Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Oh god.
The gunfire is getting louder and nearer.
My hands are shaking so badly I have to grip Enzo's shirt just to hold on to something solid. The table we're hiding under won't protect us for long. I can hear boots on marble, glass crunching, someone shouting orders in that accent that makes my blood freeze.
Irish. Crisp. Cold.
"Fan out. Fucking find the girl."
I know that voice, the voice from all my nightmares.
Declan.
My lungs seize up. I can't breathe. The smoke in the air mixes with a smell that isn't really there. Mold. Rust. Blood.
The basement.
I'm thirteen again and Declan O'Rourke is standing over me with that disgusting, leering smile, telling his father about all the things they could do to a Romano princess before they kill her. How much she'd be worth. How long she'd last.
"She's pretty, Da. Shame to waste her quick."
"Patience, boy. She's leverage, not a toy."
"Can't I have a little fun first?"
My stomach lurches. Bile rises hot and acidic in my throat.
"Isabella."
Enzo's soft whisper cuts through the noise in my head. Low and steady. He's still covering me with his body, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other wrapped around my waist.
"Listen to me, Isabella." His mouth is right next to my ear. "I need you to breathe. Can you do that?"
I shake my head. I can't. My chest is too tight and my heart is trying to claw its way out through my ribs and there's not enough air––
"Yes, you can." His hand moves to my face, turning me to look at him. His dark eyes lock on mine. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. With me. Now, Princess."
He breathes in slowly. I watch his chest expand. Then out.
I try. My breath comes out shaky and too fast but I try again. In. Out. In. Out.
"Good girl." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "Stay with me. I'm getting you out of here. You understand? I'm not letting them touch you."
The certainty in his voice breaks through the panic just enough. Enzo doesn't make promises he can't keep. If he says he's getting me out, he will. Even if it kills him.
That thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes everything worse because I've already watched him nearly die for me once and I can't do it again, I can't—
No. Stop. Focus, Isabella.
I force myself to nod. Force my hands to stop shaking. Force my brain to shove all the memories back into their box and lock it tight.
I'm not thirteen. I'm twenty-two. I'm not helpless. I'm a Romano.
And the Romanos don't break.
More gunfire. Closer. I hear someone scream and then the scream cuts off abruptly.
"Move!" A harsh voice shouts. "She's here somewhere. Find her!"
Masked men flood into the ballroom. At least a dozen, all armed, all moving with military precision. They're heading straight for the tables, overturning them one by one.
We're running out of time.
Then Matteo is there. He moves through the smoke like death itself, my other brother Luca and Dante flanking him, Rafael already taking down two men with brutal efficiency. My brother's face is cold fury, his gun in one hand, knife in the other.
His eyes find mine under the table and something in his expression cracks. Just for a second. Fear. Such raw fear in his eyes that it is almost as if he was in that basement with me all those years ago.
"Enzo." Matteo snaps. "Take her. Now."
Enzo doesn't hesitate. "The others—"
"I have Alessia." Matteo gestures and I see Dante pulling Bianca toward a side exit, his body shielding hers. "Luca's got security. Rafael will cover your exit then double back with reinforcements."
"Where?" Enzo asks.
"Not the mansion. They'll expect that." Matteo's jaw clenches. "One of the hiding places. I don't care which one. Just keep her alive. You're the only man I trust with her life."
The words steal my breath for a second. Because it's true. Matteo trusts Enzo with everything that matters. With the family's secrets. With the business. With me.
My life is always safe with Enzo. It's my heart that isn't.
Enzo's hand tightens on mine. "I've got her."
Then we're moving. He pulls me out from under the table, his body still blocking mine, and we run.
The ballroom is chaos. Smoke everywhere, people screaming, bodies on the ground. I try not to look at them. Try not to see who's bleeding, who's not moving. Just focus on Enzo's hand in mine, on staying upright, on not falling.
We hit the stairwell and immediately I realize the problem. My heels. The tight dress that looked beautiful two hours ago is now a death trap. I can barely move in it, can't run, can't—
My ankle twists and I stumble. “Oh!” I yelp.
Enzo catches me before I hit the ground. "The dress. Fuck.”
