips from my fingers, shattering on the floor. I’m already moving, legs trembling, my hand pressed to my side as I force myself into the hallway. The pain means nothing. The fear is louder.
I follow the sound to his bedroom.
Cyril’s already there. Standing just inside the doorway, frozen like he’s been sucker-punched. His arms are slightly raised, like he’s not sure whether to reach or retreat.
Ren is curled in the far corner, eyes wide and wild, chest heaving with broken sobs.
“He’s coming back,” he cries. “I saw him! He was here!”
Cyril takes a careful step forward. “Ren—”
“No! Don’t touch me!”
Cyril stops. His face softens, and I see something shatter in his eyes.
I move past him, ignoring the throb in my side.
“Ren,” I say softly, my voice barely more than a breath. “It’s me, baby. Just me.”
His head snaps toward me. And then he’s moving, rushing forward, flinging himself into my arms with all the desperation of someone terrified they’ll wake up and find it all gone.
“You’re here,” he sobs into my neck. “You didn’t leave. You didn’t die.”
I hold him tighter. My throat burns.
“I’m here,” I whisper, rocking him gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I glance up and meet Cyril’s eyes. He looks like he’s been hit by a truck. His son won’t let him touch him. Won’t let him help.
And the worst part? I understand.
Hours pass.
Ren won’t let go. I stay curled beside him on his bed while he colors with one hand and clutches my fingers with the other. His grip never loosens, not even when his head starts to dip, and his eyelids flutter.
“Will you sleep in my room?” he asks, voice soft and uncertain.
I nod without hesitation. “For as long as you need.”
He nods and starts to drift, curled beside me under the soft Carfano linens.
Cyril stands in the doorway. Watching. Silent. His shoulders tense, hands in his pockets.
“He didn’t ask for me,” he says. His voice is low, almost hollow.
I reach out with my free hand, my voice just above a whisper. “He didn’t ask for you because he knows you’ll always come for him. He needed to hold on to the one person he thought he almost lost. He’s not afraid of you, Cyril. He’s just trying to believe we’re all still here.”
I hope he sees in my eyes that it’s not because Ren doesn’t love him. It’s because the fear rewrote everything.
I hum softly under my breath, fingers brushing Ren’s hair. A lullaby. One I found weeks ago in the library on an old record player. It’s the one Cyril sings to him, as well. He likes it. Says it makes the shadows go away.
So, I sing it now.
And I hope, somehow, it keeps them away from all of us.
Ren stirs, eyes half-lidded, then whispers, “Will you still be here when I wake up?”
I press my lips to his forehead. “Always.”
He nods slowly and finally lets go, slipping into the kind of sleep only a child can have—one born not from peace, but pure exhaustion.
I adjust the blanket around him gently, careful not to disturb his breathing, and glance toward the doorway. Cyril hasn’t moved. Still framed in shadows, still watching us like he’s unsure whether he belongs here or not.
“Cyril,” I say softly, not wanting to wake Ren, “come sit with us.”
He pauses for a breath. Two. Then, he steps into the room, walking slower than I’ve ever seen him move. Like he’s afraid the floor might fall out from beneath him.
He crouches beside the bed on the opposite side, across from me, his eyes never leaving Ren’s face.
“He used to cry for me in his sleep,” he murmurs. “It’s always been just the two of us. But now….” He swallows. “Now, he flinches.”
My heart aches for both of them.
“He’s scared,” I say gently. “But not of you. Of what happened. Of what it almost took from him. Cyril, he saw you shoot a man, and he’s just a kid. It’ll take him some time to register what happened. That you killed someone to save his life.”
He meets my gaze then, and something cracks behind his eyes. Raw. Unspoken.
“He wouldn’t let me touch him, Enya.” His voice breaks. “Not even for a second.”
I shift slightly, careful not to jostle Ren. “Because the last time he saw you, you were covered in blood and shouting. And the world was falling apart. But he knows who you are, Cyril. He knows what you’ve done for him. He just needs time.”
Silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full of everything we’re both too overwhelmed to say.
“I thought I lost you,” he says finally. His voice is rough, quiet. “I watched you fall and—fuck, Enya—I didn’t know how to fix it. I always fix things. But I couldn’t stop the bleeding, I couldn’t make it go away. I just…I kept thinking, what if this is it? What if she never wakes up?”
I reach out, my fingers grazing his knuckles where they rest on the edge of the mattress.
“But I did,” I say. “I woke up. I’m still here.”
He closes his hand over mine, warm and trembling.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t.”
