Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
KENNEDY
For the second time this morning, my cell rings.
I watch it vibrate angrily with Caller Unknown , and let it ring out.
Whatever it is, it can definitely wait.
From the moment I tore open the bright gold box Enzo had delivered, nothing else mattered.
Not the baked cornetto with its light, flaky crust seducing me with a buttery interior and luscious apricot jam filling. Nor the thinly sliced prosciutto whose rich, savory flavors perfectly complemented the tangy pecorino cheese.
Not even the velvety espresso, with its heavenly aroma, hint of hazelnut, and silky crema—my usual morning go-to against homicidal urges—could compete. This gift transcended even breakfast, which is saying a lot.
The second Truffles was done with his morning business, I was here, in the most lavish gym I’ve ever seen in my life.
I relish every second of lacing up my elegant new dance slippers—a ruby red pair reminiscent of grand stages and seventy-piece orchestras.
Granted, I’m in my normal dancing-for-the-hell-of-it attire: leotard, sweatshirt, and messiest of messy buns. In the real world, I’d have no earthly reason to ever wear them. But today, oh, I’m wearing them.
For the next few hours, I’m wearing the shit out of these puppies.
The moment I lace up, I come alive.
My feet spring into a series of piqué turns, warming up as I circle the entire room. Almost instantly, I shed my sweatshirt, my body on absolute fire.
The polished hardwood floors and full-length mirrors urge me to push harder. Unlike the formidable grandeur of the grand Italian estate, this room and I are old childhood friends, our bond as familiar as a second skin.
I open Spotify and let it shuffle, the music setting the tone as I begin to move.
At first, it’s a mix of pop and jazz, light and freeing. I lose myself in the rhythm, each step and pirouette shedding layers of stress and fear. Dancing is my sanctuary, where joy peers through like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. And for the first time in forever, I feel light and free and alive.
After hours of working my body to the brink of fatigue, when the soft, magical notes of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” fill the room, my heart skips a beat, memories flooding back, full force. Of Da clapping louder than anyone at the church recital, unapologetically and fiercely proud.
No one would ever suspect that a big, burly, towering lug of a man would be teary-eyed, whistling at the conclusion of my performance in “The Nutcracker” as if I were a Prima Ballerina at the Chicago Ballet Theater.
I close my eyes and let the music guide me across the floor, imagining his proud face in the audience, his rough hands coming together in applause. His deep voice cheering louder than anyone else’s, a mix of pride and love that made me feel cherished and adored.
Tears blur my vision. Ye did good, lass. Ye made yer Da proud.
For my whole life, I danced for him, even after he’d gone. Twirling and leaping across the floor, each movement a tribute to the man who always believed in me. Because no matter where I went or what I did, I knew he was with me. So close, I could open my eyes, and almost see him there.
As the final notes play, I hold the last pose a moment longer, breathless and a little teary—not because Da isn’t here, but because I feel his presence stronger than I have in years, and it’s all because of Enzo. The thought tugs at my heart, a bittersweet ache.
I wish Da could’ve met him.
I’m still riding the high of floating on air when the music stops abruptly, and my phone rings again. Which is weird, considering it must be an ungodly hour in the States.
Caller Unknown is about to get an earful. I snatch it up. “Hello?” I bark.
“Kennedy?” the man asks. Great, just what I need—a telemarketer.
“Look, I don’t have money for fake sheriff’s fundraisers or timeshares in Florida, not that I don’t believe in both worthy causes. I can’t extend the warranty on my nonexistent car, and as much as I’d love to switch my energy provider, mostly because I’m three months behind on paying them, you might want to call someone who actually has cash. So if there’s nothing else?—”
“Kennedy, this is Agent Caleb Knox.”
My ears perk up. First, he’s hanging around Riley to weasel his way into Enzo’s world, then he’s coaxed Savannah Whitaker into becoming his spy.
I’m not exactly sure how the FBI does that with the Dog Trainer to the Stars, though it’s definitely smart. I mean, what better way to get to know people than through their dogs?
“What do you want?”
“I’m just calling to see if you’re alright.”
There’s enough concern in his voice that my interest is piqued. I retie the loosened ribbon from my shoe. “Why wouldn’t I be alright?”
“You don’t know?”
I don’t like where this is going. If he tells me Enzo was with another woman last night, I’ll be devastated. “Know what?”
He exhales sharply, frustration evident. “I know you’re in a”—he struggles for the right word—“ thing with Enzo D’Angelo.”
Thing? Did he just call us a thing? Like we’re what? Bad pasta or something. My pulse quickens, irritation bubbling to the surface.
