Chapter 4
Chapter Four
KENNEDY
“Ahhh!”
I cling to my seatbelt for dear life, my knuckles turning white as Gio whips through the narrow streets of the Italian town at hair-raising speeds.
The engine roars as we pinch around tight corners, his occasional fist slamming against the steering wheel accompanied by what I can only imagine are colorful Italian profanities.
Of all the ways I imagined meeting my demise because of my association with Golden Eyes, this wasn’t one of them.
If this were an amusement park, I’d be thrilled. As it is, my pulse is thudding so hard in my ears, I barely hear his question. “You like Gio as your tour guide, eh? ”
I nod in haste, surprised Truffles isn’t puking all over the back seat. “Uh-huh.”
We enter a traffic circle where a swarm of scooters dart past us like angry bees, their drivers shouting and gesturing wildly. Cars honk impatiently as Gio cuts across what would be lanes of traffic if there were any lines, and I have to shut my eyes .
His maneuvers are executed with such precision that I can’t decide if he’s a remarkably skilled driver or certifiably insane.
“You hungry?” he asks sweetly, one hand on the wheel and the other relaxed over the arm of my seat, as if navigating through the chaos of the streets is just a leisurely drive through the park.
Considering it’s taking everything I have in me not to upchuck last night’s meal, I simply shake my head.
We emerge in a corner of the city with cobblestone streets and a beautiful townhouse. Gio doesn’t slow, but somehow expertly squeezes into an impossibly tight space between two vehicles before coming to an abrupt stop. “Here we are.”
Huh? Is this Enzo’s place?
Before I can ask, Gio has already rounded the car, lets Truffles out on his leash, and opens my door. Swiftly, he presses the doorbell. “Now, this is for you,” he says in his charming Italian accent, handing me the leash, a credit card, and a business card that simply says “G.”
There’s a crazy long string of numbers beneath it, which I’m guessing is his local phone number.
“If you need me,” he says, “I’ll be nearby and can take you anywhere you want to go.” With that, he plants a kiss on both my cheeks and gently guides me towards the door.
I give the building another once-over, and I’m not sure why, but I imagined Enzo’s place to be colder somehow. All sleek and modern, with clean lines and sophistication, radiating an unmistakable aura of one-percenter wealth.
Yet, with the light stone and the Romeo and Juliet balcony adorned with Bougainvillea, the place is absolutely adorable. Cozy and Tuscan, like something plucked straight out of a fairy tale.
When the balcony door swings open, I half expect strands of shimmering spun gold hair to come flying at my face from Rapunzel. Instead, Riley appears, waving and screaming so loud I’m sure the neighbors will think a murder is happening. “Kenni?”
I wave up shyly, trying not to attract too much attention from the nearby houses as people are starting to look. It’s obvious Riley could care less about that. “Oh, my God. What are you doing here?” She leans out of the window, then disappears back inside. “I’ll be right down.”
She reappears at the front door, looking so beautiful and happy, I get a little choked up. We hug so tight, a surge of relief washes over me, and tears well up in my eyes. It feels like we’ve been apart for a year.
Thank God for this internship. I’ve never been so grateful for anything in my life. Having Riley safe and sound, a million miles away from Jimmy’s debt and the D’Angelo’s, feels like a weight lifted off my shoulders.
“Truffles!” she squeals, scooping up the excited ball of tail-wagging fur. Before I can introduce her to Gio, he’s already around the other side. “I’ll pick you up at 6:30,” he calls out before disappearing.
“Wait, you can only stay until 6:30?” Riley asks, frowning.
“But I’ll be back every day,” I assure her. My words do little to erase the crease in her brow or the cute I always get my way pout, which means she’s no where near satisfied with that answer.
It’s hard to explain why I can’t just stay here the entire time. And even harder to admit that I’ve offered my body up to a dangerous mobster just to spend precious hours for seven days with her.
But if Savannah Whitaker is right, and Enzo is merely using me before tossing me back to Andre, the cold, hard reality is that I might not be able to change it.
