Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
KENNEDY
“What’s going on?” Enzo’s voice trails off, perplexed. It isn’t the blustery boom I expected, not even the slightest bit irritated.
Just utterly dumbfounded.
Since I saw him this afternoon, he’s somehow managed to clean himself up, transforming from something the cat dragged in to devastatingly claw-worthy.
His dark hair, now slicked back, accentuates the sharp angles of his face. And the unshaven mess from earlier is gone, replaced by neatly trimmed stubble that frames his chiseled jaw.
The rumpled blue shirt has been traded up for a crisp, tailored cream one that hugs his broad shoulders and tapers down to his sculpted waist.
My eyes linger a little too long, drinking in the sight of the top two buttons undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of tan skin and muscles that are pure torture to look away from.
The golden hue of his eyes is sharper now, framed by thick brows and dark lashes that make him even more devastating. His scent—a heady mix of rich boy cologne and expensive cigars—fills the air, sending my pulse racing like a snare drum at a Queen B concert.
There are two dozen velvety red roses clutched in his hands that I try to ignore.
“I’m cooking,” I declare with an authority that would be laughable if it weren’t so pitiful. The most I’ve ever managed in the kitchen is an egg, and even that was a disaster. Charred rubber, anyone?
But here I am, with a pot of boiling water and a chaotic scene on the counter. Tomatoes, garlic, and onions are roughly chopped, their juices mingling into a sticky mess that’s spreading like a crime scene. A jar of homemade sauce, the market vendor’s pride and joy, has already been knocked over twice now. And meat.
A lot of meat.
He motions to the mounds of paper-wrapped ground chuck, pork, and veal. “How much did you buy?”
I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “I’m not exactly a wizard at converting metric to standard, but judging by the weight, I’d say we’re staring down the barrel of eight to ten pounds.”
His brows arch in surprise. “Went for the traditional bowling ball portion, did we?” He scrutinizes the mountain of food laid out. “What happened to Antonio’s ?”
“Who?”
“The restaurant that gave you the menu.”
Innocently, I shrug. “There’s a lovely market just down from Riley’s that had everything we’d need for a cozy meal. And I’m in Italy, the home of marinara. Plus, I’ve always dreamed of making a home-cooked meal in a lavish gourmet kitchen. ”
I gesture enthusiastically at the restaurant-quality space, only to knock over the jar of sauce for the third time. With an embarrassed smile, I quickly set it out of reach.
“Is that so?” he asks, shaking his head. “I really don’t have time for this,” he mutters, frustration seeping from every word.
“I’m almost done,” I assure him, lying through my teeth.
“You are if my options are E. coli poisoning or death by beef.”
“You should’ve worn your buffet pants.”
With a huff, he sets down the flowers and rolls up his sleeves, brushing past me to head to the pantry. It’s the size of a gas station convenience store, so God knows what he’s grabbing.
“How long did you know I was across the street today? The whole time?” I holler into the pantry.
“Yes,” he replies back, with the calm of a seasoned sniper. “The whole time.”
“How?”
He reemerges with two black aprons, slipping one over his head and the other over mine. “Keeping an eye on you is my favorite pastime. I’m always watching.”
Always? Of course he is. At least I’m not the only stalker.
Then, with a firm grip on my wrist, he drags me to the sink and starts washing my hands.
“What the—? I am not a toddler,” I protest.
“No, you just cook like one.” He pats my hands dry, tilts my chin up with a commanding finger, and presses a quick, possessive kiss to my lips. “Watch and learn, Bella .”
And so, I do.
For the next hour, I watch my big, bad mob boss transform into Julia Child. How being able to cook makes one of the sexiest men alive a million times hotter is beyond me. But as he lifts a wooden spoon of sauce to my lips, sweet baby Jesus, it sure as hell does.
“Mmm,” I let out, savoring the flavor.
He suckles a drop of sauce off my lower lip, his brow furrowing in concentration. “It needs a little...”
He reaches for his phone and dials. It rings once. “ Si, signore .”
“Chef, I need a bottle of Nebbiolo.”
“Why?” The voice on the other end isn’t the chef. It’s his brother, Dante.
“No reason.” Watching Enzo clam up in front of his brother is like watching the keeper of the Holy Grail withhold its location from the town crier.
Dante chuckles. “I know you’re not making your world-famous pasta, or you would have invited me.”
“World-famous pasta sauce?” I mouth.
I smile as Enzo’s jaw tightens. “Just have the chef bring me the Nebbiolo,” he demands sternly, then abruptly disconnects the call.
A few minutes later, the bell rings. Enzo’s head is in the oven like he’s evaluating a breach birth, so I hop off the counter and head towards the door. “I’ll get it.”
Playing house with Enzo is definitely surreal. But watching him go gray over whether the cannoli shells need another minute in the oven? It’s like a mashup of MasterChef , The Godfather , and The Twilight Zone .
But before I even take two steps towards the hall, the door swings open. In comes Dante, Sin, Dory, Striker, a guard, another guard, and a man who looks suspiciously like the gardener.
