23. Kennedy
Thump.
I snap awake, every muscle protesting as I struggle to orient myself.
In the dimness, it takes precious seconds to shake off the sleep-induced haze.
Where the hell am I?
The soft hum of the engine reminds me I’m not in Kansas anymore. Or even Chicago.
Instead, I find myself nestled in luxurious silk sheets, surrounded by the scent of sweat, sex, and Enzo’s intoxicating cologne.
Slowly, realization sinks in. I’m still on a plane, suspended somewhere over a dark, boundless stretch of ocean, and strangely, I’m not afraid.
With a deep inhale, the fear that overshadowed me earlier—or for most of my life—is gone.
I roll to my back and feel it. Pain—a pervasive ache that courses across every inch of my body. I feel like my mind, body, and soul have been hit by a Mack truck...especially between my legs.
I draw in a sharp breath, easing out of the emotional overload of the last few hours.
Floral notes fill my lungs with each deep inhale. I shift and come face-to-face with it: a plump red rose.
It’s resting on the pillow beside me. Apparently, Enzo’s a man of many talents, including pulling flowers out his butt.
Lazily, my finger dusts the petals, and I take another lingering whiff before throwing an arm over my face.
It feels like I’m plummeting from the top of a skyscraper, free-falling with a clear view of the concrete street below, wondering how to drag out every second.
Argh. I’m falling for him.
For a long stretch, I lie there. In his bed. Alone.
Enzo D’Angelo has wrecked me. Emotionally and physically, inside and out. Every muscle in my body aches from the aftermath of God’s gift to multiple orgasms.
Seriously, I know why there’s a website dedicated to Enzo fucking D’Angelo. He makes fucking both a science and an art, and my body is still reeling from that last one. It was so blindingly intense, I know that walking will pose a serious challenge.
And yet, not once did he please himself.
No hand job.
No dry humping.
Nothing.
What man does that?
One who should be sainted.
Absentmindedly, my fingers trace the rumpled sheets beside me. The man stripped me of my clothes and common sense. At one point, he had me climb onto his face and move like I was neck-and-neck for first place in a bull-riding contest. Yet the most he shed was his tie.
His tie!
Enzo has control freak written all over him in big, bold graffiti, and all I want to do is scrape it off.
With my tongue.
Shut up.
It’s fucked up that he grabbed me by the throat. But what’s even more fucked up is that my body responded. I didn’t want him to stop, and that pisses me off.
If I’m aroused by a twisted, arrogant, sadist, what does that make me?
I shake my head. Clearly, I have issues.
“One week.” A whisper cuts through the darkness, sharp and hushed.
Huh?
I glance at the bathroom door, edged in a faint glow of light.
It’s a private bathroom with marble counters, gold fixtures, and Netflix. An over-the-top indulgent space fit for a king. I know because I’ve become well acquainted with it between sex-a-thon sprints, and frankly, I could’ve lived in there.
This time, the whisper is louder and more urgent. It’s a woman’s voice. “That’s what he said.”
I step off the bed, my gaze snagging on a smoking jacket draped over the corner. I don’t remember that being there before. Did Enzo leave this for me?
Slipping it on, it smells like fresh laundry and swaddles me like an angel cloud. Not gonna lie—I could get used to this.
I move to the door and press an ear to it, straining to catch the conversation. A few snippets bleed through. “Yes. That’s what I heard.” Who’s she talking to? My hand lands on the handle when I hear, “He’s got her for a week. Then he’s ditching her.”
My heart clogs my throat. Me. She’s talking about me. Which is fine, I guess. It wasn’t like Enzo dropped to one knee, professing his undying eternal love.
So why does it feel like someone’s wringing every last drop of emotion from my chest?
Maybe because the sting of his stubble is still fresh between my legs.
I steel my heart. He paid off a debt—a big one. Shouldn’t that be enough? This is probably just a normal business transaction from one dangerous mobster to countless women seeking his help.
If enduring a week of being ravaged by Enzo is what it takes to see Riley, then so be it.
Especially if he ravages me like that.
Shut up.
And sure, I agreed of my own free will. But he conveniently omitted the part about broadcasting it to the whole damn world—especially to Savannah.
Who seems to have taken it upon herself to be the town crier. Her tone softens slightly, and I lean in, trying to catch every whispered syllable.
When she says, “All I know is that he’s not putting this woman over his family. And why would he? She’s nobody.”
