11. Adriana
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Adriana
Shopping with Enzo is a disaster.
Not because he’s bad at it. Because he’s impossible.
“That one’s fine,” he says from the chair he’s claimed outside the fitting room, scrolling through his phone like he’s bored out of his mind.
“You didn’t even look.”
He glances up. I’m wearing a navy dress that hits just above my knee, professional but flattering. Perfectly nice.
“It’s fine,” he repeats. “It’s boring, but it’s fine.”
“I need boring. I’m trying to build a wardrobe, not audition for a music video.”
“Why not both?”
“Because I’m a normal person with normal needs.”
“You’re not normal.” He says it like a fact, not a compliment, and goes back to his phone. “Try the green one.”
The green one is a silk wrap dress that costs more than my father used to give me for an entire month’s allowance. I try to check the price tag and Enzo physically removes it from my hand.
“Stop looking at tags,” he says. “It’s depressing.”
“For who?”
“For me. Watching you do math in a dress shop. Tragic.”
I try the green one. It fits like water, skimming everything, hiding nothing. When I come out, Enzo looks up from his phone and doesn’t look back down.
“That one,” he says.
“It’s too much.”
“It’s not enough.” His eyes travel down my body slow enough that I feel it. “We’re getting that one.”
We get that one. And four others he insists on, plus three I actually choose myself, plus two he sneaks onto the counter when he thinks I’m not looking.
Now we’re in a shoe store and he’s sprawled in another chair, watching me try on heels with an expression I can’t read.
“Those make your legs look incredible,” he says about a pair of black stilettos.
“They’re four inches tall. I’ll break my ankle.”
“I’ll catch you.”
“You’ll be across the room doing whatever it is you do at these functions. Glowering. Intimidating people. Making enemies.”
“I don’t make enemies.” He grins, sharp and wolfish. “I collect them.”
I roll my eyes and try on a lower pair. Nude. Sensible. Professional.
“Boring,” Enzo says.
“Comfortable.”
“Same thing.”
“Not everyone can stomp around in whatever they want because they’re six foot something and terrifying.”
“Six-two.” He stands up and walks over to where I’m sitting, crouching down in front of me so we’re eye level. “And you think I’m terrifying?”
“Everyone thinks you’re terrifying.”
“Do you?”
He’s so close I can smell him, something clean and warm and distinctly him. My heart does something stupid in my chest.
“Sometimes,” I admit.
“And other times?”
“Other times I think you’re kind of ridiculous.”
He laughs, surprised and genuine, and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger. Less guarded. Almost boyish.
“Ridiculous,” he repeats. “No one’s ever called me that.”
“Then everyone else has been too scared to tell you the truth.”
“And you’re not scared?”
“I’m terrified.” I hold his gaze. “But apparently I’ve decided to stop letting that stop me.”
His expression shifts. Goes darker. Hungrier.
“Get the black ones,” he says, voice lower than before. “The tall ones.”
“I told you, I’ll break my…”
“I told you.” He leans closer, close enough that his breath ghosts across my cheek. “I’ll catch you.”
We get the black ones.
***
The lingerie shop is worse.
Enzo waits outside because even he has some sense of boundaries, but he keeps texting me.
How’s it going in there?
Fine.
What color?
None of your business.
Black?
I look down at the black lace set I’m currently wearing. Delicate. Expensive. Barely there.
Maybe.
Get it.
You can’t even see it.
Don’t need to. Get it anyway.
I get it. And a red one. And a cream one that the saleswoman insists is “très romantique” in a way that makes me blush to my hairline.
When I come out, Enzo’s leaning against the wall across from the entrance, arms crossed, watching me with an expression that makes my stomach flip.
“Done?” he asks.
“Done.”
His eyes drop to the bag in my hand. “What color?”
“Still none of your business.”
“I’m paying for it. That makes it my business.”
“That makes it a gift. And you don’t get to inspect gifts.”
“I do when I’m going to be the one taking them off you.”
The words hit me like a slap of heat. I stop walking and stare at him.
“That’s presumptuous.”
“Is it?” He pushes off the wall and closes the distance between us, not touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I should tell him he’s wrong. Should put him in his place, establish boundaries, maintain some semblance of control over this situation.
“You’re not wrong,” I hear myself say instead.
His smile is slow and devastating. “Didn’t think so.”
We walk back to his building and I’m hyper-aware of him the whole way. The brush of his arm against mine. The way he puts his hand on my lower back to guide me around a group of tourists. The heat of his gaze every time I catch him looking.
