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Chapter One
Isabella
If Vittorio De Luca touches me one more time tonight, I’m going to stab him with my salad fork.
The thought races constantly through my mind as he stands beside me at the head table, his hand resting on the small of my back like he owns me. Like I’m already his. Tomorrow, I guess I will be, but for now he should keep his hands to himself.
The Plaza’s ballroom is packed with politicians, mafia bosses, their wives dripping in blood diamonds. Everyone who matters on the East Coast is here to watch Isabella Romano get sold off for an alliance.
Sorry. Married. That’s the polite word for it.
Vittorio raises his champagne glass, and the room goes quiet. He’s handsome in that boring, rich-boy way: perfect hair, designer suit that probably costs more than most people’s cars, a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth.
Blah.
“To Isabella,” he announces, his voice carrying across the ballroom. “The most beautiful woman in New York. Tomorrow, she becomes mine.”
I want to throw up.
Mine. Like I’m a fucking Rolex. Like I’m something he picked out of a catalogue.
The room erupts—applause, cheers, glasses clinking. I keep my smile in place because I’ve been practicing it for three weeks. Sweet Isabella. Dutiful Isabella. The Romano princess who does what her family needs because the O’Rourkes are circling again and we need the De Luca alliance or people die.
I catch Matteo’s eyes across the room. My brother, the Don, gives me the smallest nod. You’re doing good. Keep going.
Yeah. Sure. Great.
And then Vittorio turns to me.
I see it coming but I can’t move fast enough. His hand slides to my waist, too tight, fingers digging in and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is hard. Demanding. Possessive. We’ve met maybe five times total. We’ve never been alone. And he’s kissing me like I’m already his property, his tongue pushing into my mouth while his hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise.
My body goes rigid.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. The champagne glass nearly slips from my fingers and I have to lock my knees to stay upright because suddenly I’m not here in the Plaza ballroom in a designer dress with three hundred witnesses.
I’m thirteen.
I’m in a basement that smells like mold and rust and something worse.
Hands are holding me down, too many. Someone laughs. Irish accent, sharp and cruel.
“She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Shame we can’t keep her.”
No. No, no, no. Not now. Shove it down. Lock it away. I’m good at this. I’ve had nine years of practice.
Vittorio finally pulls back and the room is still cheering but all I can hear is my own heartbeat hammering in my ears. My hands are shaking. I force them still, force my smile wider, force my lungs to pull in air that tastes like smoke and fear, even though there’s no smoke here.
He touched me. In front of everyone. Like he has the right to.
My chest is too tight. I need to move, to run. My brain is screaming at me to find the exits, two behind me, one to the left, service door near the kitchen. My body is coiled like a spring ready to bolt.
And that’s when I see him.
Enzo.
He’s across the room near the bar, whiskey glass in his hand that he’s gripping so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. His dark eyes are locked on me, and the rage in them is so raw it steals whatever breath I managed to get back.
He looks like he’s two seconds away from crossing this ballroom and killing Vittorio with his bare hands.
And just like that, I can breathe again.
It’s pathetic. It’s fucked up. But seeing Enzo, seeing that fury in his eyes that’s for me, because of what just happened to me, it pulls me out of my head. Grounds me. Reminds me I’m here, I’m twenty-two, I’m safe.
Or as safe as I ever am.
The fear doesn’t disappear. It never does. But it gets smaller, quieter, shoved into the box in my chest where I keep all the things I don’t want to feel.
Enzo’s jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. His knuckles are white around the glass. He’s wearing a black suit with the sleeves rolled up, showing the serpent tattoo winding up his forearm—the one I used to trace with my fingers when I was eighteen and stupid enough to think he might love me back.
His eyes drop to Vittorio’s hand still on my waist, and something dark and possessive crosses his face.
Heat floods through me, unwanted and so fucking inconvenient. Even now. Even after everything. One look from Enzo Bianchi and my body forgets how to be normal.
I hate him for it.
I hate that he can still do this to me. That after a year of silence and four years of broken-hearted anger, all it takes is his eyes on me and I’m burning.
Then he turns away, drains his whiskey in one swallow, and the spell breaks.
Right. Because that’s what you do, Enzo. You look away.
Music starts—some slow, romantic bullshit that makes me want to scream. Vittorio leans down, his breath hot against my ear, and I have to fight not to flinch.
“I’ll be right back, tesoro. Need to speak with your brothers and my father.”
