Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
LOLA
You'd think the decision to keep the baby would make it easier to spend further days locked in the suite. There's no rush to see the doctor to have this taken care of.
But I do still need to go to a doctor. I need to make sure all is okay with me and the baby.
Besides, being cooped up, even with work, is enough to drive me crazy.
I'm so bored that when I finish the data entry, I go onto the workspace connected to the computer he gave me to work from.
It's not the full workspace, and I can't access his emails, as even his work ones would probably take me a long time to hack, and I've got a feeling if I did, I'd somehow hit a hidden tripwire and bring everything down.
But I can see some of the company structure, and I start playing around with ideas to make it more efficient.
It's better than sitting and waiting for him to appear so we can play sex games.
It's better than me trying not to think about the anger and lust-infused sex we had against the wall.
Honestly, it's almost better than anything.
Except seeing Enzo.
Or Lyndall.
And freedom.
I'm not really sure about the first one. I'm so mad at him that I'm close to falling apart. Or maybe I'll fall apart if I'm not mad at him.
It doesn't matter. They both fit.
Five comes and goes, and I get changed into the sleep T. Because there's nowhere to go, but this time, I just pull on some yoga pants, too. They were in the bundle of clothes I'm betting Lyndall got me.
Enzo's taste is class, sex, and lace lingerie.
"Ugh. Don't think about him," I mutter.
But it's easier said than done.
I pace the suite, and I realize I'm actually hungry. I don't know if it's morning sickness or just being locked up against my will sickness, but I'd kill for a bowl of chicken soup.
This morning, like every morning since I threw the eggs at him—eggs that turned my stomach and the smell of which made me want to hurl—I've only been able to tolerate a few bites of toast and then nothing until nearly seven. But now I'm hit with a wave of hunger.
I don't want any soup.
I want homemade chicken soup with noodles and carrots and celery and onion, finished with dill or parsley.
And with that, I'll take some saltines.
Actually, saltines might be—
"Lola?"
Everything in me lurches and sparks at the sound of Enzo's voice, and I turn slowly.
He's in his jeans and hoodie, and he's just as sexy as he is in his suit.
"What?"
"Are you ready to talk?"
I go to say no, snapping all the way, but really what I want is to get out of this room and make the soup.
"Can you get some ingredients for me?"
He looks taken aback. "I can get you anything you want."
He whips out his phone.
"I want...do you have a pressure cooker?"
"In twenty minutes, I will."
I gape, but when I realize it, I close my mouth.
He's rich, he can do anything.
Once, I thought I was this rich, too. Though Dad never, in his life, did on-demand things. Never bought things the moment I said I wanted them.
Or maybe he did, but I was too young, or I don't remember.
He turned further into work after the fallout with Mario Marino. And before his death, I didn't ask for things.
Actually, I never really did.
Am I that boring?
"One of Dad's men is getting it now. It's paid for. I got the five-quart." He starts rattling off stats, but all I want is something that'll reduce the stock-making to a fraction of the time, so I let him geek out.
When he stops, he looks at me. "I should have asked if you wanted more things from the cookware store."
"No. As long as you have stuff for soup."
"Who's making soup? And I have things. I had it kitted out. The kitchen. What else?"
I give him the ingredient list, and then, though he doesn't tell me, I'm sure his father's guy—not Con, as he's on Lyndall duty, and she must still be at her music class—is embarking on a full shopping spree.
"Who's making soup?"
I didn't even think about it, but this could be the perfect chance to get out of here. Even for a couple of hours, it'd be worth it.
"You," I say. "I guess."
"I'm not making soup."
My shoulders sag, and he closes the gap.
"Lola..."
"I'm not ready to talk about you and me, Enzo. It was a huge betrayal." Shit. I might as well go there since I'll never be out of his room. "Surely you can see that."
"It wasn't meant to be."
"Can I make it? The soup?"
"Sure." But there's a coolness in his tone. "And then you'll be back here. We'll make it tomorrow when I'm going to be home."
Frustration hits. "I wanted the soup tonight. I might be able to eat that."
I narrowly stop myself from telling him about the pregnancy because I want to see the doctor first. And I'm not ready to tell him. Not yet.
He hasn't earned that.
"You'll only get angrier when I have to put you back in here, and I don't have a lot of time to babysit tonight."
I laugh, shaking my head. "I don't need that. I'm going crazy, you know? I'm cooped up."
"Being in the house is still cooped up, and it's not safe outside, Lola. Not unless you're with me. And I've got to find this prick who tried to take you, who took Lyndall."
"Having the run of the house would make me feel less like a prisoner."
"Lola."
"I'm still incredibly angry at you." I take a breath and sit on the edge of the bed. "But I can see your point of view. I respect that this is the safest place for me, under your roof. And I promise I don't have any plans of escape."
In a way, it's true. I can see his side of things.
It doesn't make it fairer or make me less angry, but I can see it.
And I don't have a plan.
Nothing solid.
Nothing written in stone.
"But as trust goes both ways, you need to let me out and trust I won't run. All I need and want is some chicken noodle soup. Letting me roam the house is the least you can do."