We sit without speaking, tethered to each other by grief, survival, and a child who trusts us both to keep him safe.
And as the wind stirs the curtains and sunlight filters through the leaves outside, I realize this isn’t just healing.
This is starting to become home, but I’m not sure if I belong here.
The zipper gives with a soft click.
I stare down at the suitcase, fingers resting on the metal tab, my side throbbing gently with the effort of folding and stacking everything back into the place it came from. Each movement tugs at the healing wound. Each piece of clothing feels heavier than it should.
This isn’t how I imagined leaving. Not after everything. Not with Ren asleep down the hall and Cyril’s voice still echoing in my chest from the night before.
But I keep going. Fold. Breathe. Pack. Repeat. It’s mechanical. Like maybe if I just get through it without thinking, it won’t hurt so much.
“Are you leaving?”
Cyril’s voice is low, rougher than usual. There’s no anger in it, but I can sense the confusion even before I turn around. I glance over my shoulder at him.
He’s standing there with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, hair a mess, a shadow of stubble on his jaw. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look less like a don and more like a man who’s barely holding on.
I nod. “It’s time. He’s safe now.”
Cyril steps further into the room, his boots quiet against the hardwood. “No. He isn’t. Not really. He woke up screaming today, Enya. Screaming. And the only one he wanted was you.”
I pause, fingers curling around a sweater.
“Cyril….”
“I’m not saying it to guilt you. I’m saying it because it’s the truth. You’re the one he runs to. You’re the one who calms the storm.”
I set the sweater down. My eyes find his.
“I’m not his mother.”
“You’re as close as it’ll get for him. You’re more than that,” he says, his voice quiet and certain. “You’re his peace.”
That breaks my heart.
I look away, blinking fast.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. It feels like even the house is holding its breath.
“Stay,” he says, suddenly.
I inhale sharply.
“Cyril—”
“I know what you’re going to say. I know you think this life is yours. That this wasn’t supposed to happen. That you were just the nanny who stumbled into our mess.” He takes a step closer. “But it is your life now. If you want it. Please.”
Please.
I swallow. My hands twist the hem of my shirt.
“I can’t keep pretending this is my life. That I belong in this world. That I belong to you.”
There’s a glimmer of pain on his face at my words, but I can’t help saying the truth.
“If I were a better man,” he murmurs, “I’d let you go right now. I’d say thank you, and I’d walk away knowing I put you in danger and that you deserve more.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand, stopping me.
“But I’m not a better man, Enya. Hell, I’m not even a good man. I’ve done things—ugly, violent things. Things that would keep you up at night if you knew half of them. But when you stepped into my world…our world, everything changed.”
He swallows hard.
“Please…move in with me. With us.”
My heart stutters.
I search his eyes. “Because you want me here…or because Ren does?”
His gaze never leaves mine.
“You know the answer to that.”
“I want you to say it.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Ren wants you here, Enya. But I need you.”
I feel the words hit me like a wave.
He pulls back, like he’s unsure whether he’s said too much—or not enough.
Then, he steps forward, close enough for me to see the worry behind the steel in his eyes.
“You took a bullet for my son. You hold his nightmares. You make him laugh. You bring something into this house we haven’t had. Ever. Something gentle and peaceful, which is something I can never give him. There’s nothing more important than that.”
The silence that follows is loud.
I look down at my hands. At the suitcase. At everything I packed like I was ready to leave it all behind, and maybe I was. Maybe I still am, unless I hear the words I need to hear.
“I’ll stay,” I whisper. “But on one condition.”
He stiffens.
“Tell me this isn’t his future, Cyril. Please. Tell me we can leave it behind.”
He doesn’t answer right away. His face tenses up like he’s already at war with himself.
“I…I can’t….” He hesitates. For the first time since I’ve known him, Cyril hesitates. “This world is all I’ve ever known.”
“Then teach him a reality different from this,” I say. My voice breaks. “Teach him how to live, not just how to survive.”
He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, the pain there is naked. It stabs right through me.
“Don’t ever leave my side again,” he says hoarsely.
Tears rise to my eyes. “Then promise me we walk away from all this.”
A pause. His jaw clenches. His voice is barely a whisper. “You’re asking me to kill the Don.”
“I’m asking you to be the man Ren believes in, Cyril. Even you know you can’t have your son’s trust until you let go of this life…at least some of it.”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Then, he shuts his eyes in resignation.
“Fuck, Enya….”
A smile tugs at my lips, slow and wicked. He’s giving up everything for us, his life, his future, and it only feels right that I make it worth his while.
