16. Kennedy
Inhale.
Exhale.
Don’t puke.
Here I am, sitting in a car probably worth more than my entire existence—Andre D’Angelo estimated my worth at a hundred grand—feeling like I’m about to lose my lunch. Truffles, my impromptu emotional support dog, is nestled sweetly on my lap as Enzo, my kingpin sex god, holds my hand.
I steal a glance at his ruggedly handsome face, all calm and broody, with chiseled cheeks and dark stubble. His golden eyes are glued to the road, probably imagining all the things he’ll want me to do—anything he wants, any way he wants it.
Meanwhile, I’m here, feeling like I’m on a rollercoaster ride from hell, with my stomach doing somersaults and my lunch threatening to reappear.
It’s not even the idea of going to Italy that has me unsettled, though it’s not helping. Planes have never been my thing. Keep your flying superheroes: I’m Team Shifters. All day. Everyday.
No. What’s got my nerves twisted like Christmas tree lights in a storage box is the fact that I’m flying halfway around the world, and for what?
To see Riley. But that’s only for three hours a day.
The rest of the time, I’ll be at the beck and call of big, bad Enzo D’Angelo. And why? So he can keep me naked and chained to a bed post, ravaging my body any way he wants?
And why does it feel like the heat kicked on?
My father’s advice swims laps through my mind. When life throws you curveballs, ya catch, darlin’.
How the hell do I catch a curveball like Enzo D’Angelo? It’s like trying to snag a shooting star—fast and fiery. He’s uncatchable.
Absently, I scratch behind Truffles’s velvety ear, seeking solace in his calm presence.
“What’s wrong?” Enzo asks, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He’s been deep in thought the entire time, and neither of us has said a word. How he knows something is wrong is beyond me.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Because if you rub that dog’s ear any more, the damned thing will catch fire.” His eyes flick to mine. “What?”
I let go of Truffles’s soft ear and clasp my hands together, trying to sound composed despite the whirlwind of nerves inside me. “It’s just that I—I’ve never left the country before. Don’t I need a passport or something?”
“It’s been taken care of,” he says with that sense of authority that normally makes him totally hot. In this moment, hearing those words come out of his mouth is just...terrifying.
When I frown, he notices. How he notices, I have no idea since he hasn’t bothered looking my way since we got in the car. “What?” he prods.
I shake my head. “Nothing.” I know, I know. It’s a big, fat lie.
Which he must read all over my face. His hand reaches into his blazer and tugs a flask from his pocket. “Here.” He hands it over. “This will help.”
I shake it. Surprisingly, it’s full. I caught glimpses of him swigging it while he was waiting. “I’m surprised there’s anything left,” I quip, unscrewing the cap and sniffing the contents before giving a long, leisurely inhale.
Mmm. Scotch. It reminds me of Da.
“Trust me, Bella, when it comes to me, you’ll always have more to take,” he retorts, his words decidedly naughty.
My legs clench in response, and the squeak that escapes my throat is audible as I take a swig, swallowing the smooth burn. The drink coats my throat, melting into my insides until most of my nerves wash away.
When we reach a checkpoint, an intimidating guard nods before waving the car through. Enzo pulls forward to a secluded area of the airport.
There, a private jet waits, flanked by a team of formidable security detail. They’re good-looking, impeccably dressed, and armed to the hilt—a stark reminder of who Enzo D’Angelo is and that he’s not to be fucked with.
I take another swig. “Thanks,” I say meekly.
He studies me. “Note to self: this one drinks like a fish and needs her own flask.”
This one. Two little words that instantly have me scowling, though, he’s not wrong.
It’s been years since I’ve had scotch, and the stuff was as smooth as kitty litter. But after Da passed, I’d do anything to get close to him. Sleep in his bed. Wear his T-shirts. Even drink stuff that would grow hair on my chest and easily pass for kerosene with just a hint of armpit sweat.
It took over a year to go through Da’s last bottle. But by the last drop, I’d acquired the taste.
As my hand reaches for the door handle, it swings open, and I get a full frontal of the enormous beast before me.
It’s big. It’s black. And it’s got Death to All Who Enter written all over it.
It’s a jet. His jet. With a giant capital D on the tail, which I assume stands for D’Angelo and not dick.
My heart stops, and I freeze.
Gently, Enzo’s hand takes mine. “Don’t worry, Bella. There’s more booze on the plane.”
“Har.”
He ushers me across a black carpet to the stairs. Amidst the intimidating figures standing guard is a woman. A very beautiful woman with chestnut brown hair, a bright pink suit, and a vibrant red scarf. Somehow, she seems familiar.
She’s sporting just enough cleavage to make me wonder if Enzo is looking for a threesome.
Because, shit, what if he is? I mean, my deal with the devil didn’t even have fine print. It was exceptionally clear: anything.
I swallow hard, not sure I could actually munch on a taco. Could I?
Her warm smile widens as her glittering eyes glaze over my body as I down the rest of the flask.
“You must be Ms. Luciano,” she greets me, her tone polite. Professional, even. Her use of Jimmy’s last name doesn’t irritate me nearly as much as the alcohol works its way through my veins.
“Kennedy,” I say, breathier than intended. Partially because of the booze, but more because Enzo just slipped his warm hand onto the small of my back.
“And this must be Ruffles,” she coos, reaching for the dog in my arms.
“Truffles.” At least one of us should have our name right.
“Savannah Whitaker,” she says, extending a hand with a warm smile. Recognition dawns.