The tray of hot cannoli shells hits the counter with a clang, and Enzo’s murderous brow furrows in a murderous what the fuck expression.
The bodyguards cower behind Dante’s mountainous frame as Dory holds up a bottle. “Someone ask for fancy wine?”
We begin ferrying portions of the lavish feast to a grand table, Dante pulling out my chair with a style that holds an old world charm. As we settle, Enzo’s silent fury settles like mist.
But the storm that was brewing behind his eyes dissipates as everyone takes their seats. Dante leans in close to me, his voice a deep, reassuring rumble. “He can never stay mad for long.
I whisper, “How can you be so sure?”
Dante’s blue eyes dance with delight. “Because he misses this shit. The chaos, the family. Sitting around a table, giving each other hell while we devour comfort food like it’s the apocalypse.”
Enzo arches a brow, clearly having overheard. “You can thank Kennedy for the spread. She made sure we had enough to feed an army.”
Sin lifts his glass, a gentlemanly smile tugging at his lips. “To Kennedy.”
They all follow suit as Enzo’s glass clinks mine. “To Kennedy.”
Within the first few bites, it’s clear to see why Dante referred to it as world famous . The sauce is probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
Dante wipes sauce from his lips. “Come on, bro. This isn’t just Nonna’s recipe. What’s the secret ingredient? ”
“Crack cocaine,” he teases with barely a grin.
It’s strange to see him so at ease, as if the weight of the world has magically lifted from his broad shoulders.
“How was salvataggio ?” Sin asks, and the room falls silent, everyone holding their breath.
“How was what ?” I ask, sticking my nose right into the middle of what’s probably something dangerous and very much none of my business.
Enzo’s gaze sweeps across the table, lingering on each person before he sucks in a tired breath. “Fifty,” he says, deflated.
Dory pats his hand with a surprising tenderness. “Fifty is good.”
“Fifty is shit. It should’ve been five hundred.” He yanks his hand away, and it hits me like a ton of bricks that I’m wading into a conversation where I don’t belong.
I set down my napkin, latching onto the quickest escape route. “I’ll just go grab the cannoli.”
“I’ll help,” Dory offers kindly.
We make our way to the kitchen, giving me a chance to take a closer look at Dory. She’s older, with brilliant red hair and the most outlandish, beautiful blue-framed glasses that make her look more like a rockstar manager than a personal assistant.
There’s an air about her that’s completely unafraid of Enzo. It makes me wonder how many people in the world can claim that.
Once we enter the kitchen, Dory inspects the counters and stove. “Spotless,” she says, complimenting how nice and tidy everything is. “It’s not how I cook,” she teases.
“Me neither. If not for Enzo, you’d need a hazmat suit to enter.” I pull the full tray of cannoli out of the fridge, three dozen with assorted dipped ends: mini chocolate chips, pistachio and cherry, and crushed hazelnuts dusted with white chocolate.
“Enzo’s always been like this,” she says, smiling. “Total control is his superpower.”
“You’ve known him a long time?” I ask, curious.
She shrugs a shoulder. “Not that he remembers, but yes.”
That line throws me off. “Why wouldn’t he remember?”
She pauses, her eyes flickering with old memories. “It was a very long time ago. And a lot has happened between now and then. But he always loved to cook. Something his Nonna taught him.”
“Nonna?”
“Grandmother.” Her smile turns wistful, almost sad. “They were very close. He wasn’t always the ruthless monster that manages to make headlines.”
It’s hard to imagine all the layers that make up Enzo D’Angelo, or how far I’d have to drill down to find the real him.
I don’t just want to know. I need to know. Savannah Whitaker warned me that Enzo had exactly one person that was important to him, and that was himself. She also said he hit on her and that Enzo is handing me back by the end of the week.
My head screams for caution, but my heart—the one that’s been shattered so many times it can’t take another blow—whispers that Enzo is worth the risk. A safe haven in a tumultuous sea. And deep down, a good man.
Which, admittedly, might be a stretch. Enzo is still a lethal mafia king notorious for everything from being a player to a psychotic murderer.
Seriously, no one wants to be on his bad side.
And the idea that Enzo deeply, truly cares for me might be my ridiculous heart living way too long in the cold and mistaking that first ray of sunlight for . . . love.
Still, when it comes to Enzo, I can’t help it. My heart overflows with hope. How can it not? He rescued me from Andre and sent Riley halfway around the world just to keep her safe.
He didn’t have to do either of those things. Yet, he did.
Plus, I’m pretty sure that whatever came out of Savannah’s mouth was pretty much straight-up dog shit, but that’s just a memo from my gut.
Like Alice in Wonderland, curiosity gets the better of me, and I dive in, headfirst, straight down the D’Angelo rabbit hole. “What’s salvataggio ?”
Dory’s expression shifts slightly, a guarded look crossing her face. She eyes me for a moment, then grabs one of the cannolis—the white chocolate hazelnut one—and eats as she talks, keeping her voice down. “I think it means ‘rescue’ in Italian. But in Enzo’s world, it’s more complicated than that. It’s about saving what’s important, sometimes at great personal cost.”
