Chapter 24
Enzo
“Where are we going?” Gemma entered my car.
I signaled to the two cars behind mine, ordering my guards to follow us, taking no chances, not after De Luca. Other than instructing her to dress in casual clothes, I kept the destination a secret. “It’s a surprise.”
September neared its end, bringing cooler air with it. Her simple white summer dress seemed almost too innocent paired with the beige cardigan—but I knew the cashmere concealed the pink scar on her shoulder, a ghost of the violence I’d failed to prevent.
We turned onto a familiar street, and she gasped out the window. She spun in my direction, then back to the window. “My father’s street?”
I parked outside the back of her father’s building, my men stopping behind us as well. Friends and family streamed inside, gift bags in hand. She stared at me, blinking away the sudden moisture gathering in her eyes. “Papa’s birthday party?”
A few days ago, I overheard her wishing her father a great night at his upcoming party. A quick call to Gino, asking him to keep our surprise a secret, and here we were.
We unbuckled and stepped out of the car. I expected her to bolt inside in search of her father, but she circled the vehicle and launched into my arms. “Thank you, Enzo.”
I set her back on her feet, not ready to let go. The air crackled between us, a silent current pulling us closer. I succumbed, leaning in... but she didn’t want this. Didn’t want me. Respecting her boundaries, I pulled back. “Let’s go say hi.”
A hand clamped onto my collar, stopping me cold.
Before I could process, she hauled me closer, her lips crashing against mine—firm, demanding.
For a stunned second, my entire world went silent.
Breath stalled in my lungs, muscles locked.
Then the shockwave hit: the impossible softness of her mouth, the faint, unique scent of her skin, the sheer heat radiating between us.
Reality slammed back in—a terrifying, blissful reality.
My arms reacted before my brain, circling her waist, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing at all.
Her kiss was... everything . Heaven spun with a dizzying vertigo, even as cold dread began its slow coil deep in my gut.
This might be the only one. Ever. A savage edge sharpened the bliss.
If this was all I got, I’d take it. The surrender vanished, replaced by raw need.
My grip on her waist tightened, fingers pressing into her skin.
I took charge of the kiss, overriding her rhythm with mine—harder, deeper, more insistent.
Slanting my mouth across hers, I silenced her exploration with my own invasion, demanding a response.
She gasped against my lips when my tongue met hers with deliberate pressure, a sound I devoured.
I crushed her against me until I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against my ribs, unconcerned by the guards watching our every move.
She suddenly tore herself back, breath ragged.
I swallowed again, wanting more, needing more. “Gemma?”
She stroked the line of my jaw. “Now we can go inside.”
I grumbled a protest, but set her back on her feet.
Hand in hand, we passed the front gate and headed down the driveway.
Though small, her father’s ground-level apartment opened onto a yard alive with laughter, the clinking of glassware, and the thumping bass of an eighties Italian pop song, promising a lively night.
The aroma of barbecued meats hung heavy in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of the lemon trees lining the perimeter.
She nudged my side and gestured ahead. “Over there by the barbeque—those are Papa’s cousins.” She waved at another lady at the opposite table. “And Zia Stefania, Papa’s sister.”
Inside the home, Gino stockpiled bottled vino into a crate. His gaze landed on Gemma, and he straightened, deserting the case. “ Mi figlia .” He rushed to his daughter and hugged her. “I’m so happy you’re here.” He cupped her face and kissed both her cheeks. “You look well. Thank God.”
She threw her head back and laughed, the sound bright and carefree
“Come, come.” Gino waved for us both to follow him.
“Are you hungry? You must be hungry.” He served us a variety of food: lasagna, arancini, lamb chops swimming in a lemony garlic marinade, traditional Sicilian croquettes, and sfincione .
Not an inch left on our plates, but the notion failed to deter Gino, who grabbed two extra plates with more food and set the dishes at our table.
No chance of tackling the second plate when we struggled to get through the first.
He placed his hand on the back of my chair. “Enzo, thank you for everything you did while I stayed in the hospital.”
Head tilted to one side, she frowned. “What are you two talking about?”
“My cardiovascular doctor left me a little uneasy. Enzo sent out a special doctor from America to oversee my medical history.” He rubbed his daughter’s shoulders. “The medicines this new doctor prescribed are better for my health. I feel like a million dollars.”
