Chapter Twenty Enzo
Chapter Twenty
Enzo
I finally understood the word butthurt.
My butt was hurt. Literally. Figuratively. Fuck, spiritually, too.
Literally, because Tom’s fingers had done some voodoo shit up there and left a mild burning sensation mixed with a dull ache every time I squatted.
Figuratively, because the bastard had bolted like his balls were on fire after we hooked up.
Spiritually, because I’d never been pumped and dumped before, and dammit, it hurt almost as bad as my ass right now.
Our cum didn’t get the chance to dry over my perfect abs before he was out the door. This time, I didn’t stop him. I had my own thoughts to sort through.
At least I knew where he lived now.
This is not how normal people think, Enzo.
Well, I’ve never claimed to be normal, have I?
Sweet. I was now having entire conversations with myself. That was super healthy.
Monday, I went about my business. Hit the gym, dermatologist, then put my enforcer cap on and broke a few legs and a couple of teeth of those who didn’t pay us on time.
From there, I drove to the Forbidden Fruit Club, the Camorra’s stronghold in Manhattan, for a Camorra-Bratva meeting.
Luca had invited the pakhan and his affiliates to town under the guise of my wedding preparations to get a feel for what was going on.
Although, maybe he did plan to marry me to Katya after all. It was hard to get a read on my older brother these days, because his mind was a million miles away, with a wife who didn’t want him.
I was determined not to be the first to contact Tom after our convo about Matt and Iris.
Already, I was coming on too strong, blowing up his phone, dedicating my entire social media to pursuing him, stalking him, and serving him my ass on a silver platter.
I’d come to the conclusion that I needed to at least pretend I had some self-respect when it came to him, no matter how good he was with his fingers and tongue.
He wasn’t emotionally available.
He was still in love with his dead boyfriend.
And he was right—even if he wasn’t all those things, I was still engaged to be married, very much a criminal to his federal agent status, and not out yet.
Our relationship wasn’t just impossible, it was nonnegotiable.
Still, when his name popped up on my phone screen on my way to the Forbidden Fruit, my heart slammed so hard against my rib cage, it nearly broke a bone or two.
Tomcat: 10pm, my place.
Me: Do I need to bring anything other than my sexy self?
Tomcat: No.
Me: Lube?
Tomcat: No.
Me: Have you smiled today?
I knew I needed to cool things off and keep it strictly about sex, but it was impossible.
I had a soft spot for Agent Rothwell. He was pretty much the only person who tried to understand what was going on with my skin, and…
well, in the process, he’d kind of gotten under it.
He was definitely a hard-ass, about as friendly as a rabies-ridden porcupine, but the way he took care of Iris and Silas told me there was a good man underneath all the heavy layers of antipathy.
Tomcat: No.
Pffffft. He really liked that word.
I went through my gallery and sent him the same dick pic I’d sent Cash.
Tomcat: JFC, not another dick pic.
Me: Excuse me?! That’s my art. This masterpiece happens to have a name.
Tomcat: Enzo, don’t…
Me: He Is Risen.
Tomcat: Sadly I’m not a believer, because surely that secured you a spot in hell.
Me: Did you smile?
Tomcat: No. I just got hard, horny, and annoyed.
Me: Annoyed?
Tomcat: That you’re not next to me.
Me: Aww
Sweet Jesus, was he writing his dissertation? It seemed like the kind of thing this overachieving asshole was capable of when asked an open-ended question.
I parked in front of the Forbidden Fruit and stared at my phone with a shit-eating grin on my face, watching him typing for a solid eight minutes.
Finally, the text came through.
Tomcat: See you tonight.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Tweedle-dick and Tweedle-cum.” Achilles’s lips quirked derisively at the sight of Alex and Slava Rasputin. “Please, have a seat.”
“Those are some nice seats. Can I take one home?” Alex glided into a chair nonchalantly, a pleasant smile on his handsome face. “What’s yours is ours, right?”
Achilles’s nostrils flared, which was something, considering the fucker would probably list torture as a hobby if he ever opened a profile on a dating site.
What the shit did Alex mean?
“What’s mine is mine,” Achilles drawled slowly. “And what’s yours is about to be mine, if you don’t shut up. That includes your intestines, which Zelda, my pet snake, would just love to have for dinner.”