"I know." My voice comes out sharp with frustration. "I'm trying—"
He doesn't wait for me to finish. His hands go to the bottom of my dress and he rips, hard.
The sound of tearing silk cuts through the chaos. I gasp. The skirt splits up to mid-thigh, suddenly loose enough to move in. And Enzo is staring.
His eyes drop to my legs. To the expanse of bare skin now visible. To the way the torn fabric falls around my thighs.
Oh.
Heat floods through me, sharp and visceral. Wrong. This is the wrong time for this. We're running for our lives and he's looking at me like he wants to drag me into a dark corner and—
His eyes snap back to mine. Dark. Hungry. Dangerous.
I want it.
"Better?" His voice comes out rough.
I feel that roughness all the way down to my toes. "B-Better." I find myself whimpering.
Then reality crashes back. More gunfire. Shouts getting closer.
Enzo looks at the stairs, at my heels, at the torn dress. Makes a decision.
"Hold on."
Before I can ask what he means, he sweeps me up into his arms. One arm under my knees, the other around my back, and suddenly I'm pressed against his chest.
"Enzo!"
"Save it," he mutters, already moving. He takes the stairs two at a time like I weigh nothing. Like there's not a war zone behind us.
I have no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck and hold on.
The forced proximity is overwhelming. His heart is racing against my ribs. I can feel the hard muscle of his chest through his shirt, the controlled power in the way he moves. His cologne fills my lungs—smoke, whiskey and cinnamon.
This is bad. This is so bad. Because even with adrenaline screaming through my veins and gunfire echoing behind us, all I can think about is how good it feels to be in his arms. How safe. How right.
How much I want him to never let go.
We burst through a service exit into a corridor. Empty, for now at least.
Enzo sets me down but keeps one hand wrapped around mine. "Stay close."
We run. The corridor is narrow, dimly lit. My bare feet slap against cold tile. The torn dress flares around my legs with each step. Behind us I hear a door slam open.
"There!"
Shit!
Enzo moves faster, pulling me around a corner. We're in the service area now. Kitchen smells. Stainless steel. Another exit ahead glowing red.
Three men step out from the shadows.
Masked. Armed. O'Rourke's men.
Enzo shoves me behind him so fast I stumble. Then he moves.
The first man raises his gun but Enzo is faster. His knife appears from nowhere, a flash of silver in the dim light. He closes the distance in two strides. The blade goes into the man's throat so smoothly it barely makes a sound. Just a wet gurgle and then the man is falling.
Blood sprays. Hot and red.
My bones freeze.
The second man fires. The shot goes wide. Enzo is already moving, already inside his guard. His elbow cracks into the man's jaw with a sickening crunch. Bone breaks. The man drops and Enzo's on him, the knife flashing again. Once. Twice. Three times.
More blood. So much blood.
The third man is backing up, gun shaking in his hands. "Stay back—"
Enzo doesn't slow down, doesn't hesitate.
He moves like violence is a language he speaks fluently.
The gun goes off but Enzo's already dodged, already inside his reach.
His hand closes around the man's wrist. Twist. Snap.
The gun clatters to the floor. Then Enzo's knee comes up hard into the man's stomach and while he's doubled over Enzo grabs his head and slams it into the wall.
Once. Twice.
The man slides down the wall, leaving a red streak behind him.
Silence.
Just the sound of Enzo's breathing. Steady. Like he didn't just kill three men in under thirty seconds.
Me on the other hand—I can't breathe.
My hand is over my mouth and I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
The blood. The sounds. The way that last man's head hit the wall.
Crack. Crack. I've seen violence before.
Lived through worse. But watching it happen now, watching Enzo's hands covered in blood, watching the bodies on the ground—
My stomach heaves. I barely make it two steps before I'm bending over, retching. Nothing comes up but bile and champagne and fear.
"Isabella..."
Enzo's voice. Gentle now. So different from the cold killer of thirty seconds ago.
I hear him move closer but I hold up one shaking hand. "Don't. Just don't, please."
He stops. I can feel him there, just out of reach. Waiting.
I force myself upright. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My whole body is trembling but I make myself look at him.
Blood on his hands. On his shirt. A spray of it across his jaw.