“You flew in a doctor for my father?” Her eyes sparkled, and it twisted something inside me. I wanted that look forever, even if I didn’t deserve it. I wanted to protect her, her family, even if it involved methods I wouldn’t use for anyone else.
A woman called out to Gino, and he excused himself.
She set down her fork and dabbed her napkin over her mouth. “Since when have you and my father been on talking terms?”
“Since his hospitalization.” I picked at the lasagna, the rich aroma doing little to tempt me. “I ordered my men to guard his door during his hospital care.”
She reclined back in her chair, her gaze searching my face, reading me. “Why would you do that?”
“De Luca and his crew paid your father a visit. They didn’t harm him, but fished for info about us.” Good move on Gino’s part, pretending we were clients. “I wanted your father safe in case they returned.”
The bright colors of the party balloons were too vivid in contrast to our gloomy conversation. She rubbed a shaky hand down her throat. “And… did they come back?”
“No, thank God.” I dropped my fork back onto my plate. “Do you see why I put a stop to your visits? I said no at first, not because I’m my mother’s lapdog, but because of De Luca.” My hand clenched into a fist on the table. “And yet, he got his hands on you in the end, didn’t he?”
“Stop beating yourself up over the festival. It’s over now. I’m fine.” She tilted her head as though viewing me in a whole new light. “Why did you give in? The night you took me to Papa?”
Why bother hiding the truth? “Because I can’t stand the sight of you upset.”
Her mouth shaped into a grin.
“Besides, I’m certain your father has his own revenge at play.” I glanced at my plate. “He’s feeding me to death.”
She threw her head back and laughed, the lyrical sound warming my insides.
“Surely you can’t eat all this?” Moving to America had westernized my diet; I was by no means ignorant of my Italian heritage and its love for food, but her relatives surpassed the normal stereotype.
She slanted over the table and whispered. “Do you want to know my secret?”
I welcomed any help or advice.
“If you look under the table, you’ll find Papa’s cats, Zenzero and Cuccio. They love a good Italian meal. Sneak forkfuls under the table while you eat.” She nodded to the crowd. “Everyone will be none the wiser.”
I pinched the paisley print table cloth in my lap. Sure enough, two cats, one ginger, the other a big gray fella, lazed beneath the table, awaiting scraps of food. Ginger and Chubby—the names certainly fit them.
“Thank you for doing this for my father.” She cut into her lamb chop. “You’ve made his night.”
“Not just for your father.” I caressed her wrist across the table, lost in the heated pools of her eyes. Each light stroke was electric against my thumb, pulsating between us. “For you, too.”
A tall brunette hugged Gemma from behind and interrupted our moment. “So good to see you.”
She kissed the woman’s cheek and nodded my way. “Enzo, meet Anita, my father’s colleague.”
I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “Nice to meet you.”
“I left my wineglass in the kitchen.” Anita waved to us both. “We’ll chat soon.”
We finished our meals with the help of Zenzero and Cuccio, who reclined under the table, panting and seconds away from falling into a cat coma.
Gino’s cousin poured us several cups of vino.
He explained the first five bottles he’d brewed over ten years, and the set of smaller bottles he’d prepared in the last year.
The vintage aroma of aged grapes filled the air as Matteo uncorked the bottle, a bouquet of dried cherries and leather swirling around us.
Years of fermentation, captured in one deep breath.
We volunteered for the impromptu wine tasting.
The first sip hit my tongue like velvet, a smooth, dry red, warming my throat.
The second, a younger vintage, burst with bright cherry notes and a slightly acidic tang.
We praised him on the complexity, the depth, the sheer artistry of his winemaking.
Another cousin, Mario, blasted the stereo to a famous Italian song, a classic eighties Italian pop anthem.
The keyboard chords bounced with infectious energy, and the singer’s voice, full of bravado and pride, sang about being a Vero Italiano , a true Italian.
Guests encircled a ring, hands on each other’s back as they swayed to the music and belted out the lyrics at the top of their lungs.
Gemma surprised me when she surged from her seat. Wine cup in hand, she seized my wrist and maneuvered us to the group. For someone who couldn’t order a coffee in Italian, she sure knew all the words and sang with as much passion as the rest of them.