Sure, maybe I can’t neatly define my relationship with Enzo, but I loathe how he reduced it to a mere thing , as if it were something so trivial, it’s distasteful. “My personal life is none of your concern, Agent Knox. So, if there’s nothing else?— ”
“I have it on good authority he’s been shot.”
My legs buckle as the floor whips out from under me. The room spins to the point I can’t breathe.
Shot?
Emotions crash over me in waves—fear, disbelief, shock. Words are floating through the phone—“Kennedy? Did you hear what I said?”—but my heart pounds so loudly I can’t hear it.
Not again.
Not again.
Not again.
My fingers fumble as I disconnect the call and frantically dial Enzo’s number. It rings and rings. Fucking voicemail again.
I hang up, and call again, claws of anxiety ripping apart my insides. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I mutter, pacing like a caged animal, trapped in my own skin. “Damn it!” I shout, my voice cracking, echoing off the walls.
I can’t stay here, not knowing.
Maybe the guards know. There’s dozens of them circling the grounds. One of them has to know something.
I bolt for the door, not giving two shits that I’m practically in nothing but underwear and toe shoes.
Just as my hand reaches for the doorknob, it swings open. And I plow into the solid frame of Enzo himself, nearly knocking the mountain down.
A mix of concern and exhaustion are etched on his face. His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, everything else falls away.
“Enzo!” I choke out through tears. The relief is overwhelming, a tidal wave that leaves me trembling and weak. I grab his face, cheeks, and run my hands along his shoulders. “You’re okay?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he spins us, pinning me against the cold, unforgiving wall. His body, hot and unyielding against mine. “No. I’m not okay.” His lips graze my ear, his breath a mix of raw emotion and heat.
His thumb gently wipes away my tears. “Why are you crying?”
“I heard you’d been shot.”
Suspicion flickers in his eyes, then vanishes in an instant. “Yes.”
Confused, I let my gaze roam over his body, sculpted with precision. His broad shoulders taper down to a chiseled chest and taut abs, every inch of him seemingly invincible.
His right bicep is slightly bulged more than the left, but I see no trace of injury. My voice wavers, disbelief coloring my word.“Where?”
He motions to his arm, the gesture almost nonchalant. “Here.”
We lock eyes, a charged silence stretching between us. I don’t know if I can do this. Open my heart only to watch it be torn apart again. The fear of losing another man, of enduring that pain, feels like a vise tightening around my chest.
I look away, desperate to avoid his gaze. “You could’ve died.”
His fingers find my chin, lifting until I have no choice but to meet his eyes, now darkened with intensity. “How could I die when my sweet Bella begged me to fuck her?”
Oh, shit.
He saw that—saw me ?
My heart races, the memory of last night flowing like molten lava beneath my skin.
Me. Making love to a camera like a porn star.
The look in his eyes, a fierce possession that steals my breath, is everything. I want to be owned by him—be his. Maybe more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
I don’t know if it’s him kissing me or me kissing him, but holy hell, is it hot.
My fingers dive into his thick waves of hair, gripping tight, pulling him closer so I can lick, taste, and devour him at once. The groan he makes when I do is pure heaven, sending shivers down my spine and setting my entire body on absolute fire.
For a fleeting moment, his body trembles, hands braced against the wall, as if he’s summoning every ounce of his strength to hold back the storm within.
I say one word. The only word I know he needs to hear me say. “Please,” I gasp.
His arms wrap around me tight, pulling me forward until every hard inch of him is pressed against me, and it’s a lot.
Then, with a swift motion, I’m lifted off the ground, hoisted into his arms. My legs wrap around him instinctively, clinging to him and climbing him like the solid Redwood he is.
There’s this erotic flick of his tongue that makes me feel like I’m free-falling, dizzy and drunk with desire. He’s done the same thing between my legs, and now, I can’t breathe.
“Clothes. Off,” he commands in a low, husky voice. God, the dominance of this man. He’s not waiting for me to comply—I can already hear the fabric tearing as he rips the neckline of my leotard.
It’s a good thing, too, since my fingers are fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, desperate to expose the hard planes of his chest.
Would it kill him to wear a T-shirt just once?
The faint click of a door handle jerks us both from our frenzy. We freeze, hearts racing.
“Who’s that?” I gasp, breathless.
“ Shh. ” He holds his breath, straining to hear. After a minute of silence, he adds, “I think they’ve gone.”
“Enzo?” A small voice drifts through the door.
My eyes snap wide. Is that a kid?