Nobody? Tough talk from a high-heeled pooper scooper.
She then adds, “Of course, he hit on me.”
He did?
And it’s all I can do to resist the urge to storm in, snatch her phone, and shove it up her pompous ass, all while saying, “Back off, bitch. He’s mine.”
Instead, I draw in a deep breath and remind myself that he isn’t mine. In fact, men like Enzo can never be owned. It’s the reason they’re so damned good in bed.
Even so, I yank the door open, wresting the phone from her perfectly manicured claws. “You can’t do that!” she snaps, visibly affronted.
Glancing at the phone, I see “Caller unknown” flashing on the screen, but there’s a number. A number I recognize, but from where? Is it Andre? The press? “Who is this?” I demand, my voice sharp with suspicion.
Before I can get an answer, a long, exasperated sigh fills the line, followed by the abrupt click of the call ending. Savannah’s self-satisfied smirk only adds fuel to the fire burning inside me. “Who were you talking to?” I shout.
Savannah’s hand clamps over my mouth. “Keep your voice down,” she hisses, locking the door behind me.
“How did you get in here?”
“Shh,” she hushes me, plucking a bobby pin from her hair. “It’s not exactly a vault. I just needed some breathing space, and you were out cold. Speaking of which, if you don’t keep your voice down and Mr. D’Angelo hears you, you’re dead.”
Do I look like an idiot? It suddenly dawns on me where I’ve seen that number before.
On a business card. The one pressed into my hand by Special Agent Caleb Knox. Riley’s old roommate’s cousin. Every few weeks, he leaves a message for me to call. And every few weeks, I’ve ignored him.
I square my jaw. “I believe you mean if Enzo hears me, you’re the one in hot water. See, I’m not the one ratting him out to the Feds.”
The color drains from her high-set cheeks, her once-pleasant smile fading into oblivion. “Please. If you tell him, I’m as good as dead.”
“Then explain why Agent Knox is keeping tabs on him,” I demand.
She stares at me, confusion etched across her features. “They’re not. They’re watching you.”
“Me?” She’s lying, she has to be. “Why would anyone be watching me? I’m nobody.” She said so herself.
Her shrug is dismissive. “I don’t know. All I do know is that Enzo has you for a week.” Leaning in, she adds, “Seems like you’re on loan.”
“I’m not a library book,” I retort back. I’m not sure how much she had to drink, but none of what she says makes sense. “Yes, there was a debt, but Enzo paid it.”
She retrieves a tube of lipstick from her clutch with casual indifference. “Are you absolutely certain?” she asks, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror as she carefully applies the dark cherry red. “Why would he?”
As much as this woman is practically begging for an ass-kicking, her question needles my chest.
Savannah pulls a pouty face in the mirror before continuing. “I overheard Mr. D’Angelo on the phone. His uncle’s demands are just too steep. He gets one week with you, then...” her words trail off as she fixes a smudge.
“And then?” I push, my heart racing with dread and disbelief.
Her next words land like a punch to the gut, knocking all the air from my lungs. “Then, he gives you back. Like a wad of used gum, I guess.” My back hits the wall for support as panic claws its way up my spine. My mind races, replaying those words over and over again.
Then he gives me back.
A strange calm settles over me as emotions clash for control, like I’m standing in the eye of a storm. My father warned me that caving to panic or fear only drag you down faster. So I cling to the only thing that fuels me forward.
With both hands, I latch onto hate.
I despise Enzo D’Angelo for what he’s about to do—sweep me off my feet just to toss me into the depths of hell.
And what about Riley? Can I trust him to keep his word? To keep her safe?
With my father’s determination at my back, my eyes lock with Savannah’s. “Tell me everything you know.”
She sweeps her long bangs from her face. “What makes you think I know anything?”
The white mini-Birkin on the counter catches my eye. I grab it and dangle it over the toilet. “Talk, or your pet alligator gets a nice, blue bath.”
“Okay, okay.” Both hands shoot up in surrender. “I don’t know much, just that there’s something about your name.”
My name? “Kennedy?”
“No.” She lets out a frustrated breath. “Your other name. Your real name.”
My brows knit together hard. Confused, I repeat her words. “My real name?”
“Mellow? Ménage?”
My heart drops as my father’s proud Scottish name rises from the center of my chest to my lips. “Mullvain.”