By the time we reach the elevator, I’m wound tight as a spring.
“You’re staring,” I say as the doors close.
“I’m appreciating.”
“Appreciating what?”
“You.” He turns to face me fully. “The way you blush when you’re flustered. The way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to say something. The way you’ve been looking at me like you want to climb me since we left that lingerie shop.”
“I have not…”
“You have.” He takes a step closer. “And I’ve been thinking about what you bought in there since you walked out with that bag.”
“Enzo.”
“Ana.”
The elevator dings. The doors open. Neither of us moves.
“We should eat something,” I say, voice unsteady. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“We should.” He doesn’t move. “Food is important.”
“Very important.”
“Essential, really.”
“So we should go inside and you should make food and we should eat it like normal people.”
“We should absolutely do that.”
He still doesn’t move. His eyes are dark, fixed on mine, and I can see his pulse jumping in his throat.
“Enzo,” I say again, softer this time.
“Tell me to make you dinner,” he says. “Tell me to feed you and be a gentleman and keep my hands to myself.”
“Keep your hands to yourself.”
“You sure about that?”
No. I’m not sure about anything. I’m hungry and exhausted and emotionally wrecked and I should want food and rest and space to process everything that’s happened.
But I don’t want any of those things.
I want him.
“Dinner first,” I manage. “Then we’ll see.”
Something flickers in his expression. Amusement, maybe. Or anticipation.
“Then we’ll see,” he agrees, and finally steps out of the elevator.
I follow him into the apartment and try to remember how to breathe.
***
He makes pasta.
I don’t know why that surprises me but it does. Enzo Vitale, billionaire, black sheep, walking intimidation factory, standing at the stove pushing garlic around a pan with his sleeves rolled up like he does this every day.
“You’re staring,” he says without turning around.
I almost throw his own line back at him, the one from the elevator. Instead I just say, “Can you blame me?”
He laughs. “Guess not.”
“I just didn’t expect you to know how to cook.”
“I lived alone since I was eighteen. Either I learned or I starved.” He glances over his shoulder. “Besides, it’s not complicated. Heat, fat, salt, acid. That’s all cooking really is.”
“That’s reductive.”
“That’s accurate. Sit down, this is almost ready.”
I sit at the kitchen island and watch him plate the pasta with more care than I expected. Fresh basil on top. A drizzle of olive oil. He slides the plate across to me and our fingers brush when I take it.
“Eat,” he says.
I eat. It’s good. Really good. Better than anything I ever had at home, where the cook made elaborate dishes that looked like art and tasted like nothing.
“This is amazing,” I say around a mouthful.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m just recalibrating my expectations. First you can shop, now you can cook. What other hidden talents do you have?”
“Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. I focus on my pasta.
We eat in comfortable silence for a while. I’m hungrier than I realized, haven’t had a real meal since before everything fell apart, and I clean my plate before he’s halfway through his.
“More?” he asks.
“I’m okay.” I push my plate away. “Thank you. For this. For today. For all of it.”
“You keep thanking me.”
“You keep doing things worth thanking you for.”
He sets down his fork and looks at me. That look. The one that makes me feel like he’s seeing through every wall I’ve ever built.
“How are you doing?” he asks. “Really.”
“I don’t know.” Honest. Raw. “Better than this morning. But still…”
“Still?”
“Still sad. Still scared.” I trace a pattern on the counter with my finger. “Still waiting for it to hit me that my entire life fell apart yesterday.”
“It didn’t fall apart. It changed.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yeah. Apart means it’s wrecked, done, nothing left.” He reaches across the counter and catches my hand, stilling my restless movement. “Changed just means the old thing’s over. You’re not wrecked, Ana. You’re just starting something new, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”
I stare at our hands. His fingers wrapped around mine. Warm. Solid. Real.
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’m not wise. I’ve just been where you are.” His thumb traces circles on my palm, slow and deliberate. “It gets easier. Not right away. But it does.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Something shifts in my chest. Something that has nothing to do with revenge or arrangements or anything I planned. Something that’s just about him. Just about this. Just about the way he’s looking at me like I matter.
I want him.
Not as a weapon. Not as a statement.
Just want him.
The realization hits me and I shove it down, try to bury it, but it won’t stay buried. It keeps rising up, demanding to be acknowledged.
“I should do the dishes,” I say, pulling my hand back too fast. “You cooked, I should clean.”
“Leave them.”
“Enzo…”