“Saving what?” I ask, nibbling on a chocolate chip one.
Dory leans in, her eyes darting around as if we’re in a spy movie. “In case you didn’t know,” she whispers, “their uncle is a total a-hole.”
Considering the man had me attacked and kidnapped while holding my douchebag stepfather’s debt over my head like a guillotine, I wholeheartedly agree. “A-hole of the century.”
Dory’s expression darkens, her eyes narrowing with a mix of rage and resolve. “Apparently, one of Andre’s latest monstrosities is trafficking women, and our boys here are determined to stop him. No matter the cost.”
Our boys repeats in my head, but so does no matter the cost.
I think back to the woman at the van, how desperately she clung to Enzo. What if she was actually thanking him?
Realization hits me like a punch to the gut, sharp and unforgiving. Maybe Enzo isn’t just a ruthless mafia overlord. Maybe, just maybe, he’s risking everything to demolish his Uncle’s human trafficking pipeline. Is that why he’s been gone all this time? To save the lives of fifty women?
Because my big bad Enzo D’Angelo isn’t just Satan incarnate, but an angel, too.
All the pieces start to fall into place, each revelation more staggering than the last.
His work with Dante.
Why he didn’t want me to see any of the photos.
Moving Riley to the safest place on the planet he could find.
Risking his own life to rescue me.
“Keeping them all for yourselves?” Enzo’s voice is a smooth rumble as he enters the room.
Dory, having inhaled her cannoli in a few ravenous bites, leaves me standing here like a greedy child caught red-handed, a tray of cannolis in one hand and a nibbled one in the other.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I stammer, my cheeks flushing with warmth.
“It looks like two women gossiping as if the world is their cannoli.” Enzo steps closer, his presence overwhelming, and plucks the tray from my grip, handing it to Dory. “We’ll join you in a minute.”
Recognizing her cue, she exits with a subtle wink and a sweet smile, biting into another cannoli as she leaves. When she’s gone, his eyes lock onto mine. “What did she tell you?”
I don’t want anyone to get in trouble. “Nothing. I mean, other than you’ve always been a control freak.”
He sweeps my hair behind my shoulder, his gaze fixing on my heart-shaped freckle. “Lies,” he whispers, his breath feathering my skin.
Goosebumps scatter across my arms, and the electricity between us could power all of Italy. When his eyes fall to my lips, I nibble them nervously.
Softly, he takes my hand, gently pulls the cannoli from my fingers, and devours most of it in one bite.
“Hey,” I object, giggling as he chews.
“Are you kidding me? Those vultures will hoover them up in three minutes flat,” he says, his words muffled by the mouthful of cannoli. Then, with surprising tenderness, he feeds me the last bite.
His expression shifts, a frown creasing his brow as he checks his watch again. “I need to leave.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t pull away and neither do I. It’s as if neither of us wants this fragile tether between us to break. Slowly, he begins to turn, heading for the door.
I can’t let him leave like this, thinking some part of me is pissed at him when he’s probably about to dive into something incredibly dangerous.
I can’t let him leave like this, thinking I’m pissed at him when he’s about to dive headfirst into a storm. Rescuing me from Andre was risky enough, but ripping countless innocent women from Andre’s clutches? That’s not just dangerous—he’s asking for an all-out war.
“Enzo, wait.”
The second he turns around, I kiss him, pouring all my desperation and fear into it. Then he’s kissing me, fierce and unrestrained, totally losing control.
He slams me up against the wall, the impact sending a shiver down my spine. His hand cradles my neck, fingers threading through my hair, while the other tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him, forcing me to feel every inch of his hard cock.
It’s nothing but scorching heat—hunger and raw emotion colliding in a frenzy of everything we want to tell each other, but can’t say.
My hands grip his shoulders, clinging to him as if he’s my only anchor in a storm. Every touch, every kiss, feels so impossibly right.
His breath sears my skin as his mouth moves down my jaw, nipping and kissing, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
My heart races, pounding damn near out of my chest as his hand makes its way to my breast. Instinctively, I wrap a leg around him, gripping his hair, wanting him so bad, I can hardly breathe.
Knock-knock . “Sir, it’s time.”
Enzo steps back from me in a rush, the fog of arousal dissipating like smoke. His eyes, now cold and distant, avoid mine entirely. “Yes. It’s time.” He clears his throat, the shift in his demeanor stark. “Is the jet ready?”
Jet? How far is he going ?
The bodyguard nods. “The pilot is on standby. Your brother is in the car.”
Enzo straightens, collecting himself with a swift, practiced efficiency. He pauses for only a second before saying, “Let’s go.”
No lingering gaze. No last look. As abruptly as snapping off a twig, he breaks away and leaves.
The molten mess of me crumbles as each fragment of my heart splinters with raw, jagged pain.
This is Enzo.
And this is how easy it is for him to walk away.