Tesoro. Treasure. I’m definitely going to be sick.
“Of course,” I say, because what the fuck else am I supposed to say?
He kisses my temple, another claim, another mark and then he’s gone, moving toward where Matteo, Luca, and Salvatore De Luca are having their little power meeting in the corner.
The second he’s out of reach, I can breathe properly again.
How am I ever going to survive ‘forever’ with that guy?
I grab a fresh champagne from a passing waiter and down half of it in one go. My hands are still shaking slightly. I curl them into fists, nails biting into my palms until the sharp pain overrides everything else.
Get it together, Isabella. You’ve survived worse than a kiss from an asshole.
“Isabella! Sweetheart, how are you?”
I turn and there’s my brother’s wife Alessia, looking gorgeous in burgundy, her warm eyes full of concern. Next to her is Bianca—Dante’s wife, sharp-eyed and small but fierce as hell in navy blue.
I admire them both so much. If only I had just a little bit of the composure and control they do.
“Hey,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Surviving. Barely.”
Alessia pulls me into a hug and I let myself have it for three seconds before I pull back. Physical contact is… complicated. But Alessia’s safe. Bianca’s safe. Most people aren’t.
“You look beautiful,” Alessia says. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
No. “I’m fine. Just counting down the hours until I’m legally bound to an asshole for life.”
Bianca snorts. “Vittorio seems… charming.”
“Vittorio is a spoiled, arrogant prick who thinks he can buy obedience,” I mutter. “But he’s a useful spoiled prick, so here we are.”
Alessia squeezes my hand. “Matteo wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—”
“Important. I know.” I do know. That’s why I came back from France after a year of trying to outrun my own head. That’s why I said yes when they told me the O’Rourkes were moving again and we needed the De Luca alliance.
Declan O’Rourke. Killian O’Rourke.
Just thinking their names makes my stomach turn over.
“They need this alliance,” I say quietly, staring into my champagne like it has answers. “The O’Rourkes are dangerous. We can’t fight them alone.”
I don’t say the rest. Don’t say that the O’Rourkes are the reason I still sleep with the lights on. That I spent nine years trying to forget what their basement smelled like, what Declan’s laugh sounded like when he—
No. Not going there. Not tonight.
“Still,” Bianca says, and there’s something fierce in her voice. “You shouldn’t have to marry someone you don’t love.”
I laugh, and it comes out bitter and sharp. “Love is a luxury people outside of the mafia world have. I’m a Romano. We have duty.”
The music shifts, and I watch couples move onto the dance floor. Matteo pulls Alessia close, and she goes willingly, smiling up at him like he hung the fucking moon. Dante’s hand settles on Bianca’s waist with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
They chose each other. They fought for each other.
I chose survival.
“Isabella.”
Vittorio’s voice behind me makes every muscle in my body lock up. I turn, and he’s there, hand extended, that smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. The smile that says he knows he’s won.
“Dance with me.”
It’s not a question. It’s an order. And tomorrow I’m marrying this man, so I better get used to taking orders, right?
I place my hand in his because I have to. Because I don’t have a choice. Because this is my life now.
His fingers close around mine, too tight and controlling, and my stomach drops.
He leads me onto the dance floor, and the second we’re surrounded by other couples, his hand slides low on my waist. Lower than appropriate. Lower than comfortable. His fingers dig into my hip, pulling me flush against him, and I feel every inch of his body pressed to mine.
I can’t breathe again.
The room is too hot, too crowded. His cologne is suffocating and his hand is a brand on my hip and I can feel his breath on my neck and—
My chest tightens and the ballroom disappears, replaced by basement walls and echoing laughter.
I need to run.
Bile rises in my throat. Sweat breaks out across my skin from the inside out, cold and clammy and wrong. My vision tunnels. The music is too loud. The lights are too bright. I need to get out, I need to run, I need—
“You look stunning tonight,” Vittorio murmurs against my ear, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. My hands are shaking. I’m going to pass out or throw up or both and there are three hundred people watching. I can’t fall apart here, I can’t—
“Move your hands,” I bite out, and my voice comes out sharp and desperate.
Vittorio pulls back just enough to look at me, one eyebrow raised. “What?”
“Your hands.” I’m shaking. Fuck, I’m shaking and he can probably feel it. “Move them. Now.”