“Speaking of delicious dinners, how’s your wife doing, Achilles?”
Every head at the table snapped up at Alex’s words. Achilles reached for his holster. Alex’s easy smile widened further. “What? Tierney’s the best cook I’ve ever met.”
“She’s better than ever, now that the Rasputins are out of her life.” Achilles removed his hand from his gun almost forcefully, reaching for his cigarette pack.
“Business,” Luca clipped out, cutting through the bullshit. “We’re here to discuss business. Even if my schedule allowed meaningless chatter, I wouldn’t be indulging in it with you assholes.”
“Katya wants a 100k florist budget, an artificial lake, and some swans,” Slava announced from his seat at the table.
Slava Rasputin looked as princely and formidable as his older brothers, Jeremie and Alex.
Like them, he was tall, muscular, and effortlessly elegant.
Unlike them, though, his arctic-blue eyes held no shine or charisma.
Instead, they were dead, flat, and menacing.
Though he was arguably the cruelest of the three, he held no chance at becoming a pakhan.
Alex was the eldest, and Jeremie was the brains behind the operation, and next in line for the throne.
To make up for his rather lackluster existence, Slava had developed a sharp tongue and lethal performance as an assassin. We were all very good at killing people, but Slava didn’t just kill for work—he killed for fun.
“What does she need so many flowers for?” Luca asked.
Slava shrugged in his three-piece suit, his finger rimming the crystal tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “She’s getting the lowly Ferrante brother. The Ringo Star of the clan. The least she could ask for is a nice, proper weddin—”
“She can have a million-dollar flower budget for all I care,” Achilles cut in. “The Camorra won’t be footing the bill for it, though.”
“We’ll see about that.” Alex smiled mockingly, taking a leisurely sip of his drink. “How many guests are you inviting?”
“Four hundred,” Luca said without missing a beat. “You?”
“Same.” Alex set his whiskey down. “And you insist on it taking place on Crimson Key?”
Luca nodded. “It’s a family tradition.”
“Is your legacy worth keeping at this point?” Alex quirked a sardonic eyebrow. “Camorra women seem to have a particular taste for the Russians. Perhaps whatever you’re doing isn’t working anymore.”
“Bold words from someone whose sister been handed between us brothers like a ticking fucking bomb.” Achilles laughed.
Slava growled, “One more word about Katya—”
“And?” Luca tilted his head sideways, amused. “What will you do, Slava?”
Slava and Luca were engaged in a stare-off I had no doubt my brother would win. Luca, for all his faults, was the coldest, most efficiently cruel bastard alive.
“Relax, Slava,” Alex drawled good-naturedly. “The brothers are a little high-strung. Understandable, considering the amount of shit the Camorra’s in. No offense, of course.”
“You’re a small man on a big throne, Alex.” Luca’s words sliced the air like a dull knife, blunt yet cutting. “Don’t worry about offending us. Your ability to do so is nonexistent. Now, let’s get back to the topic of the wedding.”
I took it all in, my breath trapped in my lungs.
So it was really happening. I was marrying Katya after all.
And I had no say in it. Luca wouldn’t go through the pains of making all of these arrangements if he didn’t intend to execute the plan.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t even had the balls to ask my older brother about my future.
I had to hear it in this forum, in front of near-complete strangers.
Slava flicked his gaze to me, fidgeting with his Rolex. “You gonna let her finish college?”
“Of course.”
It had never occurred to me not to. I wasn’t a misogynistic asshole like my late father.
“What about being faithful?” he pressed. “We’ve seen some of the Camorra’s marriage alliances. They leave a lot to be desired.”
He was talking about Luca and Sofia. And the fact that Jeremie, their brother, was her live-in bodyguard now. Of course, Jeremie wasn’t here today. Luca would’ve killed him before he even parked the car outside the club. But I knew he was working remotely for the Bratva, doing black hat shit.
I opened my mouth to answer, but Achilles interjected again, apparently not in the mood for diplomacy.
“Whatever happens between Enzo and Katya is between them. He doesn’t work for your ass.
Oh, and a general note for future reference”—Achilles snapped his fingers—“talk about our private lives again, and I’ll make sure it’s the last time you use your mouth. ”