He's a killer. I've always known that. But knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.
"I'm sorry." His voice is rough. "I didn't want you to see that."
"You had to." My voice sounds hollow.
"Yes."
At least he doesn't lie to me or try to make it pretty.
He takes a slow step forward, testing me and the situation. When I don't back away, he takes another. His hands come up slowly, carefully, like I'm a wild thing that might bolt.
"I need you to trust me." His dark eyes search mine. "Can you do that? Just for tonight?"
And I can. Because no matter how I feel, I trust this man with my life.
"Okay," I nod.
Relief flashes across his face. "Come on. We need to move."
He holds out his hand. After a second, I take it.
We run through the service exit into the cold New York night. The parking lot is chaos behind us but Enzo leads me into the shadows, away from the lights, away from the screaming.
A motorcycle sits in the darkness. Black. Sleek. Dangerous looking.
I stop dead and raise a brow. "You're kidding."
Enzo pulls out a helmet. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"
"Enzo, I'm in a torn dress and no shoes—"
"And you'll be dead if we don't move." He shoves the helmet onto my head, his fingers quick and efficient with the strap. Then he's shrugging out of his suit jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders.
It's still warm from his body. Smells like him. I pull it tighter and try not to think about how much I've missed that smell.
Enzo swings onto the bike, kicks it to life. The engine roars loud enough to wake the dead.
He looks back at me. "Get on."
This is insane. Completely insane.
I climb on behind him. The torn dress rides up higher. The bike is powerful between my legs and Enzo is solid in front of me and I have to wrap my arms around his waist just to hold on.
The second I do, the bike takes off.
Oh shit!!!!!!!
I scream over and over and over. Too fast! The bike is too fast!
We weave through traffic like the devil himself is chasing us. Maybe he is.
I bury my face between Enzo's shoulder blades and hold on tighter. The city blurs around us. Cold wind cuts through the jacket, through the torn dress. My hair whips behind me. The engine vibrates through my whole body.
All I can do is hold on. Press myself against Enzo's back and trust that he knows where he's going. Trust that he won't let me fall.
Time loses meaning. Minutes. Hours. I don't know. Just the cold and the speed and the solid warmth of Enzo in front of me.
Finally, the bike slows. We're not in the city anymore. Trees surround us now. Darkness. The road narrows to barely more than a path.
And then I see it.
The cabin.
My whole body goes cold.
No. Not here. Anywhere but here.
Enzo kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.
I climb off the bike on shaking legs, pull the helmet off and stare at the small cabin nestled in the woods. The place I vowed never to return to.
Four years ago, I stood on that porch and told Enzo Bianchi I loved him. Eighteen years old and stupid enough to think he might love me back. He told me I was a kid. That I didn't know what I wanted. That he was Matteo's Underboss and I was the princess and some lines you don't cross.
Then he walked away and I didn't see him again for six months.
"You've got to be kidding me." My voice comes out flat. Dead. "Here? Of all places?"
He climbs off the bike, pulling out his phone. "It was the first place I thought of."
"Why?" I snap. "Why this place?"
He looks up from his phone. The moonlight catches his face, makes his expression unreadable. "Because I come here. A lot."
That stops me cold. "What?"
"When I need to think. When I need to..." He trails off. Looks away. "I come here. It calms me."
To the place where I told you I loved you. You come here.
I don't know what to do with that information. Don't know how to process it without falling apart.
"So, what now?" I ask instead, wrapping his jacket tighter around myself. "We just wait here?"
Enzo looks back down at his phone. Scrolls through messages. His jaw tightens.
"What?" I move closer. "What is it?"
He looks up at me. "Matteo says we need to stay here. Together. For a while."
"How long is a while?"
"However long it takes for them to secure the situation." He shoves his phone in his pocket. "Could be days."
Days. Alone. In this cabin. With Enzo. And my torn dress.
The universe is laughing at me. It has to be.
"Great," I mutter. "Just great."
"Isabella—"
"Don't." I hold up one hand. "Just don't. Not tonight. I can't do this tonight."
I walk toward the cabin before he can say anything else. Before I do something stupid like cry or scream or ask him why he comes to the place where I broke my own heart.