Serena
“Ugh,” I groaned as I rolled over in bed.
The day slowly filtered back to me. Working in the studio on a custom project.
Then the telltale sign of a migraine forming behind my eyes.
The double vision that came on fast and the rush to lay down in a cold, dark room.
I had time before Harper got home to get over the worst of it, so I closed my eyes, praying some sleep would fix it all.
A flash of strong arms and a warm body lifting me, whispering to me to rest, and then nothing after that.
I pulled the eye mask off, not remembering putting it on, but not questioning it. The room was dark. The alarm clock said it was after seven. Did I sleep through the night? Did Harper come in, and was I so out of it that I didn’t wake up? Couldn’t wake up?
My heart started racing, and I scrambled out of bed. My head ached, reminding me why I was knocked out for who knew how long. I rubbed my eyes, bumping into the wall as I made my way down the hall and to her room.
Except it wasn’t Harper’s room. It was a big open room, a walk-in closet with suits hanging on three of the four walls, cabinetry, and a mirror.
The sleep fog dissipated as I went to one of the suits. Rubbing the fabric between my fingers was familiar. I pulled it down. My tailor’s tag was still attached, from six months ago.
A niggling feeling pushed me to investigate further. I started pulling down more shirts, pants, and jackets. All of them had my tags.
I went row by row, wall to wall, grabbing randomly to confirm my suspicions. I had tailored every item of clothing in the room. None of them had been worn.
Confusion and frustration bloomed in me. Why spend thousands of dollars on tailored clothing and never wear any of it? Did he not like my work?
A throat cleared behind me. I spun around, knowing Enzo was there. I should be embarrassed for being caught snooping, but the frustration was slowly morphing into anger, and I found I didn’t care about being caught.
“What is this?” I asked, waving my hand around the room.
“You weren’t supposed to see this. Not yet.” Enzo sighed, a frustrated look on his face as he took a cautious step inside. “Why didn’t you come find me when you woke up?”
He was staring at the wall of suits.
Look at me.
“I’m not answering you until you tell me what I want to know,” I said, refusing to back down an inch.
He turned to face me, shoulders straight. His face had changed from frustration to resolve, like he’d made a decision and was going to move forward with it.
“That’s complicated, and I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it.” He held out a bottle of coconut water. “Drink this. It will help.”
I snatched the bottle as soon as I realized I was thirsty. "You’d be surprised by what I can handle. If I can handle my entire life blowing up on Page Six, I can handle whatever this is.”
“Right.” Enzo stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Come posso dirlo?”
He undid the top two buttons on his shirt. “I have been trying to find a way to,” he stopped. “No. That’s not the right way to say this. What I meant it was—”
“Do you not like how I tailor your clothes? Is that why this closet is filled with them? If you don’t like my work, why did you keep coming back?” I cut him off, firing back questions that I couldn’t keep contained.
My work was one of the only areas in which I excelled. One I was proud of, and if he really didn’t like what I did, it was going to be a blow.
Enzo stayed silent, which only deepened my self-consciousness about my work. “Is this all because you feel sorry for me?” I asked, my voice quieter, more fragile than I meant for it to be.
“No.” Enzo jumped on that like a lifeline. “Your work is amazing. I love it. I don’t think you charge people enough for what you do.”
“There are thousands of dollars of unworn clothes here, Enzo. What am I supposed to think?”
“That maybe I wanted an excuse to see you? To talk to you?” he said, his voice even.
His answer short-circuited my brain. It was like I couldn’t comprehend such a simple possibility.
“I need you to explain it in plain terms for me.” It would kill me and my fragile, closed-off heart if I misinterpreted his meaning.
“Lay it out for you?” he asked.
I nodded.
For a moment, he didn’t move. And that gave me time to really look at him.
Enzo filled the space in front of me like he always did—big, solid, a brute of a man who seemed carved from muscle and ink. But it was his eyes that caught me first. Dark. Intense. Almost painfully soulful as they searched my face, like he was trying to read every thought I hadn’t said aloud.
My gaze drifted downward before I could stop it.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing the sinewy strength of his forearms, the dark tattoos curling over muscle that flexed when his hands shifted at his sides. Big hands. Dangerous hands. Hands that could break bones… or hold someone together.