He laughs, actually fucking laughs like I’m adorable. “We’re getting married tomorrow, Isabella. Don’t you think we’re past being shy?”
Shy. He thinks I’m being shy.
The anger cuts through the panic just enough for me to meet his eyes. “We’ve met five times. We’ve never been alone. And you just shoved your tongue down my throat in front of three hundred people. What the hell was that?”
His smile turns into something uglier. Something that makes my skin crawl for different reasons. “You’re going to be mine tomorrow anyway. Why not start enjoying each other now?”
Enjoying. Like I have a say in it.
I try to pull back but his hand tightens on my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “You’ve got some fire in you. I like that.” His voice drops, soft and dangerous. “But you’ll learn. After we’re married, you’ll learn what it means to be an obedient wife.”
The threat is clear. I’ll break you. I’ll teach you. You’ll learn to submit.
I’m going to kill him. Or throw up on him.
I try to pull away again but he holds me tighter, and the panic is clawing its way back up my throat—
“Mind if I cut in?”
The voice is low, deadly calm, and so familiar it makes my entire body go still.
Enzo.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I’d know his voice anywhere. It’s been a year since I’ve heard it directed at me, but my body remembers.
“We’re in the middle of a dance,” Vittorio says, and I can hear the dismissal in his tone.
“And now you’re done.” Enzo’s voice doesn’t get louder. Doesn’t get angrier. But somehow it gets more dangerous. “Let her go.”
I feel the moment Vittorio considers pushing back. His hand tightens on my waist for one second, his jaw clenching.
Then he sees Enzo’s face and whatever death promise is written there. Something in him backs down.
“Of course,” Vittorio says tightly. He releases me and steps back, but not before leaning close one more time. “We’ll finish this conversation later, tesoro. In private.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.
I’m still standing there, my heart racing, when Enzo’s hand slides into mine.
I suck in a breath, every muscle tensing, waiting for the fear to kick in. Waiting for my brain to scream at me to run, for my body to lock up, for the panic to flood back—
But it doesn’t come.
Enzo’s hand is warm, calloused, steady. His other hand settles on my waist, light, careful, nothing like Vittorio’s grip, and my body doesn’t revolt. Doesn’t freeze. Doesn’t panic.
It never does with him. Not since the night he carried me out of that basement covered in… way too many things I don’t want to think about.
We start to move, and I can’t look at him. Can’t let him see how much he affects me. How, even after everything, his touch is the only one that doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin.
“What are you doing?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his chest.
“You looked uncomfortable.”
A laugh bursts out of me—sharp and humorless. “So, you decided to swoop in and save me? Again?”
His hand tightens slightly on my waist. Not controlling. Just… present. “Isabella—”
“No.” I look up at him now, letting him see all the anger I’ve been carrying for four years. “You don’t get to do this, Enzo. You don’t get to pretend you care about me now when you’ve ignored me for a year. When you broke my heart and walked away without looking back.”
His jaw clenches. “It’s more complicated—”
“Then explain it.” I’m so close to him I can feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne mixed with whiskey and something darker. Gunpowder, maybe. Danger. “Because from where I’m standing, you saved my life once and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
We’re moving in slow circles, and I’m hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. His hand on my waist. My hand in his. The bare inches between us that feel like miles and nothing at all.
His thumb brushes the small of my back, just once, barely there and heat shoots down my spine.
Fuck.
This is so much worse than it used to be. The pull. The want. Four years ago, when I told him I loved him, it was intense. Now? Now it’s a live wire between us, sparking and dangerous, and I can see in his eyes that he feels it too.
“You want to know why I stay away?” His voice is rough, his dark eyes boring into mine. “You want to know why I can’t—”
He cuts himself off, his grip on my waist tightening.
My heart is racing for entirely different reasons now. “Why you can’t what?”
“Before you marry him tomorrow,” he says instead, his voice dropping lower, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something you need to kno—”
The explosion cuts him off.
One second, I’m staring into Enzo’s eyes, my whole body wound tight with tension. The next, the world erupts.
Sound hits first—deafening, glass shattering, people screaming, followed by smoke, thick and choking. Then chaos.
Enzo moves before my brain can catch up. One arm wraps around me, the other hand on the back of my head, and then I’m falling. We hit the floor hard and he’s dragging me, pulling me under the nearest table, his body covering mine completely.
Gunfire.
We’re going to die.
Chapter Two
Isabella
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.
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