Before he can stop me, I drop to my knees in front of him, the cool floor hard against my skin, but I barely notice it. Despite my injury, I have craved him.
I tug at his pants, the material sliding down his thighs, and when he springs free, my breath catches.
God. Even half-hard, he’s massive, thick and heavy between his legs. And he’s going to be even bigger once I’m through with him.
A hungry thrill shoots through me. I lean in and press a trail of soft, teasing kisses up the inside of his thigh, feeling the muscles there tense under my mouth. His skin is warm, slightly salty from the sweat and lingering heat.
When I reach his balls, I run my tongue along the seam, giving him a slow lick that makes his hips jerk forward.
“Enya…” he rasps, his voice strained, but he doesn’t pull away. He’s hanging by a thread already, and I love it.
“I love it when you say my name,” I murmur against his thighs, just before I flick my tongue over the thick, swollen head of his cock, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum gathered there.
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. He just groans again, a raw, broken sound that sends a thrill down my spine. I take his cock in my hand and gently squeeze.
In that moment, nothing else exists, only the length of him in my hand, the heat of him against my tongue. Heaven itself couldn’t compare to this.
I wrap my hand around the thick base of his cock, feeling the weight of him in my palm, and the last bit of hesitation in his voice dies completely when I give him a slow, careful stroke.
I replace my hand with my mouth, letting my lips slide over the head first, tasting the faint salt of him.
I take him into my mouth, feeling the way he throbs against my tongue, and a rush of satisfaction fills me. His hands tangle in my hair, fingers tightening as he lets out another ragged groan.
“You’re so fucking beautiful…for me,” he murmurs between groans.
I close my eyes, losing myself in the rhythm, savoring the way he groans low in his chest, how his hand finds its way to my hair, fingers tangling but not forcing, just holding, like he doesn’t want to let go.
And I want to give him everything.
Today, he deserves it all.
A low, rough groan rumbles from his chest, and heat floods me at the sound.
I try to take all of him, but he’s too big now. I gag slightly, frustration bubbling up, and he chuckles—a low, wrecked sound—before pulling back.
“Easy, tiger,” he rasps and fists my hair.
He repositions me with them so I’m kneeling properly.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, his voice rough with restraint.
He drags the tip of his cock across my lips, teasing, before nudging it into my mouth again. Inch by slow inch, he feeds himself to me, giving me time to adjust, until he’s buried deep in my throat.
God, he’s thick, stretching my mouth almost painfully wide, but the way he groans when he feels me take him makes the burn worth it.
I sputter, tears pricking the corners of my eyes, and he pulls out slightly, leaving only the tip resting against my tongue.
“Too much?” he asks, voice strained.
I shake my head, desperate for him, needing more.
He groans deep in his chest and pushes back in, slow but relentless, and I moan around him, feeling every vein, every inch, as he slides deeper.
We find a rhythm, slow at first, my body adjusting to the thick, perfect stretch, then faster, rougher, as he feels me relax around him.
“Touch yourself,” he says, and I don’t need to be told twice.
My sputters ease, replaced with soft moans, and I reach down between my legs, my fingers finding my clit, rubbing slow circles as he fucks my mouth. My other hand grips his leg, my nails digging into his skin.
His hold on my hair gets stronger, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
“That’s it,” he growls, voice guttural. “Take every inch down your throat like a good girl.”
The praise, the filth of it, makes my toes curl, and I moan again, the vibrations making him curse under his breath.
Sweat breaks out along my skin as he drives into my mouth harder, faster. I can feel his eyes locked on me, watching the way my hand moves between my legs, the way my throat bulges around his cock.
I feel him tense, a low warning rumble tearing from his chest.
Then, he pulls out at the last second, and with a harsh groan, he spills over me, hot ropes of cum painting my chest, my stomach.
He comes hard, so hard his knees almost buckle, and he has to brace himself against the couch behind him to stay upright.
By the time he’s done, I’ve tipped over the edge again, too, my body trembling with the aftershocks of my own orgasm.
Our ragged breaths are the only sound besides the distant sounds of traffic and shouting in the city below. It’s New York; this is as peaceful as it gets.
“Wow,” I breathe, blinking up at him, still dazed.
He laughs, the sound low and warm, a little wrecked, and leans down to brush a kiss over my mouth.
“I should be the one saying that,” he murmurs.
Before I can recover, he scoops me up effortlessly in his arms, carrying me toward the bathroom.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and return your favor,” he says, voice rough with tenderness and mischief.