My heart thunders in my ears, and my chest aches as I wait for his verdict.
But finally, he breathes out and says, "Okay."
Just like that, tension seeps away. Some of it, anyway.
"Thank y—"
"But..." Enzo says. "If this is a ploy or if you run, I'll hunt you down and make your life hell."
Like he's already doing. But I keep those words to myself. Just like I don't say his threat plays into why I'm angry in the first place.
I don't say any of that.
Instead, I just say, "Thanks, Enzo. Thank you for trusting me."
By the time Enzo leaves, I'm ready to scream.
He's a hoverer. A control freak.
I know his idea of freedom is his eyes on me.
Who cares if there are people in the house, in the downstairs living room where they wait and watch small screens of the outside and are ready to pounce if someone even dares to attempt to come near this place without an invitation written in triplicate?
And who cares if there are people in his employ outside, too?
It doesn't matter to him that they'll nab me if I even think of stepping toward the door.
He just wants to be here and control everything.
But after setting up the pressure cooker on the bench and filling it to my specifications with water to cover the bones and the chicken pieces, I finally get him to go.
He and his hacker friends—Or are they mafia or maybe hacker-mafia friends?—are still trying to find the man named Dom who took Lyndall.
I'm actually all for him doing that.
The man took a child, threw her in the trunk of his car, he deserves whatever takedown is planned.
I relax as I prep for when the stock is done. I have a pot on the stove so I can cook the noodles. This way, I can make thick or thin soup to match my mood in the coming days. I'm sure Enzo won't eat it.
And if it's not burgers or pizza, then it's not food as far as Lyndall is concerned.
That makes me giggle. It's not true, but it's pretty close.
"That smells good," Lyndall says, as if I summoned her, stomping down the stairs to the kitchen. "I didn't think it was my brother. And he let you out! Where is he?"
"I convinced him to give me a chance with this thing called trust."
"Goes both ways."
"I know that." I wipe the tears as I finish dicing the onion.
Lyndall comes up to me and hugs me tight. "Don't cry."
"It's the onions."
She lets me go and pokes her tongue out. "What are you making? Since when are you a cook?"
I shake my head.
It's really a sign she doesn't know me, just like, I guess, Enzo.
"Not a cook, but I can cook some things. This is New York, land of endless delivery and cuisines. But...I was craving chicken noodle soup."
Her eyes light up as she drops them to my stomach. "Cravings? Already."
"Don't." I put down the knife.
I don't want anyone else to know. The first other person needs to be the doctor and then Enzo.
If I tell him.
Because his helicopter protectiveness and tight control do frighten me. I don't want a child kept in a castle or wrapped in cotton wool.
But that's not something I need to worry about for now. I need to relax into this modest freedom a little.
"He still doesn't know."
She rolls her eyes. "Telllll him."
"Soon. Anyway, you can have some soup when it's done or order in."
"Are you kidding? I'm totally having the soup." Then she gets a kombucha from the fridge, unscrews the lid, and takes a sip as she settles on the other side of the island. "How are you? I wanted to check up on you."
"We live in the same place right now. And I should be checking on you."
"I'm good. You know. School, even when it's one-on-one, is boring A.F."
I laugh a little and start to chop the dill. "No. I mean you. After all, you were the one kidnapped on my watch."
She snorts and steals some carrot. "I'm good."
I raise a brow. "Are you?"
She shrugs. "Mostly. Don't tell Enzo, but I have the odd nightmare. It's improving, though. Besides, I'm probably lucky Enzo got there when he did."
"You are incredible. Taking it all in your stride. It's okay to have a shoulder to cry on if you need it." I hesitate, then I ask, "Have you spoken to Luke?"
"I didn't think you approved?"
"You told me he was twenty, even mentioned twenty-two once."
"I exaggerated. And nothing's happened." Her cheeks turn pink. "We're friends. I'm too young, blah blah."
But her lip trembles, and I can feel all the tumbling teen emotions from here.
"He works for your dad."
"And Dad caught him in my room. He thinks we were having sex. Or were about to. He wanted to feed Luke his dick. His words, not mine. I...I did try to call. I don't usually call. I had to finagle his number from him. And he's loyal to Dad, but I know he likes me."
I nod. "Anyone would."
"Liked. Dad threatened to kill him, and now he's gone."
"Dads threaten."
"Mine's a mob boss." She smiles a little too big, then lets it fall. "Do you think Luke's okay?"
"You are too young for eighteen-year-olds."
"I know, and I hate it."
"But... one day you will be old enough, and if you still like him, and he's smart to wait, then...who knows?"
"If he's okay. Do you think he is?"
She might still be a kid, but her feelings are real. No matter what they are.
"I'm sure he is." At least, I hope he is.
But the thing is, I know her father. Maybe from a kid's point of view that was shattered, which turned him into a monster for taking away Enzo and the light that used to be in Dad's eyes. I know as an adult what the man's capable of.
He'll destroy everyone and everything in his path to extract revenge. Because he can.
Because he wants to.
The man is a man, not a monster, but a horrible one capable of horrible things.
And if he wants Luke gone, then there's a good chance Luke is dead.