21. Enzo
Fucked.
That’s not just what I’ve done, it’s also exactly what I am.
For the past three hours, I’ve watched my little Bella unravel, again and again. And again.
On her hand.
On mine.
On my tongue.
And so many times on that little toy that I’m about to have it dipped in gold.
Mmm. A moan erupts from my chest thinking of how good she felt. It took a while for her sweet pussy to take three fingers.
God, how tight will she feel riding my cock?
I lick her sinful taste on my lips—utterly addictive. A deep, satisfied moan rumbles low in my chest.
And yet, I’m far from satisfied.
That initial twist of her lips wasn’t pleasure, which pisses me off. Whatever ghost from Kennedy’s past that dared intrude in my bed just gave me another enemy to hunt.
Whoever he is, he’s a dead man walking. And his death will be slow. Ridding him of his skin one agonizing strip at a time will take so long he’ll probably die half-way through it.
I sip my scotch, letting the heat linger as it chases the last of Bella’s essence down my throat. Exterminating whatever vermin inflicted this pain will happen one way or another. But scrubbing every lingering trace of him from Bella’s mind?
That takes more than a thirst for blood and a wet team.
It will take time, and time is the only luxury I don’t have.
Frustrated, I exhale sharply, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
Despite moving to the main cabin and keeping my ass away from her, the temptation of sinking into her tight sex is too much. My thoughts keep circling back to her like a flock of vultures, starving for more.
Because of all the ways I’ve defiled Bella’s breathtaking body, not once did I do it with my dick.
I flip through my phone, burying myself in absolutely everything except Bella’s slick, tight cunt, and my cock is not happy. Not happy at all.
The damned thing is seconds from tearing out of my slacks like the Hulk.
My jaw clenches. I had her, damn it.
I could’ve fucked her to my heart’s content. Driven myself so deep into heaven, my dick would’ve left with a halo. Fucked Kennedy Luciano right out of my system for good, with a week to spare.
But...I didn’t.
Why?
Because she’s not ready.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, perplexed. Why am I fixated on Bella being ready? Women are always ready.
Always!
And it wasn’t as if I was about to dry-fuck her. That serene geyser between her legs proves she’s more than ready.
Ugh. I wipe a hand down my face. When was the last time I had a woman melting like hot cream in my hands and not had her on all fours, kowtowing to my needy dick?
And my dick definitely has needs. Ask around.
Disgusted, I shake my head. Who am I?
“I’m the one who cured Bella’s fear of flying, that’s who I am,” I mutter angrily to myself.
“Did you say something, Mr. D’Angelo?” The groggy-eyed dog trainer yawns from her seat, though I’m not sure where the dog is. Speaking of which, where’s he supposed to shit?
Scanning the space, I spot a small patch of grass apparently growing out of the floor. I’m not sure how, but okay.
Her gaze holds mine as I nod, her smile growing weirder by the second.
My phone lights up with an incoming call.
Sin
“Shit,” I huff. If he’s calling at this hour, it can’t be good.
Which means as much as I don’t want to talk to him, I need to take his call. Besides, if ever there was a way to kill a boner...
I adjust myself and shift in my seat before answering. “Let me guess. Another paternity claim?” Which would be an outrageous lie. My dick hasn’t wanted anything but Kennedy in months.
Or, for the year before her.
The mere thought of sinking into her warm, soft body, naked and snuggled beneath a blanket, has him twitching again. And yet, I resist the urge to hang up the phone. I refrain from rushing back there, from bending her into any position I desire...
To take, take, take...
“Paternity test?” Sin scoffs, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Why? Has the woman you’ve kidnapped already filed a claim?”
I roll my eyes and do what I do best: deflect. “You’re slipping, Sin. I did not kidnap Savannah Whitaker. Check my books. Her services are paid for. At three times the going rate.”
“I mean the other woman you kidnapped,” he says, his words slicing through my bullshit like a samurai sword through butter. I’m poised with a dozen more lies when he adds, “The one with the dog.”
I swear, Dante’s mouth has a date with duct tape if he doesn’t stop narcing to Sin. Clearing my throat, I respond with forced composure. “I have not kidnapped her. She’s my guest.”
“Well, if she is who I think she is, the pleasure of her company has an expiration date.”
I sit up. “Who do you think she is?”
“Kennedy Luciano.” Tension grips my neck with the way he says her name—as if he knows her—until he adds, “Jimmy Luciano’s daughter.”
“Step-daughter,” I seethe. Is he the one who left those scars? Because I will happily leave him sitting in a vat of acid up to his neck, just to relish in his screams.
“Andre called. Reminding you that this little escapade lasts one week, or?—”
“Or what, Sin?” I interrupt, my voice a tight, low coil, ready to strike. “He should know better than to threaten me. I don’t need an excuse to go to war with my uncle.”
“No, but he needs one to go to war with you. And if this girl is riling you up the way I think she is, she’s it.” After a tense moment, his tone softens, paternal and pleading. “She owes him.”
“Her dirtbag stepfather owed him. Not her.” My argument tastes weak and bitter.
“And considering Jimmy Luciano is missing or dead, the debt falls to her. Period. Unless you have a claim,” Sin counters, his words tinged with hope. “Do you?”
My response is clipped. “No,” I huff. The fact that Kennedy Luciano and her worthless stepfather are the only ones in Chicago who aren’t indebted to me boggles my fucking mind.
“Will Andre sell her to you?”
“Absolutely. For D’Angelo Holdings or my head on a platter. Or both.”
“Then send her back,” he insists. “Before you get attached.” This is the point of the conversation I always hate with Sin. When his voice softens, sickly with so much paternal marshmallowyness, I nearly gag on it.
My silence is enough for him to switch from a carrot to a stick.
“You, more than anyone, know this game. We collect on our debts, and we don’t interfere with how others collect on theirs.”
More silence.
“You, yourself, enforce these very rules every goddamned day.”
His words sting like a slap. He’s not wrong. While some kings rule from their thrones, I’m down in the trenches, sleeves rolled up, hands dirty.
It’s exactly how I prefer it. Violence soothes me in ways very little else does. If you want a calm, rational mind, you go to Smoke. But if you want results, and don’t care how you get them, you come to me.
And sooner or later, everyone always comes to me.
Though, unlike my douchebag uncle, I’ve never held a debt against a woman or child.
Besides, going after women and children achieves nothing. From what I’ve seen, most of them have been tortured enough. And since I’m neither an asshole nor a coward, I have better outlets for my rage.
Lashing out on poor, defenseless victims is my uncle’s domain. He and his mangy dog, Rocco.
A deep wound rips wide in the center of my chest. The mere thought of Rocco laying a finger on Bella sends a shockwave through me so intense that the sound of the phone’s screen cracking in my hand brings me back to Sin’s voice droning on.
“Nothing good can come of this. Just walk away, Enzo. You’ve been sleep-deprived for months, and you’re not thinking clearly. You need a break.”
“You’re right,” I give in. “And I’m taking a break. In Italy. For seven uninterrupted days.”
“Will you at least be back for the wedding?” he asks, his tone kicking up hope against a solid wall of don’t give a fuck.
And while I’d usually have hung up by now, I know what he’s doing. Gauging just how far off the deep end I’ve flown. “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”
“And what do I really want to know?” he asks, his voice lifting with all that maniacal psychoanalysis crap he loves pulling on me.
“You’re wondering if at the end of a week, I’ll give her back.” I shrug to myself. “Maybe. Or perhaps I’ll keep her. She seems cozy, holed up in my spider’s web. Meanwhile, we’ll cut through all the polite bullshit while I joyfully declare war.”