If I run, they go after Riley and have her take my place. And it will be over my dead body that anything ever happens to my sister. I push out a heavy sigh. My death is definitely a possibility.
But I have seven days to figure out a way for both of us to escape. Agent Knox somehow seems in the middle of all this. Maybe he really can’t offer us both an escape.
But even if he can’t, and if this is truly the last chance I have to see my sister, I want every moment to count. I want to make our time unforgettable. I want to shower her with love, to let her know just how much she means to me.
When we lost our father, we didn’t have that chance. We didn’t have the opportunity to show him how much he meant to us, to say the things we wanted to say. To tell him one last time, “We love you, Da . And we always will.”
I won’t lose that chance again. Not with Riley. Not when it matters most.
“And this is my closet!” Riley practically has jazz hands as she concludes the tour of her lavish home, ushering me into a closet that’s bigger than my entire Chicago apartment .
Granted, there are only a few clothes hanging on the hangers, and most of it is bare space, but it’s still jaw-droppingly incredible.
As Riley continues to gush about living there, I can’t help but notice a worn pair of jeans tucked away in the corner, a stark contrast to the luxury surrounding them. “And your internship pays for all this?”
“Yup.” With a deep breath, she sighs. “It’s almost too good to be true.”
It really is. Riley’s been living it up in Italy in a fairy tale, while I’ve been trapped in a nightmare, and all I can feel is a profound sense of gratitude. That and relief.
Her hands clasp together, pleading. “Please. Can’t you stay here tonight?”
I want to. I really do. But Enzo giveth, and a pissed-off Enzo would certainly taketh away. “I wish I could,” I admit. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe earlier.” I nibble my lip. “But I don’t want you to get in trouble with your school.”
“It’s no trouble.” She leads me back to the bedroom and flops on the bed.
I sit beside her, taking in the luxurious king-sized bed with its plush pillows and silk sheets, the headboard adorned with intricate carvings. It’s a bed fit for royalty.
The walls are lined with original looking art and the rug might as well have the word expensive embroidered across the center. “They do?”
“Yup. My boss is amazing. He pretty much lets me come and go whenever I want. I can just call and request a few days off.”
“What do you do for him exactly?” Okay, that totally came out wrong. “Is this his place?” I ask before I can help myself.
She shoots me a snarky glare. “Not that.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s completely innocent. Half the time, he’s not even here. He travels non-stop. All I have to do is text him.”
Right. The first chance I get, and I’m breaking into her phone, scouring every text between her and this lech. And if I find even one dick pic, the asshole is toast.
If Riley thinks I won’t use whatever ounce of mafia power I might have at my disposal by sleeping with the enemy, oh, she can think again.
When I sneak a glance over her shoulder, the message isn’t exactly scandalous. Just a polite request for a few days off because family is in town.
But then, my gaze lands on the digits. The Chicago area code jumps out at me, but it’s the rest of the number that sends shockwaves through me like a hurricane ripping through a calm sea.
That number.
I know that number.
The damned thing is seared into my memory like a brand. It was a lifeline dangled in front of me like a carrot—a promise of escape when Uncle Andre and Rocco closed in.
It was my ticket out, scribbled hastily on the inside of a matchbook and shoved into my hands with a warning: if Uncle Andre or any of his goons touched me, that lifeline was gone.
I take in the Italian townhouse, its opulent furnishings, and the extravagant perks of an all-expenses-paid internship in Italy, and realization hits me like a mack-truck full of bricks.
Enzo .
“Squee,” Riley squeals. “My boss said take all the time I need.” She grabs me by both arms. “You’re about to see Italy, Riley-style.”
Riley-style means we’re eating, and we’re eating a lot. I flash the credit card with E. D’Angelo written across it. “And I’m about to treat you to anything you want.”
Riley claps her hands and bounces on her toes like she’s won the lottery. Not that she’ll have me splurge on anything beyond lunch and a gelato.
Hell, we could probably waltz into the nearest Lamborghini dealership, and Enzo wouldn’t even bat an eyelash.
Right?