She’s famous. Like, has her own show and brand of organic dog food kind of famous. The go-to person for celebrities—as in DogTrainer to the Stars Savannah Whitaker.
My heart races with worry. Why is she here? Is she taking Truffles away?
“He’ll need a quick walk before our flight,” she reassures me, her voice soothing as the words our flight settle in. Before I can react, a bedazzled leash is wrapped around my little dog’s tiny neck, and off they go.
He looks ridiculous. And adorable. Prancing about like some high-priced show dog strutting his stuff for a competition. It’s as if he knows how impressive Savannah Whitaker is.
Her happy-go-lucky giggles encourage the little guy, and it tugs at my heartstrings, watching my little dumpster buddy experience the life he deserves.
They walk further away, and a trace of unease lingers in the air. “She’s joining us?” I ask.
Enzo, absorbed in texting, nods without looking up. “Yes,” he confirms, his thumbs tapping away. Then he adds, “It’s a ten-hour flight. I want you all to myself, Bella. If you’re preoccupied with the dog, you won’t be able to focus.”
“Focus?”
“On me.”
I gaze up at him, stunned. “You hired a celebrity dog trainer just so I can spend the better part of ten hours tending to your needs?”
Finally, he pockets his phone and lets out a slow breath. He takes two steps closer, his presence commanding, his gaze intense. “No, Bella,” he murmurs, his eyes darkening. “So I can tend to yours.”
Holy fuck.
He wants to tend to my needs? Because of all the men I’ve been with, which I could count on one hand, not one of them was interested in tending to my needs. Hell, my needs were better satisfied with a hot novel and my hand.
Unexpectedly, he cradles both my cheeks in his hands, and the temperature jumps a hundred degrees. His kiss is smooth and hard and so unapologetic. Instantly, my panties are soaked.
When his tongue swipes through my open lips, I can’t breathe.
All I can think of is the way his stubble would feel between my legs. His kiss deepens, and—did I say a hundred degrees? Make that a thousand degrees.
His arms wrap around me, and my body is forced forward onto his cock, and there’s a whole lot of it. So much, in fact, my gasp is audible.
I’m a little stunned.
And scared.
It’s been a long time for me and, oh, hell, am I even going to be able to stand by the end of this flight?
Ruff-ruff!
His lips tear from mine as we turn to see Truffles prancing around like it’s the best day ever. “I can’t believe you arranged this for him,” I say, genuinely surprised he didn’t shoot little Truffles and toss him on the grill.
“I did this for me,” he says, tightening his hold around my waist. “Cute and cuddly is the worst cock block ever.”
A light laugh bubbles up from my chest as he kisses my temple tenderly, and for a moment, everything feels so right. In a surreal, twilight zone sort of way. What’s happening here? Do all mafia men have a need to play house?
Or just Enzo?
And is that what we’re doing? Playing?
Not that I’m complaining. If anyone needs an escape from reality, it’s this girl.
Enzo’s gaze remains fixed on Savannah as she effortlessly commands Truffles to sit and stay, a task the little dog surprisingly masters in an instant. Meanwhile, I keep stealing glances at him.
His rugged features, softened by the gentle curve of his full lips and thick brows, make him undeniably gorgeous. But beneath that exterior lies an arrogant and dangerous man, legendary for leaving broken bones and shattered hearts in his wake.
We’re interrupted by one of his men, and instantly, Enzo snaps our connection apart. Though I can’t hear what the guard is saying, I can tell by the shift in Enzo’s expression—from easy-going to hardened stone—whatever he’s saying isn’t good.
“Get on the damn plane,” he orders sharply, his voice leaving no room for negotiation.
“What’s going on?” I press, my heart thudding hard against the cage of my ribs. Is it Uncle Andre? Or Rocco? Or any number of other threats this man probably deals with every hour, on the hour?
But he doesn’t respond, his attention focused elsewhere as he adjusts his lapel with precision.
“Enzo, what’s going on?” I repeat, pressing for answers.
Ignoring my plea, Enzo snaps his fingers.
What the fuck? Did he just snap to shut me up?
I open my mouth, ready to give him a piece of my mind, when a guard swoops in, tosses me over his shoulders like a sack of rice, and hauls me to the plane. “Hey!”
Truffles and Savannah are swallowed in the bodyguard’s wake, following obediently, as if this bizarre scenario is completely normal.
Once up the stairs and inside the cabin, the guard gently sets me on my feet. “Apologies, ma’am,” he says before swiftly pointing a finger in warning. “Don’t get off the plane.” With that, he exits.
Savannah settles in with Truffles while a flight attendant magically appears, offering champagne. Which only confirms my suspicions: I’m the only sane one here.
Savannah takes the flute, kicks off her shoes, and takes a sip, all casual-like, while I stand there, dumbfounded. “What?” she asks with a shrug. “You know how it is. Boys will be boys.”
Boys will be boys?Is that what they call it when Scarface decides to make a cameo and riddles the plane with bullets?
Right. Drink up, crazy lady. Drink up.
I glue my gaze out the window as my blood runs cold. A sleek black car with blackout tint zooms past every last member of Enzo’s security detail and screeches to a halt.
A hulking figure emerges. With a surly expression, muscles straining against his shirt, and dark shades that scream tough guy meets runway model, I’m not sure what to think.
From the looks of him—tall, dark, and menacing—I have a pretty good idea who he is.
And me being here? It’s not good.
Not good at all.