They made my stomach flutter.
He looked almost unsure of himself for a heartbeat, as if he were standing on the edge of something and deciding whether to jump.
Then his gaze locked onto mine.
The hesitation vanished.
And suddenly he was moving toward me, slow and deliberate, prowling forward like the sleek panther I’d once accused him of being.
My pulse skipped.
Because I knew exactly what that made me.
His prey.
But the realization didn’t scare me.
It sent a warm, electric tingle down my spine.
Three steps and he was in front of me.
One of his hands slid around my waist, warm and firm, pulling me closer. The other came up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading gently into my hair.
My breath caught.
His nose bumped softly against mine.
I closed my eyes and fisted the hem of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then his lips brushed mine.
Lightly.
Testing.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
And then the pressure deepened, firm and certain. Enzo was kissing me.
Lorenzo Lombardi was kissing me. This was a dream. It had to be.
Pushing up on my toes, I deepened our kiss, needing more of it. Of him.
His arm banded around my waist, lifting me as he walked us back until I hit the wall.
His hard body was pressed against mine, not an inch separating us. It was like he was kissing me with his whole body.
Entrapped and completely unwilling to escape, I curled a leg around his waist, his hand to my thigh holding it in place as I nipped at his lip.
“Si,” he said. My body was a live wire.
One kiss and everything in me awoke. I was touch-starved, and he was the cure.
I slid my hands under his shirt, scratching at his stomach. His muscles flexed under my hands. Tugging his shirt up, I got stuck halfway, the fabric catching on his broad shoulders.
He ripped his mouth away.
Grabbing my wrists, he leaned his forehead against mine.
“Sarai la mia morte,” he said and laughed. It wasn’t loud, but his body shook, jostling mine in the process.
I was out of breath, the thrill of kissing him still running through my body.
“Why did you stop?” I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could take back the words. The last thing I wanted to seem was desperate.
The man whom I had the biggest crush on—the man who saved my daughter—had just kissed me.
“Perché.” He dragged his nose from my temple down to the crook of my neck, shoving his face there. “Look at what you do to me.”
I forgot how to speak. All I wanted was for us to keep kissing and find out how far we would go.
He bit my neck, and I jumped, tightening my leg around him instinctively.
“There are so many things I want to do to you. I don’t even know where to start,” he said, voice muffled.
“Okay,” was all I could manage.
He pulled back, his mouth pulled down in a frown. “We won’t. Not tonight.” His cheek twitched. “We should discuss this before we go any further.”
I didn’t like the frown or the fact that he was putting distance between us. Did he know this was the most alive I had felt in years?
A flash of anger hit me.
“No. I want to know. Not tomorrow. Not later. Right now,” I said, anger spilling over. I was tired of second-guessing myself with him, constantly making sure I wasn’t assuming too much, and it was exhausting.
“We’ll talk more when you’re fully recovered,” he stated. I narrowed my eyes at him, readying for a fight when he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I’ll leave you with this: you’re mine. Harper is mine. This house, with me, is where you belong.”
His? I’d never been someone’s. Not when I was a kid or when I was married. Maybe the kiss had altered something in my brain, and I wasn’t thinking about what that term encompassed completely.
It was also unsettling. In my limited experience, which was what I’d seen of Martina’s relationship, men in this world were possessive. Territorial. Would Enzo be like that? Crazier than Flavio, Martina’s husband?
Flavio definitely had a screw loose when it came to Martina and other men being near her. When he came into a room, every man, with the exception of her son Sly, ensured they were at least two arms’ lengths away.
As unsettled as I was at the prospect of Enzo acting like Flavio, I was wholly excited. He said where I belong.
I’d never felt as though I belonged anywhere. It was part of the reason why I left my small town in New Jersey. To find my place.
And maybe I had, in the most unexpected of ways.
He tugged my hand, pulling me out of the room. “I’ll wear the clothes you made. I always do. Sometimes my clothes get ruined because of work, and these are my backups.”
I wanted to ask more questions about how his clothes were getting so ruined that it was easier to throw them away than to take them to the cleaner, but I decided against it. There was some information I’d rather be unaware of than have answers.
When we got to the kitchen, he pushed me to the stool. He pulled open the bottom drawer of the fridge, where a plate sat.